or anything but feeding in his whole visage. "He must have been fast
asleep," whispered Mr. Tupman.
"I have not the least doubt of it," replied Miss Rachel, and they both
laughed heartily. Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy for once had not
been fast asleep. He was awake, wide awake to everything that had
happened.
The day following, Joe saw his mistress, Mr. Wardle's aged mother,
sitting in the arbor. Without saying a word he walked up to her, stood
perfectly still and said nothing.
The old lady was easily frightened; most old ladies are, and her first
impression was that Joe was about to do her some bodily harm with a view
of stealing what money she might have with her. She therefore watched
his motions, or rather lack of motions, with feelings of intense terror,
which were in no degree lessened by his finally coming close to her and
shouting in her ear, for she was very deaf, "Missus!"
"Well, Joe," said the trembling old lady, "I am sure I have been a good
mistress to you." He nodded. "You have always been treated very kindly?"
He nodded. "You have never had too much to do?" He nodded. "You have
always had enough to eat?" This last was an appeal to the fat boy's most
sensitive feelings. He seemed touched as he replied, "I know I has."
"Then what do you want to do now?"
"I wants to make yo' flesh creep," replied the boy. This sounded like a
very blood-thirsty method of showing one's gratitude and so the old lady
was as much frightened as before. "What do you think I saw in this very
arbor last night?" inquired the boy.
"Mercies, what?" screamed the old lady, alarmed at the mysterious
manner of the corpulent youth.
"A strange gentleman as had his arm around her, a kissin' and huggin'."
"Who, Joe, who? None of the servants, I hope?"
"Worser than that," roared the fat boy in the old lady's ear.
"None of my granddaughters."
"Worser than that," said Joe.
"Worse than that?" said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme
limit. "Who was it, Joe? I insist upon knowing!"
The fat boy looked cautiously about and having finished his survey
shouted in the old lady's ear, "Miss Rachel!"
"What?" said the old lady in a shrill tone, "speak louder!"
"Miss Rachel," roared the fat boy.
"My daughter?" The succession of nods which the fat boy gave by way of
assent could not be doubted. "And she allowed him?" exclaimed the old
lady. A grin stole over the fat boy's features as he said, "I see her a
kissin' of him agin!" Joe's voice of necessity had been so loud that
another party in the garden could not help hearing the entire
conversation. If they could have seen the expression of the old lady's
face at this time it is probable that a sudden burst of laughter would
have betrayed them. Fragments of angry sentences drifted to them through
the leaves, such as "Without my permission!" "At her time of life!"
"Might have waited until I was dead," etc. Then they heard the heels of
the fat boy's foot crunching the gravel as he retired and left the old
lady alone.
Mr. Tupman would probably have found himself in considerable trouble if
one of his friends, who had overheard the conversation had not told Mrs.
Wardle that perhaps Joe had dreamed the entire incident, which did not
seem altogether improbable. She watched Mr. Tupman at supper that
evening, but this gentleman, having been warned, paid no attention
whatever to Miss Rachel, and the old lady was finally persuaded that it
was all a mistake.
Finally the visit of Mr. Pickwick and his friends came to an end, and it
was several months before they again partook of Mr. Wardle's
hospitality. The Pickwickians had arrived at the Inn near Mr. Wardle's
place for dinner before completing the rest of their journey to Dingley
Dell. Mr. Pickwick had brought with him several barrels of oysters and
some special wine as a gift to his host, and he stood examining his
packages to see that they had all arrived when he felt himself gently
pulled by the skirts of his coat. Looking around he discovered that the
individual who used this means of drawing his attention was no other
than Mr. Wardle's favorite page, the fat boy.
"Aha!" said Mr. Pickwick.
"Ah!" said the fat boy, and as he said it he glanced from the wine to
the oysters and chuckled joyously. He was fatter than ever.
"Well, you look rosy enough my young friend," said Mr. Pickwick.
"I have been sitting in front of the fire," replied the fat boy, who had
indeed heated himself to the color of a new chimney pot in the course of
an hour's nap. "Master sent me over with the cart to carry your luggage
over to the house." Mr. Pickwick called his man, Sam Weller, to him and
said, "Help Mr. Wardle's servant to put the packages into the cart and
then ride on with him. We prefer to walk." Having given this direction
Mr. Pickwick and his three friends walked briskly away, leaving Mr.
Weller and the fat boy face to face for the first time. Sam looked at
the fat boy with great astonishment but without saying a word, and began
to put the things rapidly upon the cart while Joe stood calmly by and
seemed to think it a very interesting sort of thing to see Mr. Weller
working by himself.
"There," said Sam, "everything packed at last. There they are."
