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===Atones For The Unpoliteness Of A Former Chapter; Which Deserted A Lady, Most Unceremoniously===
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As it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so
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mighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the
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fire, and the skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms,
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until such time as it might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and
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as it would still less become his station, or his gallantry to
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involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle had looked
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with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had
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whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might
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well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the
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historian whose pen traces these words--trusting that he knows
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his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence for those
</head>
upon earth to whom high and important authority is
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delegated--hastens to pay them that respect which their position
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demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which
<div id="content" class="mw-body" role="main">
their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues,
<a id="top"></a>
imperatively claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he
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had purposed to introduce, in this place, a dissertation touching
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the divine right of beadles, and elucidative of the position,
<h1 id="firstHeading" class="firstHeading" lang="en">Login required</h1> <div id="bodyContent" class="mw-body-content">
that a beadle can do no wrong: which could not fail to have been
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both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded reader but
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which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space,
Jump to: <a href="#mw-head">navigation</a>, <a href="#p-search">search</a>
to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on
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the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle
<div id="mw-content-text">Please <a href="/w/index.php?title=Special:UserLogin&amp;returnto=Oliver+Twist%2FSource%2FChapter+27&amp;returntoquery=action%3Draw" title="Special:UserLogin">log in</a> to view other pages.<p id="mw-returnto">Return to <a href="/wiki/Main_Page" title="Main Page">Main Page</a>.</p>
properly constituted: that is to say, a parochial beadle,
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attached to a parochail workhouse, and attending in his official
Retrieved from "<a dir="ltr" href="https://allthetropes.org/wiki/Special:Badtitle">https://allthetropes.org/wiki/Special:Badtitle{{Dead link}}</a>" </div>
capacity the parochial church: is, in right and virtue of his
<div id="catlinks" class="catlinks catlinks-allhidden" data-mw="interface"></div> <div class="visualClear"></div>
office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities of
</div>
humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere
</div>
companies' beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even
<div id="mw-navigation">
chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last, and they in a very lowly
<h2>Navigation menu</h2>
and inferior degree), lay the remotest sustainable claim.
<div id="mw-head">
 
<div id="p-personal" role="navigation" class="" aria-labelledby="p-personal-label">
Mr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the
<h3 id="p-personal-label">Personal tools</h3>
sugar-tongs, made a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and
<ul>
ascertained to a nicety the exact condition of the furniture,
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down to the very horse-hair seats of the chairs; and had repeated
</div>
each process full half a dozen times; before he began to think
<div id="left-navigation">
that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets
<div id="p-namespaces" role="navigation" class="vectorTabs" aria-labelledby="p-namespaces-label">
thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney's approach, it
<h3 id="p-namespaces-label">Namespaces</h3>
occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous
<ul>
way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his
<li id="ca-nstab-special" class="selected"><span><a href="/w/index.php?action=raw&amp;title=Oliver+Twist%2FSource%2FChapter+27" title="This is a special page, and it cannot be edited">Special page</a></span></li> </ul>
curiousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney's
</div>
chest of drawers.
<div id="p-variants" role="navigation" class="vectorMenu emptyPortlet" aria-labelledby="p-variants-label">
 
<input type="checkbox" class="vectorMenuCheckbox" aria-labelledby="p-variants-label" />
Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was
<h3 id="p-variants-label">
approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom,
<span>Variants</span>
proceeded to make himself acquainted with the contents of the
</h3>
three long drawers: which, being filled with various garments of
<div class="menu">
good fashion and texture, carefully preserved between two layers
<ul>
of old newspapers, speckled with dried lavender: seemed to yield
</ul>
him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course of time, at the
</div>
right-hand corner drawer (in which was the key), and beholding
</div>
therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a
</div>
pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned
<div id="right-navigation">
with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old
<div id="p-views" role="navigation" class="vectorTabs emptyPortlet" aria-labelledby="p-views-label">
attitude, said, with a grave and determined air, 'I'll do it!'
<h3 id="p-views-label">Views</h3>
He followed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head
<ul>
in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were
</ul>
remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; and
</div>
then, he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming
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pleasure and interest.
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<h3 id="p-cactions-label"><span>More</span></h3>
He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs.
<div class="menu">
Corney, hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless
<ul>
state, on a chair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one
</ul>
hand, placed the other over her heart, and gasped for breath.
</div>
 
</div>
'Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, 'what
<div id="p-search" role="search">
is this, ma'am? Has anything happened, ma'am? Pray answer me:
<h3>
I'm on--on--' Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately
<label for="searchInput">Search</label>
think of the word 'tenterhooks,' so he said 'broken bottles.'
</h3>
 
