CHAPTER V

Noah Claypole

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a bench, and gazed fearfully about him. An unfinished coffin which stood in the middle of the shop looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in its direction, and he almost expected to see some frightful form raise its head out of it, to drive him mad with terror.

He was awakened in the morning by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door. When he began to unfasten the chain an angry voice began:

"Open the door, will you?"

"I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver, unfastening the chain and turning the key.

"I suppose you're the new boy, ain't you?" said the voice through the key-hole.

"Yes, sir," replied Oliver.

"How old are you?" inquired the voice.

"Ten, sir," replied Oliver.

"Then I'll whip you when I get in," said the voice, and having made this kind promise, the speaker began to whistle.

Oliver drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door. He looked up the street and down the street; he saw nobody but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter.

"I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver at length, seeing that no other visitor made his appearance, "did you knock?"

"I kicked," replied the charity-boy.

"Did you want a coffin, sir?" inquired Oliver, innocently.

At this the charity-boy looked fierce and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he made jokes with his superiors in that way.

"You don't know who I am, I suppose, Workhouse?" said the charity-boy, descending from the top of the post.

"No, sir," replied Oliver.

"I'm Mister Noah Claypole," said the charity-boy. "And you're under me. Take down the shutters, you idle young ruffian." With this, Mr. Claypole gave Oliver a kick and entered the shop.

Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry came down soon after. Oliver followed Noah downstairs.

"Come near the fire, Noah," said Charlotte. "I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from the master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah's back, and take your tea to that box and drink it there. Do you hear?"

"Do you hear, Workhouse?" said Noah Claypole.

At this Charlotte burst into a hearty laugh in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat trembling on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the broken pieces which had been specially reserved for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. His mother was a washerwoman and his father a drunken soldier. For several months Oliver endured the ill-treatment of Noah without complaint, until one day something happened which indirectly produced a material change in Oliver's life.

Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner hour. Noah put his feet on the tablecloth, pulled Oliver's hair and pinched his ear, in order to annoy him. Seeing that Oliver did not cry he said to him:

"Workhouse! 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 movement in the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be signs of an approaching violent fit of crying. He therefore returned to his insulting words.

"What did she die of, Workhouse?" he said.

"Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver, as a tear rolled down his cheek.

"What has made you cry now?"

"Not you," replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. "Don't you think it."

"Oh, not me, eh!" said Noah.

"No, 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! Workhouse, don't be impudent. Your mother, too! She was a nice one, she was. Oh, God! You know, Workhouse, your mother was a bad woman."

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

"A bad woman, Workhouse," replied Noah coolly. "And it's a good thing she died when she did, or else she would have been doing hard labour in prison, or she might have been hanged, which is more likely."

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

"He'll murder me!" shouted Noah. "Charlotte! Missis! The new boy is murdering me! Help! Help! Oliver's gone mad! Char—lotte!"

Noah's shouts were answered by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder one from Mrs. Sowerberry, and they both rushed into the kitchen.

"Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with all her force, and giving him several blows and screaming at the same time.

Mrs. Sowerberry held Oliver with one hand, and scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs Noah rose from the ground and beat him with his fist from behind. When they were all tired out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, into the cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sank into a chair, and burst into tears.

"Bless her, she's about to faint!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!"

"Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, almost unable to breathe from the cold water which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!"

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

"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously at the charity-boy. "What's to be done! Your master's not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes."

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

"No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap; make haste!"

Noah started off at his fullest speed until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and tears, he knocked loudly at the gate.

"Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah so loudly that Mr. Bumble, who happened to be near by, was alarmed, and rushed into the yard without his cocked hat.

"Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah. "Oliver, sir—Oliver has—"

"What? What?" interrupted Mr. Bumble; "not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?"

"No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned fierce," replied Noah. "He tried to murder me, sir, and then tried to murder Charlotte, and then Missis. Oh! What a dreadful pain, sir!" And here Noah twisted his body like a snake, thus giving Mr. Bumble the impression that he was suffering from the terrible savage attack of Oliver.

Mr. Bumble, adjusting his cocked hat and taking his cane, accompanied Noah Claypole with all speed to the undertaker's shop.

Sowerberry had not returned, and Oliver continued to kick at the cellar-door. Mr. Bumble gave a kick at the outside and then, applying his mouth to the keyhole, said in a deep impressive tone:

"Oliver!"

"Come, you let me out!" replied Oliver from the inside.

"Do you know this voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble.

"Yes," replied Oliver.

"Aren't you afraid of it, sir? Aren't you trembling while I speak, sir?" said Mr. Bumble.

"No!" replied Oliver boldly.

Mr. Bumble stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one to another of those standing by, in silent astonishment.

"Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in half his senses would dare to speak so to you."

"It's not madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a moment's deep thinking. "It's meat."

"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

"Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Mr. Bumble. "You've overfed him, ma'am. If you had kept the boy on soup, ma'am, this would never have happened."

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "This comes of being generous!"

"Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, "the only thing that can be done now is to leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's starved down; and to take him out, and keep him on soup all through his apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse and the doctor said that his mother had made her way here against difficulties and pain that would have killed any good woman weeks before."

At this point of Mr. Bumble's speech, Oliver, just hearing enough to know that some new reference was being made to his mother, re-started kicking violently. At this moment Sowerberry returned. Oliver's offence having been explained to him with such exaggeration as the ladies thought would rouse his anger, he unlocked the cellar-door and dragged Oliver out by the collar.

Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received: his face was bruised and scratched; and his hair was scattered over his forehead. But the angry colour had not disappeared, and when he was pulled out of his prison he looked at Noah quite unafraid.

"Now, you're a nice young fellow, aren't you?" said Sowerberry, giving Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.

"He called my mother names," replied Oliver.

"Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse."

"She didn't," said Oliver.

"She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry.

"It's a lie," said Oliver.

Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no choice; so he at once gave Oliver a good beating, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself and rendered Mr. Bumble's use of the cane, which followed, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen and at night Mrs. Sowerberry ordered him upstairs to his miserable bed.

It was not until he was left alone in the silence of the gloomy workshop of the undertaker that Oliver gave way to his feelings. He had listened to their insults with contempt, and he had endured the whip without a cry. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon his knees on the floor and, hiding his face in his hands, he wept such tears, as, please God, few so young may ever have cause to pour out.

For a long time Oliver remained motionless in this position. The candle was burning low when he rose to his feet. Having gazed cautiously around him, and listened intently, he gently undid the fastenings of the door, and looked outside.

It was a cold, dark night. There was no wind, and the dark shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground looked fearful. He closed the door again, tied up the few articles of clothing he had, and sat down upon a bench, to wait for morning.

With the first ray of light that struggled through the shutters, Oliver rose, and again unfastened the door. One timid look—one moment's hesitation—he had closed it behind him and was in the open street.