"Yes," said the fat boy in a very satisfied tone, "there they are."
"Well, young twenty stone," said Sam. "You're a nice specimen, you are."
"Thankee," said the fat boy.
"You ain't got nothing on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have
you?" inquired Sam.
"Not as I knows of," replied the boy.
"I should rather have thought, to look at you, that you was a laborin'
under a disappointed love affair with some young woman," said Sam.
"Vell, young boa-constrictor," said Sam, "I'm glad to hear it. Do you
ever drink anythin'?"
"I likes eatin' better," replied the boy.
"Ah!" said Sam. "I should ha' 'sposed that, but I 'spose you were never
cold with all them elastic fixtures?"
"Was sometimes," replied the boy, "and I likes a drop of something
that's good."
"Ah! you do, do you," said Sam, "come this way." Then after a short
interruption they got into the cart.
"You can drive, can you?" said the fat boy.
"I should rather think so," replied Sam.
"Well then," said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hands and
pointing up a lane, "it's as straight as you can drive. You can't miss
it." With these words the fat boy laid himself affectionately down by
the side of the provisions and placing an oyster barrel under his head
for a pillow, fell asleep instantly.
"Vell," said Sam, "of all the boys ever I set my eyes on--wake up young
dropsy." But as young dropsy could not be awakened, Sam Weller set
himself down in front of the cart, started the old horse with a jerk of
the rein, and jogged steadily on toward Manor Farm.
XIII.
A BRAVE AND HONEST BOY, OLIVER TWIST.
LITTLE Oliver Twist was an orphan. He never saw his mother or his
father. He was born at the workhouse, the home for paupers, where his
poor heart-broken mother had been taken just a short time before baby
Oliver came; and, the very night he was born, she was so sick and weak
she said: "Let me see my child and then I will die." The old nurse said:
"Nonsense, my dear, you must not think of dying, you have something now
to live for." The good kind doctor said she must be very brave and she
might get well. They brought her little baby boy to her, and she hugged
him in her weak arms and she kissed him on the brow many times and
cuddled him up as close as her feeble arms could hold him; and then she
looked at him long and steadily, and a sweet smile came over her face
and a bright light came into her eyes, and before the smile could pass
from her lips she died.
The old nurse wept as she took the little baby from its dead mother's
arms; and the good doctor had to wipe the tears from his eyes, it was
so very, very sad.
After wrapping the baby in a blanket and laying him in a warm place, the
old nurse straightened out the limbs of the young mother and folded her
hands on her breast; and, spreading a white sheet over her still form,
she called the doctor to look at her--for the nurse and the doctor were
all who were there. The same sweet smile was on her face, and the doctor
said as he looked upon her: "Poor, poor girl, she is so beautiful and so
young! What strange fate has brought her to this poor place? Nurse, take
good care of the baby, for his mother must have been, at one time, a
kind and gentle woman."
The next day they took the unknown woman out to the potter's field and
buried her; and, for nine months, the old nurse at the workhouse took
care of the baby; though, it is sad to say, this old woman, kind-hearted
though she was, was at the same time so fond of gin that she often took
the money, which ought to have bought milk for the baby, to buy drink
for herself.
Nobody knew what the young mother's name was, and so this baby had no
name, until, at last, Mr. Bumble, who was one of the parish officers
who looked after the paupers, came and named him _Oliver Twist_.
When little Oliver was nine months old they took him away from the
workhouse and carried him to the "Poor Farm," where there were
twenty-five or thirty other poor children who had no parents. A woman by
the name of Mrs. Mann had charge of this cottage. The parish gave her an
allowance of enough money to keep the children in plenty of food and
clothing; but she starved the little ones to keep the money for herself,
so that many of them died and others came to take their places. But
young Oliver was a tough little fellow, and, while he looked very pale
and thin, he was, otherwise, healthy and hung on to his life.
Mrs. Mann was also very cruel to the children. She would scold and beat
them and shut them up in the cellar and treat them meanly in many ways
when no visitors were there. But, when any of the men who had control or
visitors came around, she would smile and call the children "dear," and
all sorts of pet names. She told them if any of them should tell on her
she would beat them; and, furthermore, that they should tell visitors
that she was very kind and good to them and that they loved her very
much.
Mr. Bumble was a very mean man, too, as we shall see. They called him
the _Beadle_, which means he was a sort of sheriff or policeman; and he
was supposed to look after the people at the workhouse and at the poor
farm and to wait on the directors who had charge of these places. He had
the right to punish the boys if they did not mind, and they were all
afraid of him.
Oliver remained at the cottage on the poor farm until he was nine years
old, though he was a pale little fellow and did not look to be over
seven.
