whom was reading the newspaper while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles. 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 magistrate, 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 dotes on it. your worship,” replied Bumble, giving Oliver 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 gentleman.
“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, sit—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 honest, open-hearted man,” said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, 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 discern 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 gentleman, 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 thought 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 without 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 admonitory 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, leaning over the desk. Oliver started at the sound. He might be excused for doing so, for the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He trembled violently, and burst into tears.
“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 magistrate: 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
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 magistrate, 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 dotes on it. your worship,” replied Bumble, giving Oliver 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 gentleman.
“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, sit—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 honest, open-hearted man,” said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, 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 discern 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 gentleman, 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 thought 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 without 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 admonitory 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, leaning over the desk. Oliver started at the sound. He might be excused for doing so, for the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He trembled violently, and burst into tears.
“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 magistrate: 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
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