Chapter 5 Chapter Four

(Oliver is given a new job and enters society for the first time.) For all big families, when encountering a superior position, such as the possession of property, title, reversion, designated inheritance or pre-ordered inheritance, when it cannot be shared with a growing child, there is a very common habit, that is, Send him to sea to make a living.In accordance with this prudent and prudent custom, the lords of the council came together to consider whether it would be possible to commit Oliver to a small merchant ship, and to send him to some port so injurious to health.This seemed to be the best way to deal with him.Maybe some day, at leisure after dinner, the captain would flog him to death with a whip, or crack his head with an iron rod. It's no surprise that it's become everyone's favorite pastime.The more the council considered the matter, the more it seemed to them that the benefits were inexhaustible, and they came to the conclusion that the only efficient means of bringing up Oliver was to send him abroad as soon as possible.

Mr. Bumble, on errands, was running about the town, asking if there was any captain, or anyone else, in need of an unaccompanied cabin boy.On this day, returning to the workhouse to report on the progress of the matter, he had just reached the gate when he met Mr. Sowerbury, parish undertaker. Mr. Sowerberry was a tall, thin man with unusually large knuckles, dressed in a black frock coat, long worn out, with cotton stockings of the same color and shoes with patches.He doesn't have the look for a light-hearted smile, but on the whole he has a professional sense of humor.He stepped forward to meet Mr. Bumble, walked very briskly, shook hands with his own eyes, and showed the joy in his brow.

"Mr. Bumble, I have taken measurements for the two ladies who died last night," said the undertaker. "You're going to get rich, Mr. Sowerberry," said the rector, inserting his thumb and forefinger into the snuff-box which the undertaker brought up, which was an exquisitely fashioned model of a coffin. . "I mean, you're going to be rich, Sowerbury." The steward tapped the other man's shoulder affectionately with his cane, and repeated. "You think so?" There was a hint of half-belief in the undertaker's voice. "The council's price is too small, Mr. Bumble."

"Isn't it the same with coffins?" The secretary replied with a smile on his face, a smile he managed just right, without losing his status as a parish priest. Sowerberry was amused by this sentence, so naturally he didn't need to be too restrained, so he typed a long series of haha. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he laughed at last, "that's right. Since the new supply system was introduced, the coffins have been made narrower and shallower than before. Anyway. Well, Mr. Bumble, we've got to make a little money, and the lumber is a very expensive thing to do, and the iron handles are all brought in by canal from Birmingham."

"Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "there are difficulties in every line of business. Of course fair pay is permitted." "Of course, of course," echoed the undertaker. "If I don't make any money on this or that deal, you know, I'll get it back sooner or later—hehehe!" "Exactly," said Mr. Bumble. "But I must also say," continued the undertaker, picking up the subject which the rectory had just interrupted, "but I must also say, Mr. Bumble, that I am now in the most unfavorable position, that Said, fat people die very fast, and when they enter the poorhouse, the first to collapse are those who are better off and pay taxes all the time. Let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, as long as they are three or four inches larger than the calculation, they will It’s a huge loss, especially when one has to support a family.”

Mr. Sowerberry spoke in an indignant way, as if he had suffered a great loss.Mr. Bumble realized that it would be disrespectful to the diocesan to go on any further, and that the subject must be changed.The gentleman immediately thought of Oliver Twist and changed the subject. "By the way," said Mr. Bumble, "you know anybody who wants a boy, eh? There's a parish clerk whose eyes are like a heavy burden, I should say, a millstone." about the neck of the rectory, isn't it? It's a handsome pay, Mr Sowerberry, a handsome one." Bumble raised his cane, and pointed to the notice above the gate, which read "Five Pounds" in huge Roman capitals. "The words were knocked three times.

"Hey," said the undertaker, grabbing the gold lapels of Bumble's uniform, "I was just trying to talk to you about this. You know--oh, yo, that's a nice button." , Mr. Bumble. I never noticed." "Yes, I think it's pretty, too," said the rector, glancing down proudly at the large brass buttons set into the coat, "it's exactly like the parish seal—the Good Samaritan in Healing the mortally wounded patient. Mr. Sowerberry, it was a gift from the council on New Year's morning. I remember the first time I wore it to attend the post-mortem. It was the bankrupt retailer, midnight. died in front of someone else's house."

① "New Testament - Luke Gospel" Chapter 10: "Only a Samaritan came thither on the way, and when he saw him, he was moved with compassion, and went up and poured oil and wine on his wounds, wrapped them up Alright." It is now used to refer to a person who is willing to do good. "I remember," said the undertaker. "The jury report said he died of a cold and want of common supplies, didn't he?" Bumble nodded. "They seem to have made it a case," said the undertaker, "and added a few words afterward, saying that if the parties involved in the relief had—"

"Nonsense. Nonsense." The parish steward couldn't help it. "If the council just listen to the nonsense of the jury who don't understand anything, they will have a job to do." "It's true," said the undertaker, "but it's not." "The jury," said Bumble, clenching his cane, as was his habit in inciting rage, "the jury is full of filthy fellows, and uneducated." "Yes, yes," said the undertaker. "Whether it's philosophy or political economy, they know so little," said Bumble, snapping his fingers contemptuously, "that's all."

"Indeed," the undertaker agreed. "I don't despise them." The rector blushed. "Me too," agreed the undertaker. "I only wish I could find a jury of self-righteousness and go to the workhouse for a week or two," said the parish steward, "and the terms of the council will soon kill their arrogance." "As they please," replied the undertaker, smiling approvingly, trying to quell the rage of the exasperated parish servant. Bumble raised his three-cornered hat, took a handkerchief from the crown, and wiped the sweat from his brow which had burst into a fit of rage; Say:

