Oliver Twist
OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS
Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp on a workman’s bench, and about him with a of and dread, which many people a good older than he will be at no to understand. An on black tressels, which in the middle of the shop, looked so and death-like that a cold came over him, every time his in the direction of the object: from which he almost to see some slowly its head, to drive him with terror. Against the were ranged, in regular array, a long of cut in the same shape: looking in the light, like high-shouldered with their hands in their pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and of black cloth, on the floor; and the the was with a of two in very neckcloths, on at a large private door, with a by four black steeds, in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The with the of coffins. The the in which his was thrust, looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only which Oliver. He was alone in a place; and we all know how and the best of us will sometimes in such a situation. The boy had no friends to for, or to for him. The of no was fresh in his mind; the of no loved and well-remembered into his heart.
But his was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he be in a and sleep in the ground, with the tall above his head, and the of the old to him in his sleep.
Oliver was in the morning, by a loud kicking at the of the shop-door: which, he on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and manner, about twenty-five times. When he to the chain, the desisted, and a voice began.
“Open the door, will yer?” the voice which to the which had at the door.
“I will, directly, sir,” Oliver: the chain, and the key.
“I the new boy, ain’t yer?” said the voice through the key-hole.
“Yes, sir,” Oliver.
“How old are yer?” the voice.
“Ten, sir,” Oliver.
“Then I’ll when I in,” said the voice; “you just see if I don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having this promise, the voice to whistle.
Oliver had been too often to the to which the very just recorded reference, to the smallest that the owner of the voice, he might be, would his pledge, most honourably. He the with a hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver up the street, and the street, and over the way: with the that the unknown, who had him through the key-hole, had walked a off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, on a post in of the house, a slice of and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then with great dexterity.
“I your pardon, sir,” said Oliver at length: that no other visitor his appearance; “did you knock?”
“I kicked,” the charity-boy.
“Did you want a coffin, sir?” Oliver, innocently.
At this, the charity-boy looked fierce; and said that Oliver would want one long, if he cut with his in that way.
“Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?” said the charity-boy, in continuation: from the top of the post, meanwhile, with gravity.
“No, sir,” Oliver.
“I’m Mister Noah Claypole,” said the charity-boy, “and you’re under me. Take the shutters, ruffian!” With this, Mr. Claypole a to Oliver, and entered the shop with a air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of make and countenance, to look under any circumstances; but it is more so, when to these personal are a red nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver, having taken the shutters, and a of in his to away the weight of the one to a small at the of the house in which they were the day, was by Noah: who having him with the that “he’d catch it,” to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having “caught it,” in of Noah’s prediction, that the stairs to breakfast.
“Come near the fire, Noah,” said Charlotte. “I saved a little of for you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, that door at Mister Noah’s back, and take them that I’ve put out on the of the bread-pan. There’s your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind the shop. D’ye hear?”
“D’ye hear, Work’us?” said Noah Claypole.
“Lor, Noah!” said Charlotte, “what a you are! Why don’t you let the boy alone?”
“Let him alone!” said Noah. “Why lets him alone enough, for the of that. Neither his father his mother will with him. All his relations let him have his own way well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!”
“Oh, you soul!” said Charlotte, into a laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they looked at Oliver Twist, as he sat on the box in the of the room, and ate the pieces which had been for him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a orphan. No chance-child was he, for he his all the way to his parents, who hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a soldier, with a leg, and a pension of twopence-halfpenny and an fraction. The shop-boys in the had long been in the of Noah in the public streets, with the of “leathers,” “charity,” and the like; and Noah had them without reply. But, now that had in his way a orphan, at the point the of scorn, he on him with interest. This food for contemplation. It us what a thing nature may be to be; and how the same are in the lord and the charity-boy.
Oliver had been at the undertaker’s some three or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being up—were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after at his wife, said,
“My dear—” He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a aspect, he stopped short.
“Well,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.
“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said Mr. Sowerberry.
“Ugh, you brute!” said Mrs. Sowerberry.
“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. “I you didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—”
“Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,” Mrs. Sowerberry. “I am nobody; don’t me, pray. I don’t want to upon your secrets.” As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an laugh, which consequences.
“But, my dear,” said Sowerberry, “I want to ask your advice.”
“No, no, don’t ask mine,” Mrs. Sowerberry, in an manner: “ask somebody else’s.” Here, there was another laugh, which Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most to hear. After a duration, the permission was most conceded.
“It’s only about Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.”
“He need be, for he eats enough,” the lady.
“There’s an of in his face, my dear,” Mr. Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would make a mute, my love.”
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an of wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry it and, without time for any on the good lady’s part, proceeded.
“I don’t a regular mute to grown-up people, my dear, but only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may upon it, it would have a superb effect.”
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good of taste in the way, was much by the of this idea; but, as it would have been her to have said so, under circumstances, she inquired, with much sharpness, why such an had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr. Sowerberry this, as an in his proposition; it was determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once into the of the trade; and, with this view, that he should his master on the very next occasion of his services being required.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his against the counter, his large pocket-book: from which he a small of paper, which he over to Sowerberry.
“Aha!” said the undertaker, over it with a countenance; “an order for a coffin, eh?”
“For a first, and a afterwards,” Mr. Bumble, the of the pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent.
“Bayton,” said the undertaker, looking from the of paper to Mr. Bumble. “I the name before.”
Bumble his head, as he replied, “Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Proud, eh?” Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. “Come, that’s too much.”
“Oh, it’s sickening,” the beadle. “Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!”
“So it is,” the undertaker.