On the morning of his birthday, Mrs. Mann had given Oliver and two other
boys a bad whipping and put them down in a dark coal-cellar. Presently
she saw Mr. Bumble coming and she told her servant to take the boys out
and wash them quick, for she did not let Mr. Bumble know she ever
punished them, and was fearful he might hear them crying in the dark,
damp place. Mrs. Mann talked very nicely to Mr. Bumble and made him a
"toddy" (a glass of strong liquor) and kept him busy with her flattering
and kindness until she knew the boys were washed.
Mr. Bumble told her Oliver Twist was nine years old that day, and the
Board (which meant the men in charge) had decided they must take him
away from the farm and carry him back to the workhouse. Mrs. Mann
pretended to be very sorry, and she went out and brought Oliver in,
telling him on the way that he must appear very sorry to leave her,
otherwise she would beat him. So when Oliver was asked if he wanted to
go, he said he was sorry to leave there. This was not a falsehood, for,
miserable as the place was, he dearly loved his little companions. They
were all the people he knew; and he did feel sad, and really wept with
sorrow as he told them good-by and was led by Mr. Bumble back to the
workhouse, where he was born and where his mother died nine years ago
that very day.
When he got back there he found the old nurse who remembered his mother,
and she told him she was a beautiful sweet woman and how she had kissed
him and held him in her arms when she died. Night after night little
Oliver dreamed about his beautiful mother, and she seemed sometimes to
stand by his bed and to look down upon him with the same beautiful eyes
and the same sweet smile of which the nurse told him. Every time he had
the chance he asked questions about her, but the nurse could not tell
him anything more. She did not even know her name.
Oliver had been at the workhouse only a very short time when Mr. Bumble
came in and told him he must appear before the Board at once. Now Oliver
was puzzled at this. He thought a board was a piece of flat wood, and he
could not imagine why he was to appear before that. But he was too much
afraid of Mr. Bumble to ask any questions. This gentleman had treated
him roughly in bringing him to the workhouse; and, now, when he looked a
little puzzled--for his expressive face always told what was in his
honest little heart--Mr. Bumble gave him a sharp crack on the head with
his cane and another rap over the back and told him to wake up and not
look so sleepy, and to mind to be polite when he went before the Board.
Oliver could not help tears coming into his eyes as he was pushed along,
and Mr. Bumble gave him another sharp rap, telling him to hush, and
ushered him into a room where several stern-looking gentlemen sat at a
long table. One of them, in a white waistcoat, was particularly
hard-looking. "Bow to the Board," said Mr. Bumble to Oliver. Oliver
looked about for a board, and, seeing none, he bowed to the table,
because it looked more like a board than anything else. The men laughed,
and the man in the white waistcoat said: "The boy is a fool. I thought
he was." After other ugly remarks, they told Oliver he was an orphan
and they had supported him all his life. He ought to be very thankful.
(And he was, when he remembered how many had been starved to death.)
"Now," they said, "you are nine years old, and we must put you out to
learn a trade." They told him he should begin the next morning at six
o'clock to pick oakum, and work at that until they could get him a
place.
Oliver was faithful at his work, in which several other boys assisted,
but oh! so hungry they got, for they were given but one little bowl of
gruel at a meal--hardly enough for a kitten. So one day the boys said
they must ask for more; and they "drew straws" to see who should venture
to do so. It fell to Oliver's lot to do it, and the next meal, when they
had emptied their bowls, Oliver walked up to the man who helped them and
said very politely, "Please, sir, may I not have some more? I am very
hungry." This made the man so angry that he hit Oliver over the head
with his ladle and called for Mr. Bumble. He came, and when told that
Oliver had "asked for more," he grabbed him by the collar and took him
before the Board and made the complaint that he had been very naughty
and rebellious, telling the circumstance in an unfair and untruthful
way. The Board was angry at Oliver, and the man in the white waistcoat
told them again as he had said before. "This boy will be hung sometime.
We must get rid of him at once." So they offered five pounds, or
twenty-five dollars to anyone who would take him.
The first man who came was a very mean chimney-sweeper, who had almost
killed other boys with his vile treatment. The Board agreed to let him
have Oliver; but, when they took him before the magistrates, Oliver fell
on his knees and begged them not to let that man have him, and they
would not. So Oliver was taken back to the workhouse.
The next man who came was Mr. Sowerberry, an undertaker. He was a very
good man, and the magistrates let him take Oliver along. But he had a
very cross, stingy wife, and a mean servant-girl by the name of
Charlotte, and a big overbearing boy by the name of Noah Claypole, whom
he had taken to raise. Oliver thought he would like Mr. Sowerberry well
enough, but his heart fell when "the Mrs." met him and called him "boy"
and a "measly-looking little pauper," and gave him for supper the scraps
she had put for the dog. But this was so much better than he got at the
workhouse, he would not complain about the food; and he hoped, by
faithful work, to win kind treatment.
