Free Oliver Twist (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) by Charles Dickens

“saving of expenditure,” “looked well in the accounts,” “have a printed report published,” were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, on account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.
    At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:
    “We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.”
    “Not at all,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
    “Decidedly not,” added the other members.
    As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.
    “So you won’t let me have him, gen’lmen?” said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near the door.
    “No,” replied Mr. Limbkins; “at least, as it’s a nasty business, we think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.”
    Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned to the table, and said,
    “What’ll you give, gen’lmen? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man. What’ll you give?”
    “I should say, three pound ten was plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.
    “Ten shillings too much,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
    “Come!” said Gamfield; “say four pound, gen’lmen. Say four pound, and you’ve got rid on him for good and all. There!”
    “Three pound ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.
    “Come! I’ll split the difference, gen’lmen,” urged Gamfield. “Three pound fifteen.”
    “Not a farthing more,” was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
    “You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’lmen,” said Gamfield, wavering.
    “Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He’s just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it’ll do him good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!”
    Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for signature and approval, that very afternoon. 8
    In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that way.
    “Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,” said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. “You’re a going to be made a ’prentice of, Oliver.”
    “A ’prentice, sir!” said the child, trembling.
    “Yes, Oliver,” said Mr. Bumble. “The kind and blessed gentlemen which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to ’prentice you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!—three pound ten, Oliver!—seventy shillins—one hundred and forty sixpences!—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can’t love.”
    As Mr. Bumble paused to take