“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;” – and, 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 lappel 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.”
“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 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 angrily. “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 house for a week or two,” said the beadle; “the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for them.”
“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 in 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 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 Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much, and was in a fair way of being reduced to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness for life by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination in perfect silence, and, having had his luggage put into his hand – which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep – he pulled his cap over his eyes, and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along without notice or remark, for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should; and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master, which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.
“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”
Although Oliver did as he was desired at once, and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one; and, withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s, he covered his face with both, and wept till the tears sprung out from between his thin and bony fingers.
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity, – “well, of all the ungratefullest and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the – ”
“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so – so – ”
“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
“So lonely, sir – so very lonely,” cried the child. “Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me.” The child beat his hand upon his heart, and looked into his companion’s face with tears of real agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look with some astonishment for a few seconds, hemmed three or four times in a husky manner, and, after muttering something about “that troublesome cough,” bid Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy; and, once more taking his hand, walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker had just put up the shutters of his shop, and was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriately dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.
“Aha!” said the undertaker, looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; “is that you, Bumble?”
“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here, I’ve brought the boy.” Oliver made a bow.
“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker, raising the candle above his head to get a full glimpse of Oliver. “Mrs. Sowerberry! will you