“We only of the family the night last,” said the beadle; “and we shouldn’t have anything about them, then, only a woman who in the same house an to the for them to send the to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ’prentice (which is a very lad) sent ’em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.”
“Ah, there’s promptness,” said the undertaker.
“Promptness, indeed!” the beadle. “But what’s the consequence; what’s the of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends word that the medicine won’t his wife’s complaint, and so she shan’t take it—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong, medicine, as was with great success to two Irish and a coal-heaver, only a week before—sent ’em for nothing, with a blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends word that she shan’t take it, sir!”
As the presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind in full force, he the with his cane, and with indignation.
“Well,” said the undertaker, “I ne—ver—did—”
“Never did, sir!” the beadle. “No, nobody did; but now she’s dead, we’ve got to her; and that’s the direction; and the sooner it’s done, the better.”
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his first, in a of excitement; and out of the shop.
“Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he to ask after you!” said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the as he the street.
“Yes, sir,” Oliver, who had himself out of sight, the interview; and who was from to at the of the of Mr. Bumble’s voice.
He needn’t taken the trouble to from Mr. Bumble’s glance, however; for that functionary, on the of the in the white had a very impression, that now the had got Oliver upon trial the was avoided, until such time as he should be for seven years, and all of his being returned upon the hands of the should be thus and legally overcome.
“Well,” said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, “the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.” Oliver obeyed, and his master on his professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most and part of the town; and then, a narrow more dirty and than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either were high and large, but very old, and by people of the class: as their neglected would have denoted, without the by the looks of the men and who, with arms and doubled, occasionally along. A great many of the had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had from age and decay, were from into the street, by of against the walls, and planted in the road; but these to have been as the of some wretches, for many of the which the place of door and window, were from their positions, to an wide for the passage of a body. The was and filthy. The very rats, which here and there in its rottenness, were with famine.
There was neither bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, his way through the dark passage, and Oliver keep close to him and not be the to the top of the of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a girl of thirteen or fourteen. The at once saw of what the room contained, to know it was the to which he had been directed. He in; Oliver him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had a low to the cold hearth, and was him. There were some children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there upon the ground, something with an old blanket. Oliver as he his toward the place, and closer to his master; for though it was up, the boy that it was a corpse.
The man’s was thin and very pale; his and were grizzly; his were bloodshot. The old woman’s was wrinkled; her two teeth over her under lip; and her were and piercing. Oliver was to look at either her or the man. They so like the he had outside.
“Nobody shall go near her,” said the man, starting up, as the approached the recess. “Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you’ve a life to lose!”
“Nonsense, my good man,” said the undertaker, who was well used to in all its shapes. “Nonsense!”
“I tell you,” said the man: his hands, and on the floor,—“I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She couldn’t there. The would worry her—not eat her—she is so away.”
The offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, for a moment by the of the body.
“Ah!” said the man: into tears, and on his at the of the woman; “kneel down, down—kneel her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was to death. I how she was, till the came upon her; and then her were starting through the skin. There was neither fire candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! She couldn’t see her children’s faces, though we her out their names. I for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my has up, for they her to death. I it the God that saw it! They her!” He his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled upon the floor: his fixed, and the his lips.
The children bitterly; but the old woman, who had as as if she had been to all that passed, them into silence. Having the of the man who still on the ground, she the undertaker.
“She was my daughter,” said the old woman, her in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an leer, more than the presence of death in such a place. “Lord, Lord! Well, it is that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and now, and she there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s as good as a play—as good as a play!”
As the and in her merriment, the to go away.
“Stop, stop!” said the old woman in a loud whisper. “Will she be to-morrow, or next day, or to-night? I her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is cold. We should have cake and wine, too, we go! Never mind; send some bread—only a of and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?” she said eagerly: at the undertaker’s coat, as he once more moved the door.
“Yes, yes,” said the undertaker,”of course. Anything you like!” He himself from the old woman’s grasp; and, Oliver after him, away.
The next day, (the family having been meanwhile with a half-quartern and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black had been over the of the old woman and the man; and the having been down, was on the of the bearers, and into the street.
“Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!” Sowerberry in the old woman’s ear; “we are late; and it won’t do, to keep the waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you like!”
Thus directed, the on under their light burden; and the two as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good in front; and Oliver, were not so long as his master’s, ran by the side.
There was not so great a for as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they the of the in which the grew, and where the were made, the had not arrived; and the clerk, who was by the vestry-room fire, to think it by no means that it might be an hour or so, he came. So, they put the on the of the grave; and the two waited in the clay, with a cold rain down, while the boys the had into the played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or their by jumping and over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.
At length, after a of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were the grave. Immediately afterwards, the appeared: on his as he came along. Mr. Bumble then a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the gentleman, having read as much of the service as be into four minutes, gave his to the clerk, and walked away again.
“Now, Bill!” said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. “Fill up!”
It was no very difficult task, for the was so full, that the was a of the surface. The grave-digger in the earth; it with his feet: his spade; and walked off, by the boys, who very loud at the fun being over so soon.
“Come, my good fellow!” said Bumble, the man on the back. “They want to up the yard.”
The man who had once moved, since he had taken his station by the side, started, his head, at the person who had him, walked for a paces; and in a swoon. The old woman was too much in the of her (which the had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and on their different ways.
“Well, Oliver,” said Sowerberry, as they walked home, “how do you like it?”
“Pretty well, thank you, sir” Oliver, with hesitation. “Not very much, sir.”
“Ah, you’ll used to it in time, Oliver,” said Sowerberry. “Nothing when you are used to it, my boy.”
Oliver wondered, in his own mind, it had taken a very long time to Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he it not to ask the question; and walked to the shop: over all he had and heard.
