Noah Claypole ran through the streets at his swiftest pace, not pausing once for breath until he reached the workhouse gate. Having rested there for a minute or two to prepare a convincing display of sobs and a dramatic show of terror, he knocked loudly at the small side gate. He presented such a miserable face to the elderly pauper who opened it that even the old man, who was used to seeing nothing but unhappy faces, stepped back in astonishment.
“Why, whatever is the matter with the boy?” asked the old man.
“Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” Noah cried with well-acted dismay. His voice was so loud and agitated that it not only caught the attention of Mr. Bumble, who happened to be nearby, but alarmed him so much that he rushed into the yard without his formal hat. This was a remarkable circumstance, showing that even a beadle, when driven by a powerful impulse, can momentarily lose his self-possession and forget his personal dignity.
“Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” Noah gasped. “Oliver, sir—Oliver has—”
“What? What?” Mr. Bumble interrupted, a gleam of excitement appearing in his metallic eyes. “He hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?”
“No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned vicious,” replied Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and then the mistress. Oh! The pain is dreadful! I’m in such agony, please, sir!” At this point, Noah twisted his body into various snake-like positions to suggest that Oliver’s violent attack had caused him severe internal injuries.
When Noah saw that his news had completely stunned Mr. Bumble, he increased the effect by crying out ten times louder than before. Noticing a gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, Noah became even more tragic in his lamentations, rightly judging that it would be beneficial to attract the notice and rouse the anger of that particular official.
The gentleman’s attention was quickly caught. He had not walked three paces before he turned around angrily and inquired why the young boy was howling. He asked Mr. Bumble why he didn’t provide the boy with a reason to cry that was involuntary rather than intentional.
“It’s a poor boy from the school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who has been nearly murdered—practically slaughtered, sir—by young Twist.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. “I knew it! I had a strange feeling from the very beginning that that bold young savage would end up on the gallows!”
“He also attempted, sir, to murder the servant girl,” said Mr. Bumble, his face turning pale.
“And his mistress,” Noah added.
“And his master, too, I believe you said, Noah?” Mr. Bumble suggested.
“No! He was out, or Oliver would have murdered him as well,” replied Noah. “He said he wanted to.”
“Ah! He said he wanted to, did he?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Yes, sir,” Noah replied. “And if you please, sir, the mistress wants to know if Mr. Bumble can spare the time to come over immediately and flog him, since the master is away.”
“Certainly, my boy; certainly,” said the gentleman, smiling kindly and patting Noah’s head. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here is a penny for you. Bumble, go to Sowerberry’s with your cane and see what can be done. Don’t show him any mercy, Bumble.”
“I certainly will not, sir,” replied the beadle. Once his hat and cane were adjusted to his satisfaction, Mr. Bumble and Noah Claypole hurried back to the undertaker’s shop.
The situation there had not improved. Sowerberry had still not returned, and Oliver continued to kick the cellar door with undiminished energy. The descriptions of his ferocity provided by Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte were so alarming that Mr. Bumble decided it was safer to talk through the door before opening it. He gave the door a warning kick and then shouted through the keyhole in a deep, commanding tone:
“Oliver!”
“Let me out!” Oliver replied from the inside.
“Do you recognize this voice, Oliver?” asked Mr. Bumble.
“Yes,” Oliver replied.
“Aren’t you afraid of it, sir? Aren’t you trembling while I speak?”
“No!” Oliver replied boldly.
This answer was so different from what Mr. Bumble expected that he was completely staggered. He stepped back from the keyhole, drew himself up to his full height, and looked at the others in silent amazement.
“Oh, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs. Sowerberry. “No boy in his right mind would dare to speak to you like that.”
“It’s not madness, ma’am,” Mr. Bumble replied after a moment of deep thought. “It’s meat.”
“What?” Mrs. Sowerberry exclaimed.
“Meat, ma’am, meat,” Bumble repeated firmly. “You’ve overfed him, ma’am. You’ve encouraged a spirit in him that is inappropriate for someone of his low social standing. The members of the board, who are practical philosophers, would tell you the same. Paupers have no need for spirit; it is enough that we keep them alive. If you had kept the boy on a diet of gruel, this would never have happened.”
“Dear me!” Mrs. Sowerberry cried, looking up at the ceiling. “This is the result of being too generous!”
Mrs. Sowerberry’s "generosity" had actually consisted of giving Oliver the dirty scraps that no one else would touch. Nevertheless, she accepted Mr. Bumble’s accusation of being too kind with a sense of self-sacrifice, even though she was entirely innocent of the charge.
