For a week after committing the rebellious offense of asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the board. At first glance, it might not seem unreasonable to suppose that if Oliver had felt a proper respect for the prediction made by the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have confirmed that man's prophetic character once and for all by hanging himself from a hook in the wall with his own pocket-handkerchief. However, there was one major obstacle to this: handkerchiefs, being considered articles of luxury, had been permanently removed from the possession of paupers by the express order of the board.
An even greater obstacle was Oliver’s youth. He simply cried bitterly all day; and when the long, dismal night arrived, he covered his eyes with his small hands to shut out the darkness. Crouching in the corner, he tried to sleep, frequently waking with a start and a tremble. He would draw himself closer and closer to the wall, as if its cold, hard surface offered some form of protection in the gloom and loneliness that surrounded him.
Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system" that during his solitary confinement, Oliver was denied the benefit of exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious comfort. As for exercise, the weather was fortunately cold, and he was allowed to wash himself every morning under the pump in a stone yard. This was done in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented the boy from catching cold—and ensured a tingling sensation throughout his body—by the frequent application of a cane. As for society, he was taken every other day into the dining hall, where he was publicly flogged as a warning to the other boys. Furthermore, far from being denied religious comfort, he was kicked into the same room every evening at prayer time. There, he was permitted to listen to a special prayer, added by the authority of the board, in which the other boys begged to be made virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins of Oliver Twist—who, the prayer claimed, was under the direct protection of the Devil himself.
One morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this state, a chimney-sweep named Mr. Gamfield was walking down the High Street. He was thinking deeply about how to pay his overdue rent, as his landlord was becoming rather aggressive. Mr. Gamfield’s most optimistic calculations showed that he was five pounds short of the required amount. In a state of financial desperation, he was alternately hitting his own head to find an idea and hitting his donkey to make it move, when he passed the workhouse and saw the notice on the gate.
“Whoa!” said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
The donkey was lost in thought, probably wondering whether he would be rewarded with a few cabbage stalks after delivering the two heavy sacks of soot in the cart. Consequently, ignoring the command, he continued to trot along.
Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce curse at the donkey and, running after it, delivered a blow to its head that would have crushed any skull except a donkey’s. Then, grabbing the bridle, he gave the animal’s jaw a sharp wrench as a reminder of who was master. Having finished these arrangements, he walked up to the gate to read the bill.
The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing there with his hands behind his back. Having witnessed the dispute between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyfully. He saw immediately that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the kind of master Oliver Twist needed. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he read the document; five pounds was exactly the sum he needed. Furthermore, knowing the workhouse diet, he knew the boy would be small and thin—the perfect size for climbing into narrow chimneys. He read the bill again and then, touching his fur cap as a sign of humility, spoke to the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“This boy that the parish wants to apprentice, sir,” said Mr. Gamfield.
“Yes, my man,” said the gentleman with a condescending smile. “What about him?”
“If the parish would like him to learn a pleasant trade in a respectable chimney-sweeping business,” said Mr. Gamfield, “I need an apprentice and I’m ready to take him.”
“Walk in,” said the gentleman. Mr. Gamfield, pausing only to give the donkey another warning blow on the head, followed the gentleman into the room where Oliver had first appeared before the board.
“It’s a nasty trade,” remarked Mr. Limbkins, the chairman, when Gamfield explained his request.
“Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,” added another gentleman.
“That’s because they dampened the straw before lighting it to make the boys come down,” explained Gamfield. “That only creates smoke, and smoke just sends them to sleep, which is what the lazy rascals like. There’s nothing like a hot flame to make a boy come down quickly. It’s actually quite humane, gentlemen, because even if they are stuck, roasting their feet makes them struggle to get themselves out.”
The gentleman in the white waistcoat seemed very amused by this explanation, but he stopped laughing when he noticed a stern look from Mr. Limbkins. The board then began to whisper among themselves. Only a few words were audible, such as “saving money,” “looking good in the accounts,” and “printed report.”
Finally, the whispering ceased. “We have considered your offer,” said Mr. Limbkins, “and we don’t approve of it.”
“Not at all,” added the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
As Mr. Gamfield was rumored to have already caused the deaths of three or four previous apprentices, he thought perhaps the board was letting this minor fact influence them. However, he had no wish to discuss those rumors, so he prepared to leave.
“So you won’t let me have him?” he asked, pausing at the door.
“No,” replied Mr. Limbkins. “Since it is a dangerous business, we think you should take less than the five pounds we offered.”
Mr. Gamfield’s face brightened instantly. He returned to the table and asked, “What will you give, then? Don’t be too hard on a poor man.”
“I should say three pounds ten is plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.
“Ten shillings too much,” muttered the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
“Come!” urged Gamfield. “Say four pounds, and you’ve got rid of him forever.”