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'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' cried the lady, 'I have been so dreadfully put
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out!'
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</form>
'Put out, ma'am!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble; 'who has dared to--? I
</div>
know!' said Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty,
</div>
'this is them wicious paupers!'
</div>
 
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'It's dreadful to think of!' said the lady, shuddering.
<div id="p-logo" role="banner"><a class="mw-wiki-logo" href="/wiki/Main_Page" title="Visit the main page"></a></div>
 
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'Then _don't_ think of it, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.
<h3 id="p-navigation-label">Navigation</h3>
 
<div class="body">
'I can't help it,' whimpered the lady.
<ul>
 
<li id="n-Home-Page"><a href="/wiki/Main_Page">Home Page</a></li><li id="n-ATT-Community-Portal"><a href="/wiki/All_The_Tropes:Community_Portal">ATT Community Portal</a></li><li id="n-recentchanges"><a href="/wiki/Special:RecentChanges" title="A list of recent changes in the wiki [r]" accesskey="r">Recent changes</a></li><li id="n-randompage"><a href="/wiki/Special:Random" title="Load a random page [x]" accesskey="x">Random page</a></li><li id="n-MediaWiki-Help"><a href="/wiki/Help:Contents">MediaWiki Help</a></li><li id="n-Upload-file"><a href="/wiki/Special:Upload">Upload file</a></li> </ul>
'Then take something, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble soothingly. 'A
</div>
little of the wine?'
</div>
 
<div class="portal" role="navigation" id="p-Troper_Tools" aria-labelledby="p-Troper_Tools-label">
'Not for the world!' replied Mrs. Corney. 'I couldn't,--oh! The
<h3 id="p-Troper_Tools-label">Troper Tools</h3>
top shelf in the right-hand corner--oh!' Uttering these words,
<div class="body">
the good lady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and
<ul>
underwent a convulsion from internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed
<li id="n-User-Blogs"><a href="/wiki/Special:ArticlesHome">User Blogs</a></li><li id="n-Newest-Blog-Posts"><a href="/wiki/Special:ArticleLists">Newest Blog Posts</a></li><li id="n-Write-a-Blog-Post"><a href="/wiki/Special:CreateBlogPost">Write a Blog Post</a></li><li id="n-Follow-Your-Friends"><a href="/wiki/Special:UserActivity">Follow Your Friends</a></li><li id="n-See-Friends.2FFoes"><a href="/wiki/Special:ViewRelationshipRequests">See Friends/Foes</a></li><li id="n-View-Your-Messages"><a href="/wiki/Special:UserBoard">View Your Messages</a></li><li id="n-See-Your-Gifts"><a href="/wiki/Special:ViewGifts">See Your Gifts</a></li><li id="n-Gift-a-Friend"><a href="/wiki/Special:GiveGift">Gift a Friend</a></li> </ul>
to the closet; and, snatching a pint green-glass bottle from the
</div>
shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-cup with its
</div>
contents, and held it to the lady's lips.
<div class="portal" role="navigation" id="p-Troping_Utilities" aria-labelledby="p-Troping_Utilities-label">
 
<h3 id="p-Troping_Utilities-label">Troping Utilities</h3>
'I'm better now,' said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking
<div class="body">
half of it.
<ul>
 
<li id="n-ATT-Page-Creator"><a href="/wiki/All_The_Tropes:ATT_Page_Creator">ATT Page Creator</a></li><li id="n-Trope-Workshop"><a href="/wiki/Category:Trope_Workshop">Trope Workshop</a></li><li id="n-ATT-Forums"><a href="/wiki/Special:WikiForum">ATT Forums</a></li><li id="n-ATT-Forums-.28old.29"><a href="/wiki/Forum:All_The_Tropes">ATT Forums (old)</a></li><li id="n-ATT-WebChat-.28IRC.29"><a href="/wiki/Special:WebChat">ATT WebChat (IRC)</a></li><li id="n-ATT-WebChat-.28onwiki.29"><a href="/wiki/Special:Chat">ATT WebChat (onwiki)</a></li><li id="n-Troper-Userboxes"><a href="/wiki/All_The_Tropes:Userboxes">Troper Userboxes</a></li><li id="n-Mechanics-of-Writing"><a href="/wiki/Mechanics_of_Writing">Mechanics of Writing</a></li> </ul>
Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in
</div>
thankfulness; and, bringing them down again to the brim of the
</div>
cup, lifted it to his nose.
<div class="portal" role="navigation" id="p-Troper_Social_Networks" aria-labelledby="p-Troper_Social_Networks-label">
 
<h3 id="p-Troper_Social_Networks-label">Troper Social Networks</h3>
'Peppermint,' exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling
<div class="body">
gently on the beadle as she spoke. 'Try it! There's a little--a
<ul>
little something else in it.'
<li id="n-ATT-Twitter"><a href="https://twitter.com/ATTropes" rel="nofollow">ATT Twitter</a></li><li id="n-ATT-subreddit"><a href="http://www.reddit.com/r/AllTheTropes/" rel="nofollow">ATT subreddit</a></li> </ul>
 
</div>
Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his
</div>
lips; took another taste; and put the cup down empty.
<div class="portal" role="navigation" id="p-tb" aria-labelledby="p-tb-label">
 
<h3 id="p-tb-label">Tools</h3>
'It's very comforting,' said Mrs. Corney.
<div class="body">
 
<ul>
'Very much so indeed, ma'am,' said the beadle. As he spoke, he
<li id="t-specialpages"><a href="/wiki/Special:SpecialPages" title="A list of all special pages [q]" accesskey="q">Special pages</a></li><li id="t-print"><a href="/w/index.php?title=Special:Badtitle&amp;action=raw&amp;printable=yes" rel="alternate" title="Printable version of this page [p]" accesskey="p">Printable version</a></li><li id="t-urlshortener"><a href="/w/index.php?title=Special:UrlShortener&amp;url=https%3A%2F%2Fallthetropes.org%2Fw%2Findex.php%3Ftitle%3DSpecial%3ABadtitle%26action%3Draw">Get shortened URL</a></li> </ul>
drew a chair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had
</div>
happened to distress her.
</div>
 
</div>
'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Corney. 'I am a foolish, excitable, weak
</div>
creetur.'
<div id="footer" role="contentinfo">
 
<ul id="footer-places">
'Not weak, ma'am,' retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a
<li id="footer-places-privacy"><a href="//meta.miraheze.org/wiki/Privacy_Policy" class="extiw" title="m:Privacy Policy">Privacy policy</a></li>
little closer. 'Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?'
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<li id="footer-places-disclaimer"><a href="/wiki/All_The_Tropes:General_disclaimer" title="All The Tropes:General disclaimer">Disclaimers</a></li>
'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mrs. Corney, laying down a
<li id="footer-places-termsofservice"><a href="//meta.miraheze.org/wiki/Terms_of_Use" class="extiw" title="m:Terms of Use">Terms of Use</a></li>
general principle.
<li id="footer-places-mobileview"><a href="https://allthetropes.org/w/index.php?title=Special:Badtitle&amp;action=raw&amp;mobileaction=toggle_view_mobile{{Dead link}}" class="noprint stopMobileRedirectToggle">Mobile view</a></li>
 
</ul>
'So we are,' said the beadle.
<ul id="footer-icons" class="noprint">
 
<li id="footer-copyrightico">
Nothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards.
<a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/"><img src="https://meta.miraheze.org/w/resources/assets/licenses/cc-by-sa.png" alt="Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International (CC BY-SA 4.0)" width="88" height="31"/></a> </li>
By the expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the
<li id="footer-poweredbyico">
position by removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's
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chair, where it had previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's
</ul>
apron-string, round which it gradually became entwined.
<div style="clear: both;"></div>
 
</div>
'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mr. Bumble.
<!-- Matomo -->
 
<script type="text/javascript">
Mrs. Corney sighed.
var _paq = _paq || [];
 
_paq.push(["trackPageView"]);
'Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble.
_paq.push(["enableLinkTracking"]);
 
(function() {
'I can't help it,' said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.
var u = "https://matomo.miraheze.org/";
 
var globalId = 1;
'This is a very comfortable room, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble looking
_paq.push(["setTrackerUrl", u + "piwik.php"]);
round. 'Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete
_paq.push(['setDocumentTitle', "allthetropeswiki" + " - " + "Special:Badtitle"]);
thing.'
_paq.push(["setSiteId", "2"]);
 
_paq.push(["setCustomVariable", 1, "userType", "Anonymous", "visit"]);
'It would be too much for one,' murmured the lady.
if ( globalId ) {
 
_paq.push(['addTracker', u + "piwik.php", globalId]);
'But not for two, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents.
}
'Eh, Mrs. Corney?'
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g.defer=true; g.async=true; g.src=u+"piwik.js"; s.parentNode.insertBefore(g,s);
Mrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the
})();
beadle drooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs.
</script>
Corney, with great propriety, turned her head away, and released
<!-- End Matomo Code -->
her hand to get at her pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly
<!-- Matomo Image Tracker -->
replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.
<noscript><p><img src="https://matomo.miraheze.org/piwik.php?idsite=2&amp;rec=1&amp;action_name=Special:Badtitle" style="border:0;" alt="" /></p></noscript>
 
<!-- End Matomo --><script>(window.RLQ=window.RLQ||[]).push(function(){mw.config.set({"wgBackendResponseTime":144,"wgHostname":"mw1"});});</script>
'The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?' inquired
</body>
the beadle, affectionately pressing her hand.
</html>
 
'And candles,' replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the
pressure.
 
'Coals, candles, and house-rent free,' said Mr. Bumble. 'Oh,
Mrs. Corney, what an Angel you are!'
 
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank
into Mr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation,
imprinted a passionate kiss upon her chaste nose.
 
'Such porochial perfection!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously.
'You know that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?'
 
'Yes,' replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.
 
'He can't live a week, the doctor says,' pursued Mr. Bumble. 'He
is the master of this establishment; his death will cause a
wacancy; that wacancy must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a
prospect this opens! What a opportunity for a jining of hearts
and housekeepings!'
 
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
 
'The little word?' said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful
beauty. 'The one little, little, little word, my blessed
Corney?'
 
'Ye--ye--yes!' sighed out the matron.
 
'One more,' pursued the beadle; 'compose your darling feelings
for only one more. When is it to come off?'
 
Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and twice failed. At length
summoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's
neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that
he was 'a irresistible duck.'
 
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the
contract was solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the
peppermint mixture; which was rendered the more necessary, by the
flutter and agitation of the lady's spirits. While it was being
disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the old woman's
decease.
 
'Very good,' said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; 'I'll
call at Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow
morning. Was it that as frightened you, love?'
 
'It wasn't anything particular, dear,' said the lady evasively.
 
'It must have been something, love,' urged Mr. Bumble. 'Won't you
tell your own B.?'
 
'Not now,' rejoined the lady; 'one of these days. After we're
married, dear.'
 
'After we're married!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble. 'It wasn't any
impudence from any of them male paupers as--'
 
'No, no, love!' interposed the lady, hastily.
 
'If I thought it was,' continued Mr. Bumble; 'if I thought as any
one of 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely
countenance--'
 
'They wouldn't have dared to do it, love,' responded the lady.
 
'They had better not!' said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. 'Let
me see any man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to
do it; and I can tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!'
 
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have
seemed no very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr.
Bumble accompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was
much touched with this proof of his devotion, and protested, with
great admiration, that he was indeed a dove.
 
The dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked
hat; and, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with
his future partner, once again braved the cold wind of the night:
merely pausing, for a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to
abuse them a little, with the view of satisfying himself that he
could fill the office of workhouse-master with needful acerbity.
Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the building with
a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion: which
served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the
undertaker.
 
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper:
and Noah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon
himself a greater amount of physical exertion than is necessary
to a convenient performance of the two functions of eating and
drinking, the shop was not closed, although it was past the usual
hour of shutting-up. Mr. Bumble tapped with his cane on the
counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and
beholding a light shining through the glass-window of the little
parlour at the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see
what was going forward; and when he saw what was going forward,
he was not a little surprised.
 
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread
and butter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle.
At the upper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled
negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of
the arms: an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered
bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening
oysters from a barrel: which Mr. Claypole condescended to
swallow, with remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness
in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and a kind of fixed
wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight degree
intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish
with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong
appreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal
fever, could have sufficiently accounted.
 
'Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try
him, do; only this one.'
 
'What a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarked Mr. Claypole,
after he had swallowed it. 'What a pity it is, a number of 'em
should ever make you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?'
 
'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.
 
'So it is,' acquiesced Mr. Claypole. 'An't yer fond of oysters?'
 
'Not overmuch,' replied Charlotte. 'I like to see you eat 'em,
Noah dear, better than eating 'em myself.'
 
'Lor!' said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!'
 
'Have another,' said Charlotte. 'Here's one with such a
beautiful, delicate beard!'
 
'I can't manage any more,' said Noah. 'I'm very sorry. Come
here, Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer.'
 
'What!' said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. 'Say that
again, sir.'
 
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr.
Claypole, without making any further change in his position than
suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in
drunken terror.
 
'Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!' said Mr. Bumble. 'How
dare you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage
him, you insolent minx? Kiss her!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in
strong indignation. 'Faugh!'
 
'I didn't mean to do it!' said Noah, blubbering. 'She's always
a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.'
 
'Oh, Noah,' cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
 
'Yer are; yer know yer are!' retorted Noah. 'She's always
a-doin' of it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin,
please, sir; and makes all manner of love!'
 
'Silence!' cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. 'Take yourself downstairs,
ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your
master comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home,
tell him that Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell
after breakfast to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!'
cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. 'The sin and wickedness
of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If
Parliament don't take their abominable courses under
consideration, this country's ruined, and the character of the
peasantry gone for ever!' With these words, the beadle strode,
with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's premises.
 
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and
have made all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral,
let us set on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and
ascertain whether he be still lying in the ditch where Toby
Crackit left him.
 
 
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