"Hey, how is the kid?" "Oh," replied the undertaker. "Well, Mr. Bumble, you know, I pay a good fortune for the poor." "Hmm." Mr. Bumble snorted. "Why?" "Well," replied the undertaker, "I think, since I've paid them so much money, I'm certainly entitled to get it back in my power, Mr. Bumble, and this--this--I think myself want this child." Bumble took the undertaker by the arm and led him into the building.Sowerberry talked for five minutes behind closed doors with the trustees, and it was agreed that he should take Oliver to the coffin-shop that very evening for an "apprenticeship"--the word used for parish apprentices, after a short probationary period. , as long as the employer thinks the apprentice can do a lot of work, and the food is also cost-effective, he can keep it for a few years and ask him to do whatever he likes. In the evening, little Oliver was brought before the "gentlemen", and he learned that he would go to a coffin shop that night as an ordinary workhouse boy.If he went and complained, or went and came back, he was sent to sea, whether he drowned or had his head smashed out, that was quite possible.After hearing these words, Oliver hardly reacted.Thereupon they unanimously declared him to be a hopeless little wretch, and ordered Mr. Bumble to take him away at once. After all, the council would have been in a state of indignation and shock if any one in the world showed the slightest sign of lack of affection, but this time they were somewhat mistaken.The simple matter was that Oliver felt not too little, but said too much, and was in danger of being made foolish and disheartened all his life by the ill-treatment which fell upon him.He listened impassively to the news of his whereabouts, and took the luggage thrust into his hands—it was not much trouble to hold it in his hands, because his luggage was just a brown paper bag, half a foot square, three Inches thick--drawing down the brim of the hat, clenching again the cuffs of Mr. Bumble's coat, the great man led the way to a new place of suffering. Mr. Bumble dragged Oliver some distance, while the rector went on with his head erect, always ignoring him, as Mr. Bumble thought a errand should look like.It was a very windy day, and from time to time it blew away the hem of Mr. Bumble's overcoat, wrapping Oliver up completely, revealing his jacket and light brown plush trousers at the same time, which was really beautiful.As we neared our destination, Mr. Bumble felt it necessary to inspect Oliver, to see that the boy's appearance would bear the inspection of his future master, and bowed his head, as if in perfect harmony with a great benefactor.He looked at it with a commensurate air. "Oliver," said Bumble. "Yes, sir," replied Oliver in a low, trembling voice. "Put your hat on high, sir, out of your eyes, and keep your head up." Oliver hastened to do so, and wiped his eyes neatly with the back of his free hand, but when he looked up at his guide there was still a tear in his eye.Mr. Bumble gave him a hard look, and the tear rolled down his cheek, and another, and another.The child tried desperately to hold back the tears, but could not.He simply withdrew his hands from Mr. Bumble's cuffs, and covered his face with them, while tears welled up between his slender fingers. "Come on," cried Mr. Bumble, stopping abruptly, and casting a most venomous look at the underwhelming little fellow. "Come, Oliver, of all the most ungrateful and wicked boys I ever met, you're the most—" "No, no, sir," choked Oliver, clutching the clerk's hand which held the cane he knew so well, "no, no, sir, I will Get better, really, really, sir, I'll get better. I'm just a little bit, and so-so-" "Then what?" asked Mr. Bumble in surprise. "So lonely, sir. No one." cried the child. "Everyone doesn't like me. Oh, sir, don't, don't be angry with me." He patted his chest, looked up and The person who was walking with her tears contained the pain from the heart. Mr. Bumble was somewhat surprised. He stared at Oliver's pitiful appearance for a few seconds, bit three or four hoarsely, and muttered "this nasty cough", and then ordered Oliver to wipe his face. Dry your tears and be an obedient child.He took Oliver's hand again, and went on in silence. The undertaker had just closed the front of his shop, and was doing his accounts by a candle dimly fitting his business, when Mr. Bumble entered. "Aha." The undertaker looked up from the ledger, halfway through a word. "Is that you, Bumble?" "No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," answered the steward; "here. I have brought the boy." Oliver bowed. "Oh. That's the boy, isn't it?" said the undertaker, holding the candle over his head, so that he might get a better look at Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry. Would you like to come up here, my dear?" Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a small room at the rear of the shop, a small, tolerably shriveled woman, with a vicious look on her face. "My dear," said Mr. Sowerbury humbly, "this is the poorhouse boy I told you about." Oliver bowed again. "My God," said the Undertaker's Wife, "he's so small." "Well, a little smaller." Mr. Bumble looked at Oliver, as if to reproach him for not growing taller. "He's very small, there's no denying that. But he's going to grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he'll grow." "Ah. I'm sure he'll grow." The wife said angrily. "Eat our food and drink our food. It's no wonder if he doesn't grow. I said that the children of the parish are not worth it. They are not worth a few." The money is not worth their expenses. But men always think they know a lot. Come on, little skinny guy, go downstairs." The landlady murmured, opened a side door, and pushed Oliver away. Up a steep flight of stairs came a dank, dark stone hut.In the hut named "The Kitchen" which adjoins the coal cellar at the back, sat a scruffy girl with shoes with worn heels and blue wool socks that were rotten beyond words. "Well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, coming downstairs after Oliver, "give the boy some of the cold food left for Tripp. He hasn't been back since he went out in the morning." , I probably don’t need to keep it for him. I dare say this kid won’t eat this or that—kid, are you picky?” Oliver's eyes lit up when he heard that there was something to eat.He was trembling with hunger.He answered without being picky, and a plate of rough food was placed in front of him. If there is a philosopher who eats so much that his food and wine turn to bile in his belly, his blood freezes into ice, and his heart is as hard as iron, I wish he could see how Oliver seized The plate of delicacies that even the dogs would not smell, I hope he can see with his own eyes how hungry Oliver tore up the food and poured it into his belly with a chilling appetite.I would have preferred to see the philosopher himself have the same appetite for the same food. "Well," said the landlady, watching Oliver eat his supper, without speaking, terrified at heart, and more apprehensive at the thought of his future appetite. "Have you finished eating?" Oliver looked around and saw that there was nothing to eat, so he answered in the affirmative. "Then you, come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry, holding up a dim and dirty oil lamp, and leading the way upstairs. "Your bed is under the counter. I don't think you object to sleeping in the middle of a coffin, do you? But it doesn't matter if you like it or not, you can't go to sleep anywhere else. Come on, I don't have time to sleep all night." Spend it here." Oliver no longer hesitated, but meekly followed his new mistress.