“Three pounds ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins firmly.
“I’ll meet you halfway,” said Gamfield. “Three pounds fifteen.”
“Not a penny more,” was the final reply.
“You’re very hard on me,” said Gamfield, hesitating.
“Nonsense!” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “He’d be a bargain even with no money at all. Take him, you silly man! He needs the stick now and then, which will do him good, and he hasn’t been overfed, so he won't cost much to keep. Ha! ha! ha!”
Mr. Gamfield looked around the table and, seeing that everyone was smiling, began to smile himself. The deal was done. Mr. Bumble was ordered to take Oliver Twist to the magistrate that very afternoon to have the apprenticeship papers signed.
Consequently, to his great surprise, Oliver was released from his cell and told to put on a clean shirt. He had hardly finished this unusual task when Mr. Bumble brought him a basin of gruel and an extra piece of bread. At the sight of this feast, Oliver began to cry piteously, naturally fearing that the board intended to kill him for some reason, since they had suddenly started to fatten him up.
“Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,” said Mr. Bumble with great pomposity. “You are going to be made an apprentice.”
“An apprentice, sir!” the child whispered, trembling.
“Yes, Oliver. The kind gentlemen who are like parents to you are going to set you up in life, even though it is costing the parish three pounds ten! Seventy shillings! And all for a naughty orphan whom nobody can love.”
Poor Oliver sobbed bitterly as he listened.
“Come,” said Mr. Bumble, “wipe your eyes on your jacket sleeves and don’t cry into your gruel. That’s very foolish.” Indeed it was, for the gruel was already mostly water.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that he must look very happy and tell the officials he wanted to be a chimney-sweep. Oliver promised to obey, especially after Mr. Bumble hinted that something terrible would happen if he didn't.
When they arrived, Oliver was left alone in a small room for half an hour until Mr. Bumble returned. “Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentlemen,” Bumble said loudly. Then, in a low, threatening hiss, he added, “Watch yourself, you young rascal!”
Oliver followed him into a large room with a great window. Two old gentlemen with powdered hair sat behind a desk; one was reading a newspaper, while the other was examining a piece of parchment through his spectacles. Mr. Limbkins and Mr. Gamfield were also present.
The old gentleman with the spectacles eventually dozed off, and there was a short silence.
“This is the boy, your worship,” said Mr. Bumble.
The other magistrate pulled his colleague’s sleeve to wake him up. “Oh, is this the boy?”
“This is him, sir,” said Bumble. “Bow to the magistrate, my dear.”
Oliver bowed, wondering if all officials were born with that white powder on their heads.
“Well,” said the magistrate, “I suppose he is fond of chimney-sweeping?”
“He loves it, your worship,” replied Bumble, giving Oliver a hidden pinch to make sure he didn't disagree.
“And you’ll treat him well, will you?” the magistrate asked Mr. Gamfield.
“When I say I will, I mean I will,” Gamfield replied rudely.
“You’re a rough speaker, but you look like an honest man,” the magistrate said. In reality, Gamfield’s face was a clear sign of cruelty, but the magistrate was half-blind and elderly, so he saw nothing. He began looking for the inkstand to sign the papers.
It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been where the magistrate expected, he would have signed the documents immediately. But since it was right under his nose, he had to search his desk for it. While looking, he happened to glance up and saw Oliver’s face. Despite Bumble’s threats, the boy was looking at his future master with an expression of pure horror.
The old gentleman stopped and laid down his pen. “My boy!” he said. “You look terrified. What is the matter?”
“Stand away from him, Beadle,” ordered the other magistrate, leaning forward with interest. “Tell us the truth, boy. Don’t be afraid.”
Oliver fell on his knees. He begged them to send him back to the dark room, to starve him, to beat him, or even to kill him—anything rather than send him away with that dreadful man.
“Well!” cried Mr. Bumble, raising his eyes to the ceiling. “Of all the artful and dishonest orphans I have ever seen, Oliver, you are the worst!”
“Hold your tongue, Beadle,” said the second magistrate sharply.
Mr. Bumble was speechless. A beadle told to be quiet! It was a moral revolution.
The two magistrates looked at each other and nodded. “We refuse to sign these papers,” said the first, tossing the parchment aside.
“I hope,” stammered Mr. Limbkins, “that you won’t judge us based on the word of a child.”
“We aren't judging you,” the second magistrate replied. “Take the boy back to the workhouse and treat him kindly. He clearly needs it.”
That evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat predicted that Oliver would not only be hanged but also "drawn and quartered." Mr. Bumble shook his head gloomily, and Mr. Gamfield went home disappointed and angry.
The next morning, the notice was put up once again. Oliver Twist was "to let," and five pounds would be paid to anyone who would take him away.