Oliver Twist, Illustrated; or, The Parish Boy's Progress. Dickens Charles

wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink like a good hot blaze to make ‘em come down vith a run. It’s humane too, gen’l’men, acause, even if they’ve stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes ‘em struggle to hextricate theirselves.’

      The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words ‘saving of expenditure,’ ‘looked well in the accounts,’ ‘have a printed report published,’ were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.

      At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:

      ‘We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.’

      ‘Not at all,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

      ‘Decidedly not,’ added the other members.

      As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.

      ‘So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?’ said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.

      ‘No,’ replied Mr. Limbkins; ‘at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.’

      Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said,

      ‘What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’ll you give?’

      ‘I should say, three pound ten was plenty,’ said Mr. Limbkins.

      ‘Ten shillings too much,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

      ‘Come!’ said Gamfield; ‘say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!’

      ‘Three pound ten,’ repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

      ‘Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,’ urged Gamfield. ‘Three pound fifteen.’

      ‘Not a farthing more,’ was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

      ‘You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,’ said Gamfield, wavering.

      ‘Pooh! pooh! nonsense!’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!’

      Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon.

      In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way.

      ‘Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,’ said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. ‘You’re a going to be made a ‘prentice of, Oliver.’

      ‘A prentice, sir!’ said the child, trembling.

      ‘Yes, Oliver,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to ‘prentice’ you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten! – three pound ten, Oliver! – seventy shillins – one hundred and forty sixpences! – and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can’t love.’

      As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.

      ‘Come,’ said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; ‘Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your 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.

      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 old gentleman 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, 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 doats 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 to-morrow, 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