For a week after the commission of the impious and pro-
fane 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 en-
tertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of
the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have estab-
lished 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 un-
der 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 wak-
ing 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 sur-
rounded 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 catch-
ing 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 for from being denied the advantages of
religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apart-
ment 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 supplica-
tion 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 confortable state, that Mr. Gamfield,
chimney-sweep, went his way down the High Street, deeply
cogitating in his mind his ways and means of paying cer-
tain 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 arthimetical des-
peration, 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: won-
dering, 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 inevi-
tably 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 be-
ginning 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 an-
other blow on the head, and another wrench of the jaw, as a
caution not to run away in his absence, followed the gentle-
man 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 speed-
ily checked by a look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then
procedded 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 pub-
lished,’ 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 ap-
prove 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 pro-
ceedings. 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. Gam-
field, pausing near the door.
‘No,’ replied Mr. Limbkins; ‘at least, as it’s a nasty busi-
ness, 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. Limb-
kins.
‘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 Gam-
field. ‘Three pound fifteen.’
‘Not a farthing more,’ was the firm reply of Mr. Limb-
kins.
‘You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men, said Gam-
field, wavering.
‘Pooh! pooh! nonsense!’ said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat. ‘He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premi-
um. 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 over-
fed 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 quar-
ter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry
very piteously: thinking, not unaturally, 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 pom-
posity. ‘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 amny 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 six-
pences!—and all for a naughty orphan which noboday 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 elo-
quence 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 gentle-
man 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 spec-
tacles, 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 magis-
trate, 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 Ol-
iver 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 gen-
tleman.
‘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 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 hon-
est, open-hearted man,’ said the old gentleman: turning his
spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s pre-
mium, 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 dis-
cern 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 gen-
tleman: 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 though 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, with-
out 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 ad-
monitory 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 mag-
istrate: 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 solemnite. ‘Well! of all the artful and de-
signing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the
most bare-facedest.’
‘Hold your tongue, Beadle,’ said the second old gentle-
man, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound
adjective.
‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said Mr. Bumble, incred-
ulous 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 gen-
tleman:
tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
‘I hope,’ stammered Mr. Limbkins: ‘I hope the magis-
trates 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; where-
unto 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 totaly opposite de-
scription.
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.