Among the buildings in the dreary town of Mudfog was a workhouse, where the poor were housed and many of them were worked to death. Oliver Twist was born in this dismal place, but for a few minutes it was doubtful he would survive.
At last he breathed, sneezed, and let out a loud wail. Hearing this, a young woman raised her head feebly from her pillow. "Let me see the child and die."
"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet," said the doctor who had attended the birth.
"Bless her heart, no," said the old pauper woman who was serving as nurse. "Think about being a mother to your new baby, dear."
The young mother stretched out her hand toward the child. The doctor deposited the baby in her arms. She imprinted her cold lips passionately on his forehead, shuddered, and died.
"It's all over," said the doctor. "She was a nice-looking girl. Where did she come from?"
"She was brought here last night," replied the old woman. "She was found lying in the street. But where she came from or where she was going, nobody knows."
The doctor leaned over the body. "The same old story." He shook his head. "No wedding ring. Well, good night. If the child cries, give it a little gruel."
Wrapped in an old calico blanket, Oliver cried lustily. If he had known he was a workhouse orphan, he would have cried even louder.
When Oliver was about eight months old, he was sent to a branch workhouse—a farm run by an elderly woman. Mrs. Mann was a woman of wisdom and experience. She knew what was good for the children under her care, and she knew what was good for her. So she took the greater part of their weekly stipends for her own use and fed the children as little as possible.
By his tenth birthday, Oliver was a pale child, small for his age and quite thin. But luckily nature had planted a good, sturdy spirit in Oliver's heart. For he was spending his birthday locked in the coal cellar with two other orphans for daring to be hungry.
Mrs. Mann looked out the window and saw a large, fat man fumbling with the latch on the front gate.
"The parish officer is here!" she cried to her servant. "Take Oliver and those two brats upstairs and wash them right away before Mr. Bumble sees them!"
"Why is this gate locked?" The man rattled the gate as Mrs. Mann appeared. "You're keeping a parish officer waiting. And I am here on official business!"
"How delightful to see you, Mr. Bumble!" Mrs. Mann opened the gate. "I was just telling the dear children, who are so fond of you, that you're here."
Mrs. Mann ushered him into the parlor, where he removed his hat, and they sat down.
"Oliver Twist is ten years old today," said Mr. Bumble.
"Bless him," interrupted Mrs. Mann.
"And despite offering a reward of ten pounds—later increased to twenty pounds—the parish has never been able to discover the names of his parents."
"Then how did he get a name?"
Mr. Bumble drew himself up with pride. "I name all the orphans in alphabetical order. The last was Swubble, then Twist, then Unwin. But returning to business, Oliver is too old to remain here. I've come myself to take him back to the workhouse, so let me see him at once."
Mrs. Mann went to fetch Oliver.
"Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver," she said when they returned.
Oliver bowed.
"Very good, Oliver. Now come along with me." And with that, Mr. Bumble put on his hat and bade the surprised Mrs. Mann good day.
Mr. Bumble walked quickly down the road with little Oliver clutching his coat cuff.
"Are we nearly there?" Oliver gasped every quarter mile.
"Not yet," Mr. Bumble said with growing impatience.
At last they arrived at a huge, prison-like building.
"You've come here to be taught a useful trade," said Mr. Bumble. "Starting tomorrow morning at six o'clock, you'll pick apart old ropes so they can be reused."
Oliver barely had time to look around before he was hurried away to receive his dreary uniform. That night he sobbed himself to sleep on a hard bed in a room full of other boys.
Three months passed. The board running the workhouse decided that too many poor people were taking advantage of its services. To reduce the number of paupers, they drastically reduced the amount of food.
Now each boy was allowed only one small bowl of gruel. The boys were fed in a great stone hall. Once a day, the master of the workhouse, assisted by two women, ladled out the gruel from a large copper pot.
"If I don't get more to eat," said a new boy, "I might have to eat one of you." He glared at the other boys with a wild, hungry look in his eyes, frightening them.
That night the boys decided that someone had to ask the master for more food. They drew lots, and Oliver got the job.
The next evening the boys arrived in the dining hall. They stood in line while the master filled their bowls. Then they sat down, and the gruel quickly disappeared. The boys whispered to each other and winked at Oliver.
Oliver was desperate with hunger and reckless with misery. He rose from the table and walked toward the master.
"Please, sir." Oliver held up his bowl. "I want some more."
The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with his ladle. "Call Mr. Bumble!"
The parish officer came running from a board meeting, and when he heard Oliver's request, he ran right back.
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Limbkins," Mr. Bumble said to the head of the board. "Oliver Twist has asked for more food."
There was horror on every face in the room.
"For more?" said Mr. Limbkins. "Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me. Do I understand he asked for more after he'd eaten the amount allotted to him?"
"He did, sir," replied Mr. Bumble.
"That boy will come to a bad end." Mr. Limbkins shook his head, and no one disagreed.
Oliver was instantly locked up. The next morning a notice was posted on the workhouse gate, offering five pounds to anyone who wanted an apprentice. In other words, they were looking for anyone who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish.