jacket, and don’t cry into your gruel; that’s a very foolish action,
Oliver.” It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it
already.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver
that all he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say,
when the gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed,
that he should like it very much indeed; both of which injunctions
Oliver promised to obey: the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a
gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, there was no
telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the office,
he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr.
Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.
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There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an
hour. At the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his
head, unadorned with the cocked hat, and said aloud:
“Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.” As Mr. Bumble
said this, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a
low voice, “Mind what I told you, you young rascal!”
Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this somewhat
contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his
offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an
adjoining room, the door of which was open. It was a large room,
with a great window. Behind a desk, sat two gentlemen with
powdered heads: one of whom was reading the newspaper; while
the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell
spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr.
Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side, and Mr.
Gamfield, with a partially washed face on the other; while two or
three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were lounging about.
The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off over
the little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after
Oliver had been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.
“This is the boy, your worship,” said Mr. Bumble.
The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his
head for a moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the
sleeve; whereupon, the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.
“Oh, is this the boy?” said the old gentleman.
“This is him, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “Bow to the magistrate,
my dear.”
Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had
been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder,
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whether all Boards were born with that white stuff on their heads,
and were Boards from thenceforth on that account.
“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I suppose he’s fond of
chimney-sweeping?”
“He dotes on it, your worship,” replied Bumble; giving Oliver a
sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.
“And he will be a sweep, will he?” inquired the old gentleman.
“If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he’d run
away simultaneous, your worship,” replied Bumble
“And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll treat
him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?”
said the old gentleman.
“When I says I will, I means I will,” replied Mr. Gamfield
doggedly.
“You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest,
open-hearted man,” said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles
in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, whose
villainous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty.
But the magistrate was half-blind and half-childish, so he couldn’t
reasonably be expected to discern what other people did.
“I hope I am, sir,” said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
“I have no doubt you are, my friend,” replied the old
gentleman, fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and
looking about him for the ink-stand.
It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the ink-stand had
been where the old gentleman thought’ it was, he would have
dipped his pen into it, and signed the indentures; and Oliver
would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be
immediately under his nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that
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he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening
in the course of his speech to look straight before him, his gaze
encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist, who,
despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was
regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a
mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be
mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.
The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from
Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a
cheerful and unconcerned aspect.
“My boy!” said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver
started at the sound. He might be excused for doing so, for the
words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He
trembled violently, and burst into tears.
“My boy!” said the old gentleman, “you look pale and alarmed.
What is the matter?”
“Stand a little away from him, beadle,” said the other
magistrate, laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an
expression of interest. “Now, boy, tell us what’s the matter—don’t
be afraid.”
Oliver fell on his knees, and clasped his hands together, prayed
that they would order him back to the dark room—that they would
starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send
him away with that dreadful man.
“Well!” said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most
impressive solemnity. “Well! of all the artful and designing
orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most barefacedest.”
“Hold your tongue, beadle,” said the second old gentleman,
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when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.
“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of
his having heard aright. “Did your worship speak to me?
“Yes. Hold your tongue.”
Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered
to hold his tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the
tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion; he nodded
significantly.
“We refuse to sanction these indentures,” said the old
gentleman, tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
“I hope,” stammered Mr. Limbkins, “I hope the magistrates will
not form the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any
improper conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a mere child.”
“The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion
on the matter,” said the second old gentleman sharply. “Take the
boy back to the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to
want it.”
That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most
positively and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be
hung, but that he would be drawn and quartered into the bargain.
Mr. Bumble shook his head with gloomy mystery, and said he
wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied
that he wished he might come to him; which, although he agreed
with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a
totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were
once more informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let; and that
five pounds would be paid to anybody who would take possession
of him.
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Chapter 4
Oliver, Being Offered Another Place, Makes His
First Entry Into Public Life.
