So what? inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
So lonely, sir! So very lonely! cried the child. Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, dont, dont pray be cross to me! The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companions face, with tears of real agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Olivers 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, bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate 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! Ive brought the boy. Oliver made a bow.
Oh! thats the boy, is it? said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
My dear, said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of. Oliver bowed again.
Dear me! said the undertakers wife, hes very small.
Why, he is rather small, replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; he is small. Theres no denying it. But hell grow, Mrs. Sowerberry hell grow.
Ah! I dare say he will, replied the lady pettishly, on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than theyre worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o bones. With this, the undertakers wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated kitchen; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.
Here, Charlotte, said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasnt come home since the morning, so he may go without em. I dare say the boy isnt too dainty to eat em are you, boy?
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.
Well, said the undertakers wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: have you done?
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.
Then come with me, said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; your beds under the counter. You dont mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesnt much matter whether you do or dont, for you cant sleep anywhere else. Come; dont keep me here all night!
Oliver lingered
no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.
CHAPTER V OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTERS BUSINESS
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.
But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.
Open the door, will yer? cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.