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Home -> Charles Dickens -> Oliver Twist -> Chapter 6

Oliver Twist - Chapter 6

1. Chapter 1

2. Chapter 2

3. Chapter 3

4. Chapter 4

5. Chapter 5

6. Chapter 6

7. Chapter 7

8. Chapter 8

9. Chapter 9

10. Chapter 10

11. Chapter 11

12. Chapter 12

13. Chapter 13

14. Chapter 14

15. Chapter 15

16. Chapter 16

17. Chapter 17

18. Chapter 18

19. Chapter 19

20. Chapter 20

21. Chapter 21

22. Chapter 22

23. Chapter 23

24. Chapter 24

25. Chapter 25

26. Chapter 26

27. Chapter 27

28. Chapter 28

29. Chapter 29

30. Chapter 30

31. Chapter 31

32. Chapter 32

33. Chapter 33

34. Chapter 34

35. Chapter 35

36. Chapter 36

37. Chapter 37

38. Chapter 38

39. Chapter 39

40. Chapter 40

41. Chapter 41

42. Chapter 42

43. Chapter 43

44. Chapter 44

45. Chapter 45

46. Chapter 46

47. Chapter 47

48. Chapter 48

49. Chapter 49

50. Chapter 50

51. Chapter 51

52. Chapter 52

53. Chapter 53



The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was
a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase,
coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks,
Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr.
Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most
sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at
which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant
existence; and many were the mournful processions which little
Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the
indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the
town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult
expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity
of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a
finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the
beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded
people bear their trials and losses.

For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some
rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number
of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during
the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly
irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as
happy among themselves as need be--quite cheerful and
contented--conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety,
as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands,
too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness.
Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from
grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to
render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was
observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions
of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as
soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the
tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving
to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.

That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of
these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer,
undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most
distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to
submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who
used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused
by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband,
while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and
leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs.
Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was
disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side,
and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as
comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by
mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.

And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history;
for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in
appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in
all his future prospects and proceedings.

One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the
usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton--a
pound and a half of the worst end of the neck--when Charlotte
being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of
time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered
he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than
aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.

Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the
table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and
expressed his opinion that he was a 'sneak'; and furthermore
announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever
that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various
topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned
charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to
be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many
sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got
rather personal.

'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's your mother?'

'She's dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say anything about her
to me!'

Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and
there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr.
Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit
of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.

'What did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.

'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,' replied
Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering
Noah. 'I think I know what it must be to die of that!'

'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said Noah, as a
tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. 'What's set you a snivelling

'Not _you_,' replied Oliver, sharply. 'There; that's enough. Don't
say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!'

'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well! Better not! Work'us,
don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she
was. Oh, Lor!' And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and
curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could
collect together, for the occasion.

'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's
silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all
tones the most annoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped
now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry
for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer
must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un.'

'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah, coolly.
'And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she
did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or
transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and
table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of
his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting
his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected
creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was
roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his
blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his
eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood
glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his
feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before.

'He'll murder me!' blubbered Noah. 'Charlotte! missis! Here's
the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad!

Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte,
and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into
the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the
staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with
the preservation of human life, to come further down.

'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with
her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately
strong man in particularly good training. 'Oh, you little
un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!' And between every
syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might:
accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.

Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should
not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry
plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand,
while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable
position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him

This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they
were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they
dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted,
into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done,
Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.

'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'A glass of water,
Noah, dear. Make haste!'

'Oh! Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she
could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold
water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. 'Oh!
Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our

'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. I only hope this'll
teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures,
that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle.
Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in.'

'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a
level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the
inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon
him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.

'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Your master's
not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that
door down in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous plunges against the
bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly

'Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, 'unless we
send for the police-officers.'

'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.

'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's
old friend. 'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here
directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make
haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along.
It'll keep the swelling down.'

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest
speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out
walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets
pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.

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