and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid."
Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room,—that they would starve him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away with that dreadful man.
"Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity,—"Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest."
"Hold your tongue, beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.
"I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of his having heard aright,—"did your worship speak to me?"
"Yes—hold your tongue."
Mr. Bumble was stupified with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution!
