“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble,on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I should like,” said the child,“to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist;and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.”
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker,from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment;and, turning to his companion, said,“They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann.That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!”
“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann,holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick.“I never see such a hardened little wretch!”
“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously.“This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.”
“I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?” said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.
“They shall understand that, ma’am;they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him away,I can’t bear the sight on him.”
Dick was immediately taken away,and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr.Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off,to prepare for his journey.
At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble:having exchanged his cocked hat for a round one,and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape to it:took his place on the outside of the coach,accompanied by the criminals whose settlement was disputed;with whom, in due course of time, he arrived in London.
He experienced no other crosses on the way,than those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers,who persisted in shivering,and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr.Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head,and made him feel quite uncomfortable;although he had a great-coat on.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night,Mr. Bumble sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped;and took a temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce,and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece,he drew his chair to the fire; and,with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr.Bumble’s eye rested, was the following advertisement.
“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD
“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded,or was enticed, on Thursday evening last,from his home, at Pentonville;and has not since been heard of.The above reward will be paid to any person who will give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.”
And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress,person, appearance, and disappearance:with the name and address of Mr.Brownlow at full length.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement,slowly and carefully, three several times;and in something more than five minutes was on his way to Pentonville:having actually, in his excitement,left the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted.
“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the door.
To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon,but rather evasive reply of “I don’t know;where do you come from?”
Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name,in explanation of his errand, than Mrs. Bedwin,who had been listening at the parlour door,hastened into the passage in a breathless state.
“Come in, come in,” said the old lady:“I knew we should hear of him. Poor dear!I knew we should!I was certain of it. Bless his heart!I said so all along.”
Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again;and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears.The girl, who was not quite so susceptible,had run upstairs meanwhile;and now returned with a request that Mr.Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr.Brownlow and his friend Mr. Grimwig,with decanters and glasses before them.The latter gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:
“A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”
“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow.“Take a seat, will you?”
Mr. Bumble sat himself down;quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. Grimwig’s manner.Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp,so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance;and said, with a little impatience,
“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.
“And you _are_ a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.
“Of course,” observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend,“I knew he was. A beadle all over!”
Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and resumed:
“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”
“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.
“Well, what _do_ you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman. “Speak out, my friend,if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of him?”
“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr. Grimwig, caustically;after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.
Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly,shook his head with portentous solemnity.
“You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr.Bumble’s pursed-up countenance;and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver,in as few words as possible.
Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat;folded his arms; inclined his head in a retrospective manner;and, after a few moments’ reflection,commenced his story.
It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words:occupying, as it did,some twenty minutes in the telling;but the sum and substance of it was,that Oliver was a foundling,born of low and vicious parents. That he had,from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery,ingratitude, and malice.That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his birth,by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad,and running away in the night-time from his master’s house.In proof of his really being the person he represented himself,Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had brought to town.Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr.Brownlow’s observations.
“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully,after looking over the papers.“This is not much for your intelligence;but I would gladly have given you treble the money,if it had been favourable to the boy.”
It is not improbable that if Mr.Bumble had been possessed of this information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes;evidently so much disturbed by the beadle’s tale,that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him further.
At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow,when the housekeeper appeared; “that boy, Oliver, is an imposter.”
“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.