Kabanata Kabanata 3 · RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

. RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT

HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of

asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and

solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of

the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose,

that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the

prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have

established that sage individual’s prophetic character, once and for

ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the

wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this

feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that

pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for

all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the

express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and

pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater

obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all

day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands

before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner,

tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and

drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its

cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which

surrounded him.

Let it not be supposed by the enemies of “the system,” that, during the

period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of

exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious

consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was

allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a

stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching

cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated

applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other

day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a

public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages

of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every

evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console

his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special

clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they

entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be

guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication

distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection

of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory

of the very Devil himself.

It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious

and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way

down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means

of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become

rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances

could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount;

and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately

cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his

eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

“Wo—o!” said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably,

whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when

he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was

laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.

Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but

more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow

on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a

donkey’s. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp

wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and

by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the

head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these

arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.

The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with

his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound

sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute

between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that

person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield

was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield

smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the

sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was

encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse

was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing

for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from

beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility,

accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ’prentis,” said Mr.

Gamfield.

“Ay, my man,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a

condescending smile. “What of him?”

“If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a

good ’spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,” said Mr. Gamfield, “I wants

a ’prentis, and I am ready to take him.”

“Walk in,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield

having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head,

and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his

absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room

where Oliver had first seen him.

“It’s a nasty trade,” said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated

his wish.

“Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,” said another

gentleman.

“That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley

to make ’em come down again,” said Gamfield; “that’s all smoke, and no

blaze; vereas smoke ain’t o’ no use at all in making a boy come down,

for it only sinds him to sleep, and that’s 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,

on 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 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

inkstand.

It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand 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 he looked all over his

desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his

search 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, “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 clasping 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 bare-facedest.”

“Hold your tongue, Beadle,” said the second old gentleman, when Mr.

Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of 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 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 informed that Oliver Twist was

again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would

take possession of him.