Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, ran away or was taken from his home in Pentonville last Thursday evening. The above reward will be paid to any person who provides information leading to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or which sheds light on his previous history, in which the advertiser is deeply interested.
There followed a full description of Oliver’s clothes and appearance, along with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes wide. He read the advertisement slowly and carefully three times. Within five minutes, he was on his way to Pentonville, having been so excited that he left his hot drink untouched.
"Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" Mr. Bumble asked the girl who opened the door.
"I don't know. Where are you from?" she replied evasively.
As soon as Mr. Bumble mentioned Oliver’s name, Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the door, rushed into the hallway, breathless. "Come in, come in!" said the old lady. "I knew we should hear of him! Poor dear! I was certain of it!" She hurried back into the parlor and burst into tears of relief.
Mr. Bumble was shown into a small study, where Mr. Brownlow sat with his friend, Mr. Grimwig. The latter immediately exclaimed, "A beadle! A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head!"
"Please don't interrupt," said Mr. Brownlow. "Take a seat, sir."
Mr. Bumble sat down, feeling confused by Mr. Grimwig’s odd behavior. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp to see the beadle’s face more clearly and asked impatiently, "Now, sir, you have come because of the advertisement?"
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble.
"And you are a beadle, are you not?" inquired Mr. Grimwig.
"I am a parochial beadle, gentlemen," Mr. Bumble replied proudly.
"Of course," Grimwig whispered to his friend. "I knew it. He looks exactly like one!"
Mr. Brownlow signaled for silence and continued. "Do you know where this poor boy is now?"
"I have no idea," replied Mr. Bumble.
"Well, what do you know of him?" asked the old gentleman. "Speak freely, my friend."
"You don't happen to know anything good about him, do you?" asked Mr. Grimwig sarcastically, after studying Mr. Bumble’s features.
Mr. Bumble caught onto the hint quickly and shook his head with great seriousness.
"You see?" said Mr. Grimwig triumphantly to Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked worried and asked Mr. Bumble to tell them what he knew as briefly as possible. Mr. Bumble put down his hat, unbuttoned his coat, and after a moment of reflection, began his story.
It would be tedious to repeat the beadle’s exact words, as the story took twenty minutes to tell. However, the substance of it was that Oliver was a foundling born to low-class, criminal parents. He claimed that from birth, the boy had shown only treachery, ingratitude, and malice. He concluded by saying Oliver had ended his time in the town by committing a violent and cowardly attack on another boy before running away from his master’s house. To prove his identity, Mr. Bumble laid his official papers on the table.
"I fear it is all too true," said Mr. Brownlow sadly, after looking over the documents. "I would have gladly paid you three times the reward if your news had been favorable to the boy."
If Mr. Bumble had known this earlier, he might have told a very different version of the story. But it was too late now; so he shook his head gravely, took the money, and left.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room for several minutes, clearly disturbed by the tale. Eventually, he rang the bell violently.
"Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow when the housekeeper appeared, "that boy, Oliver, is a fraud."
"It can't be, sir! It cannot be!" the old lady cried energetically.
"I tell you he is!" retorted Mr. Brownlow. "We have just heard a full account of his life. He has been a little villain since the day he was born."
"I will never believe it, sir," she replied firmly. "Never!"
"You old women never believe anything except fairy tales," growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. He was 'interesting,' wasn't he? Bah!" He poked the fire aggressively.
"He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," Mrs. Bedwin insisted. "I have known children for forty years, and people who haven’t should not speak about them!"
This was a sharp remark aimed at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. He merely smiled, but before Mrs. Bedwin could say more, Mr. Brownlow stopped her.
"Silence!" said the old gentleman, pretending to be angrier than he actually was. "Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that. Never, under any circumstances! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember, I am serious."
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s house that night. As for Oliver, his heart sank whenever he thought of his kind friends. It was lucky for him that he did not know what they had heard, or his heart might have broken entirely.