“Well,” said Mr. Bumble, “the only thing to be done now is to leave him in the cellar for a day or two until he is sufficiently hungry. Then, take him out and keep him on gruel for the rest of his apprenticeship. He comes from a bad family, after all. These people have excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said his mother struggled through difficulties that would have killed any decent woman weeks earlier.”
At this point, hearing his mother mentioned, Oliver began kicking the door again with such violence that no other sound could be heard. Just then, Mr. Sowerberry returned. When the situation was explained to him—with enough exaggeration to make him angry—he quickly unlocked the cellar door and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar.
Oliver’s clothes were torn from the earlier struggle; his face was bruised and scratched, and his hair was messy. However, the angry flush had not left his face. When he was pulled out of his prison, he scowled at Noah without showing the slightest fear.
“Now, you’re a fine young fellow, aren’t you?” said Sowerberry, shaking Oliver and hitting him on the ear.
“He insulted my mother,” Oliver replied.
“And what if he did, you ungrateful wretch?” Mrs. Sowerberry shouted. “She deserved what he said, and worse.”
“She did not,” said Oliver.
“She did!” Mrs. Sowerberry insisted.
“It’s a lie!” Oliver shouted back.
At this, Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears. This reaction left Mr. Sowerberry with no choice. If he had hesitated to punish Oliver severely, he would have appeared to be a weak and insulting husband. Although he was generally inclined to be kind to the boy—perhaps because he was a useful worker—his wife’s tears forced his hand. He gave Oliver a beating that satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry. For the rest of the day, Oliver was locked in the back kitchen with only a slice of bread. That night, after Mrs. Sowerberry had made several more insulting remarks about his mother, she ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed while Noah and Charlotte mocked him.
It was only when he was finally alone in the silence of the gloomy workshop that Oliver gave way to his feelings. He had faced their insults with contempt and borne the physical punishment without a cry; a sense of pride had kept him from screaming. But now, with no one to see or hear him, he fell to his knees and wept with a despair that few children should ever have to experience.
Oliver remained in this position for a long time. The candle was nearly finished when he finally stood up. He looked cautiously around, listened intently, and then gently unlocked the door to look outside.
It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed further away than ever before, and the stillness of the trees felt death-like. He softly closed the door. Using the last of the candlelight, he tied his few belongings into a handkerchief and sat on a bench to wait for dawn.
With the first ray of light, Oliver arose and unbarred the door once more. After one timid look around and a moment’s hesitation, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. He was finally in the open street. Uncertain of where to go, he remembered seeing the large delivery wagons climbing the hill as they left town. He followed the same route until he reached a footpath through the fields, which he knew would lead back to the main road.
As he walked, Oliver remembered that he had traveled this same path with Mr. Bumble when he was first taken from the farm to the workhouse. His route took him directly past the cottage where he had spent his early years. His heart beat faster at the thought of this, and he almost turned back. However, he had already come a long way and did not want to lose time. It was so early that he hoped no one would see him.
He reached the house, and it seemed that everyone was still asleep. Oliver stopped and looked into the garden. He saw a child weeding one of the beds. When the child looked up, Oliver recognized the pale face of one of his former companions. He felt glad to see him, for although the boy was younger, he had been Oliver’s only friend. They had suffered together many times.
“Hush, Dick!” Oliver whispered as the boy ran to the gate and reached his thin arm through the bars. “Is anyone awake?”
“Nobody but me,” the child replied.
“You mustn’t tell anyone you saw me, Dick,” said Oliver. “I’m running away. They treat me too cruelly, and I’m going to seek my fortune far away. I don’t know where yet. You look so pale!”
“I heard the doctor say I was dying,” the child replied with a faint smile. “I’m very glad to see you, Oliver, but don’t stay! You must go!”
“I will go, but first I must say goodbye,” said Oliver. “I’ll see you again, Dick. I know I will! You’ll be well and happy.”
“I hope so,” the child replied. “After I am dead, but not before. I know the doctor is right because I dream so much of Heaven and kind faces. Kiss me,” said the child, climbing the gate and putting his small arms around Oliver’s neck. “Goodbye, dear! God bless you!”
That blessing came from a young child’s lips, but it was the first blessing Oliver had ever received. Throughout all the struggles, troubles, and changes of his future life, he never once forgot it.