They made him sleep by himself in the shop among the coffins, and he was
very much frightened; but he would rather sleep there than with the
terrible boy, Noah. The first night he dreamed of his beautiful mother,
and thought again he could see her sitting among those black, fearful
coffins, with the same sweet smile upon her face. He was awakened the
next morning by Noah, who told him he had to obey him, and he'd better
lookout or he'd wear the life out of him. Noah kicked and cuffed Oliver
several times, but the poor boy was too much used to that to resent it,
and determined to do his work well.
Mr. Sowerberry found Oliver so good, sensible, and polite that he made
him his assistant and took him to all the funerals, and occasionally
gave him a penny. Oliver went into fine houses and saw people and sights
he had never dreamed of before. Mr. Sowerberry had told him he might
some day be an undertaker himself; and Oliver worked hard to please his
master, though Noah and Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte grew more unkind
to him all the time, because "he was put forward," they said, "and Noah
was kept back." This, of course, made Noah meaner than ever to
Oliver--determined to endure it all rather than complain, and try to
win them over after while by being kind. He could have borne any insult
to himself, but Noah tried the little fellow too far when he attacked
the name of Oliver's mother, and it brought serious trouble, as we shall
see.
One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual
dinner-hour, when, Charlotte being called out of the way, there came a
few minutes of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious,
considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than
aggravating and tantalizing young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the
tablecloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and
expressed his opinion that he was a "sneak;" and furthermore announced
his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event
should take place; and entered upon various other topics of petty
annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was.
But, none of these taunts producing the desired effect of making Oliver
cry, Noah began to talk about his mother.
"Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?" Noah had given Oliver this
name because he had come from the workhouse.
"She's dead," replied Oliver; "don't you say anything about her to me!"
Oliver's color rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was
a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Noah thought must be
the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this
impression he returned to the charge.
"What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah.
"Of a broken-heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver:
more as if he were talking to himself than answering Noah. "I think I
know what it must be to die of that!"
"Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear
rolled down Oliver's check. "What's set you a sniveling now?"
"Not _you_," replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. "Don't
think it."
"Oh, not me, eh?" sneered Noah.
"No, not you," replied Oliver, sharply.
"There, that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd
better not!"
"Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be
impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un, she was. Oh, Lor'!"
And here Noah nodded his head expressively and curled his small red
nose.
"Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and
speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity. "Yer know, Work'us, it
can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then. But yer
must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular-down bad 'un."
"What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
"A regular right-down bad'un, Work'us," replied Noah, coolly. "And it's
a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd
have been hard laboring in the jail, or sent out of the country, or
hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?"
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table;
seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till
his teeth chattered in his head; and, collecting his whole force into
one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected creature that
harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the
cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast
heaved; his form was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person
changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay
crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known
before.
"He'll murder me!" blubbered Noah. "Charlotte! missis! Here's the new
boy a-murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char--lotte!"
Noah's shouts were responded to by a loud scream from Charlotte and a
louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen
by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was
quite certain that it was safe to come farther down.
"Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her
utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man
in particularly good training. "Oh, you little un-grate-ful,
mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!" And between every syllable Charlotte gave
Oliver a blow with all her might.
Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; and Mrs. Sowerberry
plunged into the kitchen and assisted to hold him with one hand, while
she scratched his face with the other. In this favorable position of
affairs, Noah rose from the ground and pommeled him behind.
When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they
dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the
dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry
sunk into a chair and burst into tears.
"Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we
have not all been murdered in our beds!"
"Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach
master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born
to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! he was
all but killed, ma'am, when I come in."
"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the
charity-boy.
"What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at
home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in
ten minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the door did seem as if
he would break it.
"Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for
the police officers."
"Or the millingtary," suggested Noah.
"No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old
friend. "Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly,
and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste!"
Noah set off with all his might, and paused not once for breath until he
reached the workhouse gate.
"Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the people as Noah rushed
up.
"Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-pretended alarm. "Oh,
Mr. Bumble, sir! Oliver, sir--Oliver has--"
"What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of pleasure in his
steel-like eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?"
"No, sir, no! Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah.
"He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and
then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And
here Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of
eel-like positions, by which the gentleman's notice was very soon
attracted; for he had not walked three paces, when he turned angrily
round and inquired what that young cur was howling for.
"It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who
has been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir--by young Twist."