Oliver Twist
the usual dinner hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a
pound and a half of the worst end of the neck—when Charlotte
being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time,
which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he
could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating
and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the
tablecloth; and pulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and
expressed his opinion that he was a “sneak”; and furthermore
announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever
that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various
other topics of petty annoyance like a malicious and ill-
conditioned charity-boy he was. But, none of these taunts
producing the desired effect of making Oliver cry, Noah attempted
to be more facetious still; and in this attempt, did what many small
wits, with far greater reputations than Noah, sometimes do to this
day, when they want to be funny he got rather personal.
“Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”
“She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her
to me!”
Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and
there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr.
Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit
of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.
“What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah.
“Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied
Oliver, more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah.
“I think I know what it must be to die of that!”
“Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear
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rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a-snivelling now?”
“Not you,” replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. “Don’t
think it.”
“Oh, not me, eh!” sneered Noah.
“No, not you,” replied Oliver sharply. “There; that’s enough.
Don’t say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!”
“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t
be impudent. Your mother, too! She was a nice ’un she was. Oh,
Lor!” And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled
up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect
together, for the occasion.
“Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s
silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity—of all tones
the most annoying, “Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now;
and of course yer couldn’t help it then; and I’m very sorry for it;
and I’m sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must
know, Work’us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad ’un.”
“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah coolly.
“And it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did,
or else she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or
transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn’t it?”
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and
table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his
rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole
force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected
creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was
roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood
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on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright
and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the
cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied
him with an energy he had never known before.
“He’ll murder me!’ blubbered Noah. “Charlotte! missis! Here’s
the new boy a-murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad!
Charlotte!”
Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from
Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of
whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter
paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was
consistent with the preservation of human life, to come farther
down.
“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with
her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately
strong man in particularly good training. “Oh, you little
ungrateful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!” And between every
syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might,
accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should
not be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry
plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand,
while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable
position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled
him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they
were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they
dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into
the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs.
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Sowerberry sank into a chair, and burst into tears.
“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water,
Noah, dear. Make haste!”
“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she
could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold
water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh!
Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our
beds!”
“Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll
teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creaturs, that
are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle; Poor
Noah! He was all but killed, ma’am, when I come in.
“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the
charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat button might have been somewhere
on a level with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with
the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed
upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.
“What’s to be done!” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your
master’s not at home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll
kick that door down in ten minutes.” Oliver’s vigorous plunges
against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurrence
highly probable.
“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we
send for the police-officers.”
“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.
“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver’s
old friend. “Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here
directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make
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haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It’ll
keep the swelling down.”
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest
speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out
walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell,
with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.
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Chapter 7
Oliver Continues Refractory.
Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace,
and paused not once for breath, until he reached the
workhouse gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so,
to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of tears and
terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a
rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who
saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started
back in astonishment.
“Why, what’s the matter with the boy!” said the old pauper.
“Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected
dismay, and in tones so loud and agitated, that they not only
caught the ear of Mr. Bumble himself, who happened to be hard
by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without
his cocked hat—which is a very curious and remarkable
circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a
sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary
visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal
dignity.
“Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah; “Oliver, sir—Oliver has—”
“What? What?” interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of
pleasure in his metallic eyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away,
has he, Noah?”
“No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,” replied
Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder
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Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such
agony, please, sir!” And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body
into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr.
Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset
of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and
damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the acutest
torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated
perfectly paralysed Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect
thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful wound ten times louder than
before; and, when he observed a gentleman in a white waistcoat
crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations than
ever; rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice,
and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not
walked three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired
what that young cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not
favour him with something which would render the series of
vocular exclamations so designated an involuntary process.
“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble,
“who has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir—by young
Twist.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat,
stopping short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the
very first, that that audacious young savage would come to be
hung!”
“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,”
said Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.
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“And his master, too, I think you say, Noah?” added Mr.
Bumble.
“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah.
“He said he wanted to.”
“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the
gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know
whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and
flog him—’cause master’s out.”
“Certainly, my boy; certainly,” said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat, smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was
about three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a
very good boy. Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to
Sowerberry’s with your cane, and see what’s best to be done.
Don’t spare him, Bumble.”
“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end
which was twisted round the bottom of his cane. for purposes of
parochial flagellation. “Tell Sowerberry not to spare him either.
They’ll never do anything with him, without stripes and bruises,”
said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“I’ll take care, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and
cane having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s
satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves
with all speed to the undertaker’s shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry
had not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with
undiminished vigour, at the cellar door. The accounts of his
ferocity, as related by Mr. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so
startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it prudent to parley,
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before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick at the
outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the
keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:
“Oliver!”
“Come; you let me out!” replied Oliver, from the inside.
“Do you know this here voice, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble.
“Yes,” replied Oliver.
“Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while speak,
sir?” said Mr. Bumble.
“No!” replied Oliver boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit,
and was in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a
little. He stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his
full height; and looked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment.
“Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs.
Sowerberry. “No boy in half his sense could venture to speak so to
you.”
“It’s not madness, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, after a few
moments of deep meditation. “It’s meat.”
“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
“Meat, ma’am, meat,” replied Bumble, with stern emphasis.
“You’ve overfed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and
spirit in him, ma’am, unbecoming a person of his condition, as the
Board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell
you. What have paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough
that we let ’em have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel,
ma’am, this would never have happened.”
“Dear, dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her
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eyes to the kitchen ceiling, “this comes of being liberal!”
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver had consisted in a
profuse bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which
nobody else would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and
self-devotion in her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s
heavy accusation; of which, to do her justice, she was wholly
innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
“Ah!” said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down
to earth again; “the only thing that can be done now, that I know
of, is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little
starved down; and then to take him out, and to keep him on gruel
all through his apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family.
Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor
said, that that mother of his made her way here, against difficulties
and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks
before.”
At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing
enough to know that some new allusion was being made to his
mother, recommenced kicking, with a violence that rendered
every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry returned at this
juncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him, with such
exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his ire,
he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his
rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver’s clothes had been
torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and
scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry
flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out
of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite
undismayed.
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“Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?” said Sowerberry,
giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
“He called my mother names,” replied Oliver.
“Well, and what if he did, you little, ungrateful wretch?” said
Mrs. Sowerberry. “She deserved what he said, and worse.”
