"Open the door!"
The next morning Oliver woke up because someone was loudly kicking the front door of the undertaker's shop.
"Open the door!" cried the voice again.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, struggling into his clothes.
"Are you the new boy?" asked the voice through the keyhole.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver.
"Then I'll beat you up when I get in, workhouse brat!" Having made this dreadful promise, the voice began to whistle.
Oliver turned the key with a trembling hand and opened the door. He glanced up and down the street. But all he could see was an older boy, sitting on a hitching post and eating a slice of bread.
"I beg your pardon, sir," Oliver said at last. "Did you knock?"
"I kicked."
"Did you want a coffin, sir?" Oliver innocently inquired.
"You'll be wanting a coffin soon if you keep this up. You don't know who I am, do you?" The boy jumped down from the post.
"No, sir."
"I'm Mister Noah Claypole, and you work for me. Take down the shutters, you idle young ruffian."
Noah watched as Oliver struggled to remove the heavy shutters from the windows and stow them beside the house, where they were kept during the day. When Oliver finished, he followed Noah down to the kitchen for breakfast.
"Come sit near the fire, Noah," said Charlotte. "I saved you a nice piece of bacon from Master's breakfast."
Then she told Oliver to take some stale bread and sit in the coldest corner of the kitchen. "Hurry up because Master will want you to mind the shop."
"Do you hear, Workhouse?" said Noah. "Hurry up."
"Oh, leave him alone," said Charlotte.
But Noah didn't want to leave Oliver alone. He finally had someone who ranked below him. However, the undertaker soon realized that Oliver was someone special.
"Young Twist is a good-looking boy," said Mr. Sowerberry to his wife one night at supper.
"He should be," replied Mrs. Sowerberry. "He eats enough."
"There's an expression of melancholy in his face, which is very interesting, my dear. He'd make a delightful mourner at funerals."
Mrs. Sowerberry looked at him quizzically.
"I don't mean a regular mourner at adult funerals," continued Mr. Sowerberry. "I'd use him only at children's funerals. It would be delightful to see a small mourner walking with a small coffin."
Oliver soon had a chance to acquire a great deal of experience as a mourner. Thanks to an outbreak of measles, he led many processions to the graveyard. After a month he was formally apprenticed to the undertaker.
Noah was jealous of Oliver's promotion to mourner and so continued to harass him. One day while they were eating, Noah was determined to make Oliver cry. The older boy pulled Oliver's hair and pinched his ears.
"Workhouse, how's your mother?" said Noah.
"She's dead," replied Oliver. "Don't you say anything about her!"
"What did she die of, Workhouse?"
"Of a broken heart. That's what I was told." A tear rolled down Oliver's cheek.
"Oh, what's made you cry?"
"Not you," Oliver replied sharply. "Don't say anything more about her."
"You might as well know, Workhouse, that your mother was a bad one. If she hadn't died, she'd have ended up in jail."
Crimson with fury, the little boy overturned the table. Oliver grabbed Noah and knocked him to the ground. A minute earlier Oliver had looked like a quiet, dejected creature. But the insult to his mother had set his blood on fire.
"He's trying to murder me!" shouted Noah. "Charlotte! Mrs. Sowerberry! Help me! Oliver's gone mad!"
The two women rushed downstairs into the kitchen.
"You little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, grabbing Oliver by one arm. "Oh, you ungrateful, murderous, horrid villain!" And with every word, she smacked Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry and Noah joined in the melee. The three of them managed to drag the struggling boy into the cellar, where they slammed the door and locked it tight. Oliver kicked and kicked the door from the inside.
Mrs. Sowerberry sank into a chair and burst into tears. "Oh, Charlotte! It's a blessing we haven't all been murdered in our beds!"
"He'll kick that door down, and Mr. Sowerberry is away," said Charlotte.
"Noah, run to Mr. Bumble and tell him to come here right now," said Mrs. Sowerberry.
Noah ran to the workhouse gate, where he stopped for a moment to make himself look as pitiful as possible. Then he shouted, "Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!"
The parish officer was so alarmed by these cries that he rushed outside with his hat in his hand.
"What's happened?" Mr. Bumble said breathlessly. "Has Oliver run away?"
"No, sir, but he tried to murder us! Mr. Sowerberry is out, so Mrs. Sowerberry wants you to come and flog Oliver."
Mr. Bumble put on his hat and tapped his cane on the ground. "Let's go."
They hurried to the undertaker's shop, where Oliver was still kicking the cellar door and Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte were waiting in fear.
"Oliver!" shouted Mr. Bumble through the keyhole.
"Let me out!"
"Do you know who's speaking to you?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you afraid of me?"
"No!" Oliver replied boldly.
Mr. Bumble staggered back in surprise.
"He must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy in his right mind would dare speak to you like that."
"It's not madness, ma'am. It's meat. If you had kept the boy on gruel, this never would have happened."
Just then Mr. Sowerberry returned. After hearing what Oliver had done, he dragged the boy from the cellar and beat him.
Mr. Bumble shook his head. "All you can do now is leave him in the cellar for a day or so until he's a little starved. Then take him out and keep him on gruel through his apprenticeship."
So they left Oliver in the cellar for the rest of the day with a slice of bread and some water. That night Mrs. Sowerberry ordered him upstairs to bed.
As he looked around the dismal undertaker's workshop, Oliver fell on his knees and wept. For a long time, he remained motionless, but finally he got up and opened the door. Outside, it was a cold, dark night, and the stars seemed very far away.
Oliver softly closed the door. He tied up his few articles of clothing into a handkerchief. Then he sat on a bench to wait for morning.
When the first ray of daylight struggled through the shutters, Oliver opened the door. He took one last look around the shop. Then he stepped out into the street.