Meanwhile, back in the town of Oliver's birth, Mr. Bumble was about to set off on a trip to London. He was feeling quite important this morning because the workhouse board had appointed him to take two paupers to the city. He was going to appear before a court to argue that they belonged to another parish.
So Mr. Bumble took his place on top of the coach, accompanied by the two men in their ragged clothes. Throughout the trip the paupers persisted in shivering and complaining about the cold. This annoyed Mr. Bumble and made his teeth chatter even though he was wearing a heavy coat. By evening they reached London.
Having disposed of the paupers in a workhouse for the night, Mr. Bumble settled himself at a warm and cozy inn. He had a modest dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and fine wine. After dinner he set a drink on the mantel and pulled his chair over to the fire. Then he composed himself for an evening of reading the newspaper.
The very first paragraph on which his eye rested was the following advertisement:
A young boy named Oliver Twist ran away, or was enticed away, from his home
last Thursday. He has not been seen or heard from since. The above reward will
be paid to any person who gives information that leads to the discovery of
Oliver Twist. The above reward is also offered to anyone who can throw light
on the boy's previous history. The advertiser has many reasons for being
interested in the boy's past.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes in surprise. There followed a full description of Oliver's clothing and appearance, with Mr. Brownlow's name and address underneath.
Mr. Bumble read the advertisement slowly and carefully three times. And in something more than five minutes, he was on his way to Mr. Brownlow's house, having left his drink untasted on the mantel.
"Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the servant girl who opened the door.
The girl replied as any good servant would: "I don't know, sir. What is the nature of your business with him?"
Mr. Bumble explained that he had come in reference to the advertisement about Oliver Twist. Hearing that, Mrs. Bedwin, who had been standing at the parlor door, hurried into the hall in a breathless state.
"Come in, come in," said the old woman. "I knew we would hear of him. Poor dear! I knew we would. I was certain of it. Bless his heart. I said so all along."
Having said this, the housekeeper hurried back into the parlor again. She sat down on the sofa and burst into tears. Meanwhile the girl had run upstairs and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble follow her immediately.
She showed him upstairs into Mr. Brownlow's study.
"Take a seat, will you?" said Mr. Brownlow. He moved the lamp so as to obtain a good view of Mr. Bumble's face. "Now, sir, you have come as a result of seeing the newspaper advertisement?"
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble as he took a seat.
"Do you know where this poor boy is now?" asked Mr. Brownlow with a look of deep concern on his face.
"No, I don't."
"Then what do you know of him?" Mr. Brownlow said impatiently. "Please tell me what you know about Oliver as quickly as possible."
Mr. Bumble put down his hat, unbuttoned his coat, folded his arms, and bowed his head in a thoughtful manner. After a few moments of reflection, he began his story.
"I am the parish officer at the workhouse where Oliver was born. Young Oliver was an orphan, the son of low and vicious parents. Despite a large reward, we have never been able to determine their names. From the moment of his birth, Oliver displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, and malice."
Here Mr. Bumble paused to let his words sink in.
Mr. Brownlow said nothing, but he looked very serious. "Go on," he said to the parish officer.
"Oliver was apprenticed to an undertaker, a position that any boy would be happy and grateful for. But was he grateful? No. He viciously attacked a defenseless boy who was also employed there, and he terrorized the undertaker's wife and a female servant. Young Twist knew that he deserved a most horrible punishment. So what do you think he did?"
"I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow, who at this point was feeling that he didn't know Oliver at all.
"He ran away from his master's house. So, you see, he has a history of running away."
"I fear that what you say is true." Mr. Brownlow shook his head sadly. He handed a five-pound note to Mr. Bumble. "This is not much for your information. I would gladly have given you three times as much money if your report had been favorable to the boy."
If only Mr. Bumble had known that! He might have presented his little history with a very different slant. It was too late to do that now, however, so he shook his head gravely and pocketed the money.
After Mr. Bumble left, Mr. Brownlow paced the room for a few minutes. He was very disturbed by the parish officer's tale. At last he stopped and rang the bell violently.
"Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared. "That boy Oliver is an impostor."
"It can't be, sir. It cannot be," insisted the housekeeper.
"What do you mean by that?" retorted Mr. Brownlow. "I tell you he is an impostor. I have just heard a full account of him from birth. He has been a thorough villain all his life."
"I never will believe it," Mrs. Bedwin replied indignantly. "He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir."
"Silence!" ordered Mr. Brownlow. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. Never, never, on any pretense. You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember, I am in earnest about this."
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's house that night. Although Mr. Brownlow sounded angry, he was more disappointed than truly angry.
Back at Fagin's house, Oliver's heart sank whenever he thought of his warm, kind friends. It was a good thing that he did not know what they had heard that day. If he had known about Mr. Bumble's words, his heart might have broken completely.