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Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had
never lighted the gloom of his infant years. And yet he burst
into an agony of childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after
him. Wretched as were the little companions in misery he was
leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and
a sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the
child's heart for the first time.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly
grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at
the end of every quarter of a mile whether they were 'nearly
there.' To these interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief
and snappish replies; for the temporary blandness which
gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time evaporated;
and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter
of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second
slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the
care of an old woman, returned; and, telling him it was a board
night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear
before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board
was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was
not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no
time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him
a tap on the head, with his cane, to wake him up: and another on
the back to make him lively: and bidding him to follow,
conducted him into a large white-washed room, where eight or ten
fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the
table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a
particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.

'Bow to the board,' said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or
three tears that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board
but the table, fortunately bowed to that.

'What's your name, boy?' said the gentleman in the high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which
made him tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind,
which made him cry. These two causes made him answer in a very
low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white
waistcoat said he was a fool. Which was a capital way of raising
his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease.

'Boy,' said the gentleman in the high chair, 'listen to me. You
know you're an orphan, I suppose?'

'What's that, sir?' inquired poor Oliver.

'The boy _is_ a fool--I thought he was,' said the gentleman in the
white waistcoat.

'Hush!' said the gentleman who had spoken first. 'You know
you've got no father or mother, and that you were brought up by
the parish, don't you?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

'What are you crying for?' inquired the gentleman in the white
waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What _could_
the boy be crying for?

'I hope you say your prayers every night,' said another gentleman

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