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be
obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or
expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very
general custom to send him to sea. The Board, in imitation of so
wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the
expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading
vessel bound to a good unhealthy port; which suggested itself as
the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the
probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a
playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains
out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally
known, very favourite and common recreations among gentlemen
of that class. The more the case presented itself to the Board, in
this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step
appeared; so, they come to the conclusion that the only way of
providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without
delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary
inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who
wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the
workhouse to communicate the result of his mission, when he
encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the
parochial undertaker.
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Mr Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a
suit of threadbare black with darned cotton stockings of the same
colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally
intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather
given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face
betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and
shook him cordially by the hand.
“I have taken the measure of the two women that died last
night, Mr. Bumble,” said the undertaker.
“You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” said the beadle, as
he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of
the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent
coffin. “I say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” repeated
Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly
manner, with his cane.
“Think so?” said the undertaker, in a tone which half-admitted
and half-disputed the probability of the event. “The prices allowed
by the Board are very small, Mr. Bumble.”
“So are the coffins,” replied the beadle, with precisely as near
the approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this—as of course he ought
to be-and laughed a long time without cessation. “Well, well, Mr.
Bumble,” he said at length, “there’s no denying that, since the new
system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower
and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some
profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article,
sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Bumble, “every trade has its drawbacks.
A fair profit is, of course, allowable.”
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“Of course, of course,” replied the undertaker; “and if I don’t
get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in
the long run, you see—he! he! he!”
“Just so,” said Mr. Bumble.
“Though I must say,” continued the undertaker, resuming the
current of observations which the beadle had interrupted, “though
I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very
great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the
quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates
for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the
house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches
over one’s calculation makes a great hole in one’s profits:
especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.”
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of
an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to
convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter
gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist
being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
“By the bye, said Mr. Bumble, “you don’t know anybody who
wants a boy, do you? A porochial ’prentis, who is at present a
dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say; round the porochial throat?
Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms!”
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him,
and gave three distinct raps upon the words “five pounds”: which
were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
“Gadso!” said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-
edged lapel of his official coat; “that’s just the very thing I wanted
to speak to you about. You know—dear me, what a very elegant
button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.”
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“Yes, I think it is rather pretty,” said the beadle, glancing
proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished
his coat. “The die is the same as the porochial seal—the Good
Samaritan healing the sick, and bruised man. The Board
presented it to me on New Year s morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put
it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that
reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.”
“I recollect,” said the undertaker. “The jury brought it in, ‘Died
from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of
life, didn’t they?”
Mr. Bumble nodded.
“And they made it a special verdict, I think,” said the
undertaker, “by adding some words to the effect, that if the
relieving officer had—”
“Tush! Foolery!” interposed the beadle. “If the Board attended
to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough
to do.”
“Very true,” said the undertaker; “they would indeed.”
“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his
wont when working into a passion, “juries is ineddicated, vulgar,
grovelling wretches.”
“So they are,” said the undertaker.
“They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about
’em than that,” said the beadle, snapping his fingers
contemptuously.
“No more they have,” acquiesced the undertaker.
“I despise ’em,” said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
“So do I,” rejoined the undertaker.
“And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort in the
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house for a week or two,” said the beadle; “the rules and
regulations of the Board would soon bring their spirit down for
’em.”
“Let ’em alone for that,” replied the undertaker. So saying, he
smiled approvingly, to calm the rising wrath of the indignant
parish officer.
Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from
the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration
which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again;
and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:
“Well, what about the boy?”
“Oh!” replied the undertaker; “why, you know Mr. Bumble, I
pay a good deal towards the poor’s rates.”
“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble, “Well?”
“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so
much towards ’em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ’em as I can,
Mr. Bumble; and so—and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.”
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him
into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the Board for
five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that
evening “upon liking”—a phrase which means, in the case of a
parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that
he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much
food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he
likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before “the gentlemen” that
evening, and informed that he was to go, that night, as general
house-lad to a coffin-maker’s; and that if he complained of his
situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent
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to sea, there to be drowned or knocked on the head, as the case
might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common
consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered
