[图书剧本] 雾都孤儿 英文原版小说--适合初学者阅读 雾都, 孤儿, 初学者, 原版, 小说

icy_zhu

原文：
求助————
请问谁哪里有《雾都孤儿》英文电子版小说，可以拿出来共享一下否？
据说这个难度相对低一些，比较适合初学者阅读。。
先谢过啦！！！

补充：
我自己找到了，拿出来给大家分享一下，一天一段，共同分享，如有阅读速度快的，我可以把链接给大家哈！

紫云木

好像有整本下载的

yy2235

回复 43# icy_zhu


    OK~

icy_zhu

Chapter 6

OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM
The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.
For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be--quite cheerful and contented--conversing together with as much freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and proceedings.
One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton--a pound and a half of the worst end of the neck--when Charlotte being called out of the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion that he was a 'sneak'; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather personal.
'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's your mother?'
'She's dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say anything about her to me!'
Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this impression he returned to the charge.
'What did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.
'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,' replied Oliver: more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. 'I think I know what it must be to die of that!'
'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said Noah, as a tear rolled down Oliver's cheek. 'What's set you a snivelling now?'
'Not _you_,' replied Oliver, sharply. 'There; that's enough. Don't say anything more to me about her; you'd better not!'
'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!' And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion.
'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most annoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer couldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a regular right-down bad 'un.'
'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah, coolly. 'And it's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more likely than either, isn't it?'
Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table; seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known before.
'He'll murder me!' blubbered Noah. 'Charlotte! missis! Here's the new boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char--lotte!'
Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come further down.
'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in particularly good training. 'Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!' And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.
Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.
This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver, struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair, and burst into tears.
'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte. 'A glass of water, Noah, dear. Make haste!'
'Oh! Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could, through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. 'Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!'
'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply. I only hope this'll teach master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but killed, ma'am, when I come in.'
'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some affecting tears and sniffs.
'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'Your master's not at home; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten minutes.' Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, rendered this occurance highly probable.
'Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, 'unless we send for the police-officers.'
'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.
'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend. 'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down.'
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.

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icy_zhu

回复 42# yy2235


quoted one sentence said by  Sowerberry. 'Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my girl.'
come on ,yy~FOLLOW ME~

yy2235

好长哦，来不及看....

icy_zhu

the translation about chapter 5
奥立弗单独留在棺材店堂里，他把灯放在一张工作台上，怀着敬畏的心情怯生生地环顾四周，不少年龄大得多的人也不免产生同样的心情。一具未完工的棺材放在黑黝黝的支架上，就在店堂中间，每当他游移的目光无意中落到这可怕的东西上边，看到它是那样阴森死寂，一阵寒颤立刻传遍全身，他差一点相信真的看见一个吓人的身影从棺材里缓缓地抬起头来，把自己吓疯过去。一长列剖成同样形状的榆木板整整齐齐靠在墙上，在昏暗的灯光下，就像一个个高耸肩膀，手插在裤兜里的幽灵似的。棺材铭牌，木屑刨花，闪闪发亮的棺材钉子，黑布碎片，疏疏落落撒了一地，柜台后边的墙上装饰着一幅形象逼真、色彩鲜明的画：两个职业送殡人脖子上系着笔挺的领结，守候在一扇巨大的私人住宅门旁，一辆灵车从远处驶来，拉车的是四匹黑色的骏马。店铺里又问又热，连空气也似乎沾上了棺材的气味。奥立弗的一条破棉絮给扔在柜台底下凹进去的地方，那地方看上去跟坟墓没什么两样。

    使奥立弗感到压抑的不仅仅是这些令人沮丧的感觉。他于然一身，呆在一个陌生的场所，众所周知，处于这么一种境地，就是我们当中的佼佼者有时也会感到凄凉与孤独。这孩子没有一个需要他去照看的朋友强调要在人的本能结构中进行革命，同单纯的物质需要决裂，，或者反过来说，也没有朋友可以照看他。他并不是刚刚经历了别愁离恨，也不是因为看不到亲切熟悉的面容而觉得心里沉甸甸的。尽管如此，他依然心情沉重，在缩进他那狭窄的铺位里去的时候，仍然甘愿那就是他的棺材，他从此可以安安稳稳地在教堂墓地里长眠了，高高的野草在头顶上轻盈地随风摇曳，深沉的古钟奏响，抚慰自己长眠不醒。

    清晨，奥立弗被外边一阵喧闹的踢打铺门的声音惊醒了，他还没来得及胡乱穿上衣服，那声音又愤怒而鲁莽地响了大约二十次。当他开始拉开门闩的时候，外边不再踢了，有个声音说道：

    “开门，开不开？”那声音嚷嚷着，它与刚才踢门的那两只脚属于同一个人。

    “我马上就来，先生。”奥立弗一边回答，一边解开链条，转动钥匙。

    “你大概就是新来的伙计，是不是？”透过锁眼传来的声音说道。

    “是的，先生。”

    “你，多大了？”那声音问。

    “先生，我十岁。”

    “哼，那我进来可要揍你一顿。”那声音说，“看我接不揍你，走着瞧吧，济贫院来的黄毛小子。”那声音许下这一番亲切诺言，便吹起了口哨。

    对于奥立弗来说，“揍”是一个极富表现力的字眼，这一过程他领教过无数次了，因而丝毫不存侥幸心理，管他是谁，反正那个声音的主人是要极其体面地履行诺言的。奥立弗的手颤抖着拍下门闩，打开铺门。

    奥立弗朝街的两头看了看，又看了一眼街对面，他以为刚才透过锁眼跟自己打过招呼的陌生人想暖暖身子，已经走开了，因为他没看见其他人，只看见一名大块头的慈善学校学生，坐在铺子前边的木桩上，正在吃一块奶油面包。大块头用一把折刀把面包切成同嘴巴差不多大小的楔形，又异常灵巧地全部投进嘴里。

    “对不起，先生，”奥立弗见没有别的客人露面，终于开口了，“是你在敲门吗？”

    “我踢的。”慈善学校学生答道。

    “先生，你是不是要买一口棺材？”奥立弗天真地问。

    一听这话，慈善学校学生立刻现出一副狰狞可怕的样子，宣称倘若奥立弗以这种方式和上司开玩笑的话，过不了多久就需要一口棺材了。

    “照我看，济贫院，你还不知道我是谁吧？”慈善学校学生一边从木桩上下来了，一边摆出开导别人的派头继续说道。

    “是的，先生。”奥立弗应道。

    “我是诺亚克雷波尔先生，”他说，“你就属我管，把窗板放下来，你这个懒惰的小坏蛋。”说罢，克雷波尔先生赏了奥立弗一脚，神气活现地走进店铺去了，这副派头替他增光不少。要让一个身材粗笨，面容呆板，大头鼠眼的小伙子显得神气十足，在任何情况下都不是件容易的事，更何况在个人尊容方面替他增加魅力的又是一尊红鼻子和一条黄短裤。

    奥立弗取下一扇沉甸甸的窗板，摇摇晃晃地往屋子侧面的一个小天井里搬，这些东西白天放在那里，哪知刚搬头一扇就撞坏了一块玻璃。诺亚先是安慰他，担保说“有他好瞧的”，接着也放下架子，帮着干起来。不一会儿，苏尔伯雷先生下楼来了，紧跟在后的是苏尔伯雷太太。奥立弗果然“有好瞧的”，应了诺亚的预言，之后便与这位年轻的绅士一起下楼吃早饭。

    “诺亚，靠火近一点，”夏洛蒂说道，“我从老板的早饭里给你挑了一小块熏肉留起来。奥立弗，把诺亚先生背后的门关上。你的饭我放在面包盘的盖子上边了，自己去拿吧，这是你的茶，端到箱子边上去，就在那儿喝，快一点，他们还要你去拾掇铺子呢。听见了吗？”

    “听见了吗，济贫院？”诺亚克雷波尔说。

    “唷，诺亚，”夏洛蒂话头一转，“你这人真怪。你管他干吗？”

    “干吗？”诺亚说道，“哼，因为一个个都由着他，这儿可不行。不管是他爹还是他妈，都不会来管他了。他所有的亲戚也由着他胡来。喔，夏洛蒂。嘻嘻嘻！”

    “喔，你这个怪人！”夏洛蒂不禁大笑起来，诺亚也跟着笑了，他俩笑够了之后，又傲慢地看了奥立弗一眼，这功夫他正呆在离火炉最远的角落里，哆哆嗦嗦地坐在一只箱子上，吃着特意给他留下的馊臭食物。

    诺亚是慈善学校的学生，不是济贫院的孤儿。他不是私生子，顺着家谱可以一直追溯到他的境遇不佳的双亲，母亲替人洗衣服，父亲当过兵，经常喝醉酒，退伍的时候带回来一条木头假腿和一份抚恤金，数额为每天两个半便士，外带一个很难说清的尾数。邻近各家店铺的学徒老是喜欢在大街上用一些不堪人耳的浑名来嘲笑诺亚，诸如“皮短裤”啦，“慈善学堂”啦什么的，他一一照单全收，概不还价。现在可好，命运把一个连名字都没有的孤儿赐给了他，对这个孤儿，连最卑贱的人都可以指着鼻子骂，诺亚饶有兴致地对奥立弗来了个如法炮制。这件事十分耐人寻味，它向我们表明，人的本性是多么的美妙，同样美好的品质从不厚此薄彼，既可以在最出色的君子身上发扬，又可以在最卑污的慈善学校学生的身上滋长。

    奥立弗在殡葬承办人的铺子住了有个把月了。这一天打烊以后，苏尔伯雷夫妇正在店堂后边的小休息室里吃晚饭，苏尔伯雷先生恭恭敬敬地看了太太几眼，说道：

    “我亲爱的――”他正打算说下去，见太太眼睛朝上一翻，知道兆头不对，赶紧打住。

    “咦。”苏尔伯雷太太厉声说道。

    “没什么事，亲爱的，没什么。”苏尔伯雷先生说道。

    “呃，你这个可恶的东西。”苏尔伯雷太太说。

    “哪里，哪里，我亲爱的，“苏尔伯雷先生低声下气地说，“我以为你不高兴听呢，亲爱的。我只是想说……”

    “呃，你想说什么都别告诉我，”苏尔伯雷太太打断了他的话，“我算老几，拜托了，别来问我。我不想插手你的秘密。”苏尔伯雷太太说这话的时候发出一阵歇斯底里的狂笑，预示着后果将是非常严重的。

    “不过，亲爱的，”苏尔伯雷说道，“我想向你讨教呢。”

    “不，不，你不用来问我的意见，”苏尔伯雷太太大动感情，“你问别人去。”又是一阵歇斯底里的大笑，苏尔伯雷光生吓了个半死。这是夫妇间的一种极为寻常而又受到普遍认可的程序，通常都很灵验。苏尔伯雷先生当即告饶，请求太太特别恩准，允许自己把话说出来，苏尔伯雷太太其实很想听听是什么事。经过短短三刻钟不到的拉锯战，太太总算大发慈悲，予以批准。

    “亲爱的，这事关系到小退斯特，”苏尔伯雷先生说道，“这是个漂亮的小男孩，亲爱的。”

    “他理当如此，吃饱了喝足了嘛。”太太这样认为。

    “亲爱的，他脸上有一种忧伤的表情，”苏尔伯雷先生继续说，“这非常有趣，他可以做一个出色的送殡人，亲爱的。”

    苏尔伯雷太太的眼睛朝天上翻了一下，显然颇感意外，苏尔伯雷先生注意到了这一点，便接着说下去，没有给贤惠的夫人留下插话的机会。

    “亲爱的，我不是指参加成年人葬礼的普通送殡人，而是单单替儿童出殡用的。让孩子给孩子送殡，亲爱的，那该有多新鲜。你尽管放心，这一招效果保准不赖。”

    苏尔伯雷太太对于办理丧事可以说颇具鉴赏力，听到这个新颖的主意也大为吃惊。可是，照直承认不免有失体面，事已至此，她只好非常严厉地问，这样浅显的一个建议，他这个作丈夫的干吗事先没想到呢？苏尔伯雷先生来了个顺水推舟，认定这是对他这个点子的默认。事情当场定下来，干这一行的秘诀须马上传授给奥立弗，鉴于这个目的，老板下一次外出洽谈生意，奥立弗就得跟着一起去。

    机会很快就来了，第二天清晨，吃过早饭大约半个小时，邦布尔先生走进了铺子。他将手杖支在柜台上，把他的大皮夹子掏出来，从里边拈出一张纸片，递给苏尔伯雷。

    “啊哈。”苏尔伯雷先生眉开眼笑，看了一下纸片说道，“订购一口棺材，哦？”

    “先订一副棺材，后边还有一套葬礼，由教区出钱。”邦布尔先生一边回答，一边紧了紧皮夹子上的皮带，这皮夹子跟他人一样胀鼓鼓的。

    “贝登，”殡仪馆老板瞧了瞧那张纸片，又看看邦布尔先生，“我从来没听说过这个名字。”

    邦布尔摇摇头，答道：“一个很难对付的家伙，苏尔伯雷先生，非常非常之顽固，恐怕是太得意了，老兄。”

    “得意，喔？”苏尔伯雷冷笑一声，大声说道。“真是的，这也太过分了。”

    “噢，是啊，真叫人恶心，”教区干事答道。“真缺锑①，苏尔伯雷先生。”——

    ①邦布尔本来想说“缺德”（antinomian，反对遵从道德律法的），却与“缺锑（antimonial）一词用混了。

    “是这么回事。”殡葬承办人表示同意。

    “我们也是前天晚上才听说这家人的，”教区干事说，“他们的情况我们本来不知道，有个住在同一幢房子里的女人找到教区委员会，要求派教区大夫去看看，那儿有个女人病得很重。大夫到外边吃饭去了，他那个徒弟（一个很机灵的小伙子），把药装在一个鞋油瓶子里，捎给了他们。”

    “啊，倒真利索。”殡葬承办人说。

    “利索是利索啊，”干事回答，“可结果呢，老兄，这些个家伙真是反了，你知道他们有多忘恩负义？嗯，那个男的带回话来，说药品与他妻子的病症不合，因此她不能喝――先生，他说不能喝。疗效显著又符合卫生的药，一个星期以前才有两个爱尔兰工人和一个运煤的喝过，效果蛮好――现在白白奉送，分文不取，外带一个鞋油瓶子――老兄，他倒回话说她不能喝。”

    这极恶行活生生地展现在邦布尔先生心目中，气得他满面通红，狠命地用手杖敲打着柜台。

    “哟，”殡葬承办人说，“我从――来――没――”

    “先生，从来没有。”教区干事吼了起来，“真是闻所未闻。喔，可现在她死了，我们还得去埋，这是地址姓名，这事越快了结越好。”

    邦布尔先生由于为教区感到不平，激愤之下险些把三角帽戴反了，然后三脚两步跨出店门去了。

    “唷，奥立弗，他发那么大火，都忘了问问你的情况。”苏尔伯雷目送教区干事大步走到街上，说道。

    “是的，先生。”奥立弗答道。邦布尔来访的时候，他一直小心翼翼地躲得远远的，他一听出邦布尔先生的嗓音，从头到脚都抖起来了。话说日来，他倒也用不着想方设法避开邦布尔先生的视线。这名公务人员一直将白背心绅士的预言铭记在心，他认为，既然殡葬承办人正在试用奥立弗，他的情况不提也好，一直要等到为期七年的合同将他套牢了，他被重新退回教区的一切危险才能一劳永逸、合理合法地解除。

    “嗨，”苏尔伯雷先生拿起帽子说，“这笔生意越早做成越好。诺亚，看住铺子。奥立弗，把帽子戴上，跟我一块儿去。”奥立弗听从吩咐，跟着主人出门做生意去了。

    他们穿过本城人口最稠密的居民区，走了一程，接着加快脚步，来到一条比先前经过的地方还要肮脏、破败、狭窄的街上，他们走走停停，找寻他们此行的目标居住的房子。街道两边的房屋又高又大，然而非常陈；日，住户都是赤贫阶层，不用看偶尔遇到的几个男人女人脸上的苦相，光是看看这些房子破败的外观就可以看出这一点。行人拢着双臂，弓腰驼背，走路躲躲闪闪。大多数房子带有铺面，可是都关得紧紧的，一派衰朽破败的样子，只有楼上用来住人。有些房屋因年久失修，眼看要坍倒在街上，就用几根大木头一端撑住墙壁，另一端牢牢地插在路上。就连这些无异于猪栏狗窝的房子看来也被某些无家可归的倒霉蛋选中，作为夜间栖身的巢穴，因为许多钉在门窗上的粗木板已经撬开，留下的缝隙足以让一个人进进出出。水沟阻塞不通，恶臭难闻，正在腐烂的老鼠东一只西一只，就连它们也是一副可怕的饿相。

    奥立弗和他的老板要找的这一家到了，大门敞开着，上边既没有门环，也没有门铃拉手。老板吩咐奥立弗跟上，什么也别怕，自己小心翼翼地摸索着穿过漆黑的走廊，爬上二楼。他在楼梯口踉踉跄跄地撞上了一道门，便用指结嘭嘭嘭地敲了起来。

    开门的是一个十三四岁的女孩。殡仪馆老板一看室内的陈设，就知道这正是他要找的地方，便走进去，奥立弗也跟了进去。

    屋子里没有生火，却有一个男人纹丝不动地蜷缩在空荡荡的炉子边上，一位老妇人也在冷冰冰的炉子前放了一张矮凳，坐在他身边。屋子的另一个角落里有几个衣衫褴褛的小孩。有个什么东西用毯子遮盖着，放在正对门口的一个小壁龛里。奥立弗的目光落到了那上边，禁不住打起哆嗦来，身子不由自主地和老板贴得更紧了，尽管上边盖着毯子，这孩子却依然意识到那是一具尸体。

    那男人面容瘦削，显得十分苍白，头发和胡子已经灰白，两眼充满血丝。老太婆满脸皱纹，仅有的两颗牙齿突出，挡住了下唇，目光炯炯有神。奥立弗吓得连头也不敢抬，这两个人看上去和他在屋外见到的老鼠实在太相像了。

    “谁也不许走近她，”殡仪馆老板正要往壁龛走去，那男的猛地跳了起来。“别过去。他妈的――你要想留条活命，就别过去。”

    “别说傻话，伙计，”殡葬承办人对各式各样凄惨悲凉的事情早已见惯不惊，“别说傻话了。”

    “我跟你说，”那男的紧握拳头，狂暴地用脚踩着地板――“我跟你说，我不能让她入士，她在那儿得不到安宁，蛆虫会打扰她的――不是吃掉她――她已经成了空心的了。”

    老板没有答理这一番咆哮，从口袋里掏出一副卷尺，跪下来，在尸体旁边量了一会儿。

    “啊。”那个男子在死者的脚边跪了下来，泪水奔泻而出。“跪下吧，跪下吧――你们都来跪在她身边。听好啦。我说她是饿死的。我一点也不知道她的身体有多差，一直到她这次得了热病，后来她的皮肤连骨头都包不住了。屋子里没有生火，也没有点蜡烛，她是死在黑暗之中――在黑暗之中啊。尽管我们听得到她在喘气，叫孩子们的名字，可她连孩子们的脸都看不见。为了她，我上街要饭，他们却把我投进了监狱。我回来的时候，她已经死了，我心里的血全都干涸了，是他们把她活活饿死的啊。我当着上帝发誓，这事上帝都看见了。是他们把她饿死的。”他伸出双手揪住自己的头发，随着一声狂叫，在地板上打起滚来，两眼发直，唾沫糊住了他的嘴唇。

    孩子们吓得魂不附体，放声大哭。只有那个老太婆仿佛对这一切都充耳不闻似的，一直没有开口，她恐吓着要他们静下来，把直挺挺倒在地上的那个男子的领带松开，然后摇摇晃晃地朝殡仪馆老板走过来。

    “她是我女儿，”老妇人朝尸体摆了摆头，像白痴一样乜斜着眼睛说道，在那种场合里，这个动作甚至比死亡本身还要可怕。“天啦，天啦。唷，真是奇怪，我生了她，当时我也不年轻了，现在还活得好好的，快快活活的，可她却躺在那儿，冷得硬邦邦的。天啦，天啦――想想这事吧。真像是一场戏――真像是一场戏。”

    可怜的老人叽哩咕噜地说着，以她那种令人毛骨悚然的幽默格格地笑起来，棺材店老板转身就走。

    “等一等，等一等。”老妇人高声说道，有点像自说自话，“她下葬是明天、后天，还是今天晚上？我都替她收拾好了，你知道，我也得去。给我送一件大的斗篷来，要穿上很暖和的，天气可真冷。去以前，我们还得吃点面包，喝点酒啊。千万别小气，送点儿面包来――只要一个面包一杯水就够了，我们会有面包的，亲爱的，是不是啊？”她急切地说，殡仪馆老板又想往门外走，被她一把拉住了大衣。

    “是的，是的，”殡仪馆老板说道，“当然会有的，你要什么都有。”他挣脱了老妇人的拉扯，领着奥立弗，匆匆忙忙走了。

    第二天（这户人家已经得到了半个四磅面包和一块奶酪的救济，是邦布尔先生亲自送来的），奥立弗和他的主人又一次来到丧家。邦布尔已经先到了，还带来四个济贫院的男人，准备扛棺材。老太婆和那个男子破烂的衣衫外边披了一件旧的黑斗篷，光溜溜的白木棺材拧紧了，四个搬运夫扛上肩，往街上走去。

    “喂，老太太，您老可得走好。”苏尔伯雷凑近老妇人耳边低声说道，“我们已经晚了一点，叫牧师老等就不好了。走起来，伙计们――能走多快走多快。”

    搬运夫肩上本来就没什么分量，一听这话，便快步小跑，两个送葬的亲属尽力不落在后头。邦布尔先生和苏尔伯雷大步流星走在前边，奥立弗的两条腿比起老板的来可差远了，只得在旁边跑。

    然而，情况并不像苏尔伯雷先生预料的那样，他们大可不必如此匆忙。他们来到教堂墓园一个僻静的角落时，牧师还没有到场，那地方长满尊麻，教区居民的墓穴也修在那里。教区文书正坐在安葬器具室里烤火，他似乎认为一个钟头之内牧师是来不了的。于是他们便把棺材放在墓穴边上。天上飘起一阵冷冽的细雨。这幅景象引来了一群穿得破破烂烂的孩子，他们吵吵嚷嚷地在墓碑之间玩起捉迷藏来，忽而兴趣又变了，在棺材上边跳来跳去。两个亲属耐心地守候在一旁。苏尔伯雷先生和邦布尔与教区文书有私交，便和他坐在一起烤火看报。

    就这样过了一个多小时，忽见邦布尔先生、苏尔伯雷，还有那位文书，终于一起朝墓地奔过来，紧接着牧师出现了，一边走一边穿白色的祭服。邦布尔先生挥起手杖，赶跑了一两个小孩，以撑持场面。那位令人敬畏的绅士把葬礼尽力压缩了一番，不出四分钟就已宣讲完毕。他把祭服交给文书，便又走开了。

    “喂，毕尔，”苏尔伯雷对掘墓人说，“填上吧。”

    填墓倒不是什么难事，墓穴装得满满的，棺材最上面离地面只有几英尺。掘墓人把泥土铲进去，用脚随便跺了几下，扛起铁铲就走，后边跟着那群孩子，他们叽叽喳喳地抱怨着这游戏结束得也太快了。

    “吱吱，伙计，”邦布尔在那个鳏夫背上拍了拍，说道，“他们要关墓地了。”

    那男子自打来了以后就一直伫立在墓穴旁边，没有挪过地方，这时，他猛地一愣，抬起头，目不转睛地打量着和自己打招呼的这个人，朝前走了几步，便昏倒在地。那个疯疯癫癫的老太婆对失去斗篷深感痛惜（斗篷已由棺材店老板收回），无暇顾及到他。于是大家往他身上泼了一罐冷水。等他醒过来，送他平平安安走出教堂墓地，这才锁上大门，各自散去。

    “喂，奥立弗，”在回去的路上，苏尔伯雷老板问道，“你喜欢不喜欢这一行？”

    “还好，先生，谢谢你，”奥立弗颇为犹豫地回答，“并不特别喜欢，先生。”

    “啊，奥立弗，你早晚会习惯的。”苏尔伯雷说道，“只要你习惯了，就没事啦，孩子。”

    奥立弗满腹疑窦，不知道苏尔伯雷先生当初习惯这一套是不是也花了很长时间。不过，他想还是不去打听这个问题为妙。在回殡仪馆的路上，他一直在捉摸自己的所见所闻。

icy_zhu

so long it is!
come on,everybody~

icy_zhu

chapter 5
OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets. Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.

Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.

But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to soothe him in his sleep.

Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.

'Open the door, will yer?' cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the door.

'I will, directly, sir,' replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning the key.

'I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said the voice through the key-hole.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.

'How old are yer?' inquired the voice.

'Ten, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Then I'll whop yer when I get in,' said the voice; 'you just see if I don't, that's all, my work'us brat!' and having made this obliging promise, the voice began to whistle.

Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling hand, and opened the door.

For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then consumed with great dexterity.

'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length: seeing that no other visitor made his appearance; 'did you knock?'

'I kicked,' replied the charity-boy.

'Did you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver, innocently.

At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.

'Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?' said the charity-boy, in continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying gravity.

'No, sir,' rejoined Oliver.

'I'm Mister Noah Claypole,' said the charity-boy, 'and you're under me. Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!' With this, Mr. Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.

Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the assurance that 'he'd catch it,' condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared. Oliver having 'caught it,' in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.

'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte. 'I saved a nice little bit of bacon for you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover of the bread-pan. There's your tea; take it away to that box, and drink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop. D'ye hear?'

'D'ye hear, Work'us?' said Noah Claypole.

'Lor, Noah!' said Charlotte, 'what a rum creature you are! Why don't you let the boy alone?'

'Let him alone!' said Noah. 'Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!'

'Oh, you queer soul!' said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of 'leathers,' 'charity,' and the like; and Noah had bourne them without reply. But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.

Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry--the shop being shut up--were taking their supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential glances at his wife, said,

'My dear--' He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.

'Well,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.

'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Mr. Sowerberry.

'Ugh, you brute!' said Mrs. Sowerberry.

'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. 'I thought you didn't want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say--'

'Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say,' interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. 'I am nobody; don't consult me, pray. _I_ don't want to intrude upon your secrets.' As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.

'But, my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to ask your advice.'

'No, no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner: 'ask somebody else's.' Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously conceded.

'It's only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry. 'A very good-looking boy, that, my dear.'

'He need be, for he eats enough,' observed the lady.

'There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,' resumed Mr. Sowerberry, 'which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my love.'

Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for any observation on the good lady's part, proceeded.

'I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only for children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect.'

Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had not presented itself to her husband's mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of his services being required.

The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.

'Aha!' said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; 'an order for a coffin, eh?'

'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,' replied Mr. Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like himself, was very corpulent.

'Bayton,' said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. Bumble. 'I never heard the name before.'

Bumble shook his head, as he replied, 'Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'

'Proud, eh?' exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. 'Come, that's too much.'

'Oh, it's sickening,' replied the beadle. 'Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!'

'So it is,' asquiesced the undertaker.

'We only heard of the family the night before last,' said the beadle; 'and we shouldn't have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his 'prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.'

'Ah, there's promptness,' said the undertaker.

'Promptness, indeed!' replied the beadle. 'But what's the consequence; what's the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband sends back word that the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so she shan't take it--says she shan't take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before--sent 'em for nothing, with a blackin'-bottle in,--and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir!'

As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with indignation.

'Well,' said the undertaker, 'I ne--ver--did--'

'Never did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle. 'No, nor nobody never did; but now she's dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the sooner it's done, the better.'

Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.

'Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!' said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice.

He needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome.

'Well,' said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, 'the sooner this job is done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and come with me.' Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.

They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.

There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.

It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.

There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically, over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.

The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.

'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the undertaker approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if you've a life to lose!'

'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to misery in all its shapes. 'Nonsense!'

'I tell you,' said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on the floor,--'I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't rest there. The worms would worry her--not eat her--she is so worn away.'

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.

'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the feet of the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down --kneel round her, every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in the dark--in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They starved her!' He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering his lips.

The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.

'She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nodding her head in the direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. 'Lord, Lord! Well, it _is_ strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord!--to think of it; it's as good as a play--as good as a play!'

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the undertaker turned to go away.

'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper. 'Will she be buried to-morrow, or next day, or to-night? I laid her out; and I must walk, you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread--only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?' she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.

'Yes, yes,' said the undertaker,'of course. Anything you like!' He disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after him, hurried away.

The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.

'Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!' whispered Sowerberry in the old woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won't do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,--as quick as you like!'

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as his master's, ran by the side.

There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.

At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.

'Now, Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'

It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. 'They want to shut up the yard.'

The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.

'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, 'how do you like it?'

'Pretty well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, with considerable hesitation. 'Not very much, sir.'

'Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry. 'Nothing when you _are_ used to it, my boy.'

Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had seen and heard.

icy_zhu

here it is~I see it..
ok,now,the follows is chapter 5,let's go!
PS:chapter 5 is a long passage,I will take 3 days to read it,after 3 days,I will give you the translation~

icy_zhu

oh where is my passage?

icy_zhu

回复 35# icy_zhu

sorry for so long no see here~
now the rest translation of the bottom half of chapter 4:
邦布尔先生拖着奥立弗走了一程，教区干事直挺挺地昂着头往前走，对他总是不理不睬，因为邦布尔先生觉得当差的就应该是这副派头。这一天风很大，不时吹开邦布尔先生的大衣下摆，把奥立弗整个裹起来，同时露出上衣和浅褐色毛绒裤子，真的很风光。快到目的地了，邦布尔先生觉得有必要视察一下奥立弗，以便确保这孩子的模样经得起他未来的主人验收，便低下头，带着与一个大恩人的身份非常协调。相称的神气看了看。
    “奥立弗。”邦布尔说。
    “是，先生。”奥立弗哆哆嗦嗦地低声答道。
    “先生，把帽子戴高一些，别挡住眼睛，头抬起来。”
    奥立弗赶紧照办，一边还用空着的一只手的手背利落地抹了抹眼睛，可是当他抬起头来，看着自己的领路人时，眼里还是留下了一滴泪水。邦布尔先生狠狠地瞪了他一眼，这滴眼泪便顺着脸颊滚了下来，跟着又是一滴，又是一滴。这孩子拚命想忍住泪水，却怎么也止不住。他索性把手从邦布尔先生的袖口上缩回来，双手捂住面孔，泪珠从他纤细的指头缝里涌泻而出。
    “得了。”邦布尔先生嚷起来，又猛然停住脚步，向这个不争气的小家伙投过去一道极其恶毒的目光。“得了。奥立弗，在我见过的所有最忘恩负义、最心术不正的男孩当中，你要算最最――”
    “不，不，先生，”奥立弗哽咽着说，一边紧紧抓住干事的一只手，这只手里握着的就是他非常熟悉的藤杖、“不，不，先生，我会变好的，真的，真的，先生，我一定会变好的。我只是一个小不点儿，又那么――那么――”
    “那么个啥？”邦布尔先生诧异地问道。
    “那么孤独，先生。一个亲人也没有。”孩子哭叫着，“大家都不喜欢我。喔，先生，您别，别生我的气。”他拍打着自己的胸脯，抬眼看了看与自己同行的那个人，泪水里包含着发自内心的痛苦。
    邦布尔先生多少有些诧异，他盯着奥立弗那副可怜巴巴的模样看了几秒钟，嘶哑地咬了三四声，嘴里咕噜着什么“这讨厌的咳嗽”，随后吩咐奥立弗擦干眼泪，做一个听话的孩子。他又一次拉起奥立弗的手，默不作声地继续往前走去。
    殡仪馆老板刚关上铺子的门面，正在一盏昏暗得与本店业务十分相称的烛光下做账，邦布尔先生走了进来。
    “啊哈。”殡葬承办人从账本上抬起头来，一个字刚写了一半。“是你吗，邦布尔？”
    “不是别人，苏尔伯雷先生，”干事答道，“喏。我把孩子带来了。”奥立弗鞠了一躬。
    “喔。就是那个孩子，是吗？”殡仪馆老板说着，把蜡烛举过头顶，好把奥立弗看个仔细。“苏尔伯雷太太。你好不好上这儿来一下，我亲爱的？”
    苏尔伯雷太太从店堂后边一间小屋里出来了，这女人身材瘦小，干瘪得够可以的了，一脸狠毒泼辣的神色。
    “我亲爱的，”苏尔伯雷先生谦恭地说，“这就是我跟你说过的那个济贫院的孩子。”奥立弗又鞠了一躬。
    “天啦，”殡仪馆老板娘说道，“他可真小啊。”
    “唔，是小了一点。”邦布尔先生打量着奥立弗，好像是在责怪他怎么不长得高大些。“他是很小，这无可否认。可他还要长啊，苏尔伯雷太太――他会长的。”
    “啊。我敢说他肯定会长的。”太太没好气地说，“吃我们的，喝我们的，不长才怪呢。我就说领教区的孩子划不来，他们本来就值不了几个钱，还抵不上他们的花销。可男人家倒总觉得自己懂得多。好啦。小瘦鬼，下楼去吧。”老板娘嘴里念叨着，打开一道侧门，推着奥立弗走过一段陡直的楼梯，来到一间潮湿阴暗的石砌小屋。这间起名“厨房”的小屋连着后边的煤窖，里边坐着一个邋遢的女孩，脚上的鞋已经磨掉了后跟，蓝色的绒线袜子也烂得不成话了。
    “喂，夏洛蒂，”苏尔伯雷太太跟在奥立弗身后，走下楼来说道，“把留给特立普吃的冷饭给这小孩一点。他早上出去以后就没回来过，大概不用给他留了。我敢说这孩子不会这也不吃，那也不吃――小孩，你挑不挑嘴啊？”
    奥立弗一听有吃的，立刻两眼放光。他正馋得浑身哆嗦。他回答了一句不挑嘴，一碟粗糙不堪的食物放到了他的面前。
    要是有这样一位吃得脑满肠肥的哲学家，他吃下去的佳肴美酒在肚子里会化作胆汁，血凝成了冰，心像铁一样硬，我希望他能看看奥立弗是怎样抓起那一盘连狗都不肯闻一闻的美食，希望他能亲眼看一看饥不择食的奥立弗以怎样令人不寒而栗的食欲把食物撕碎，倒进肚子。我更希望看到的是，这位哲学家本人在吃同样的食物的时候也有同样的胃口。
    “喂，”老板娘看着奥立弗吃晚饭，嘴上不说，心里可吓坏了，想到他今后的胃口更是忧心忡忡。“吃完了没有？”
    奥立弗看看前后左右，可以吃的东西没有了，便作了肯定的回答。
    “那你，跟我来吧。”苏尔伯雷太太说着，举起一盏昏暗而又肮脏的油灯，领路朝楼上走去。“你的床铺就在柜台底下，我看，你该不会反对睡在棺材中间吧？不过你乐意不乐意都没关系，反正你不能上别的地方去睡。快点，我没功夫整个晚上都耗在这儿。”
    奥立弗不再犹豫，温顺地跟着新女主人走去。

icy_zhu

the bottom half continues:   (it is not so difficult to understand,I think)
For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.

'Oliver!' said Mr. Bumble.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.

'Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.'

Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and bony fingers.

'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little charge a look of intense malignity. 'Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the--'

'No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-known cane; 'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so--so--'

'So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

'So lonely, sir! So very lonely!' cried the child. 'Everybody hates me. Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!' The child beat his hand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky manner; and after muttering something about 'that troublesome cough,' bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his hand, he walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker, who had just putup the shutters of his shop, was making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in the middle of a word; 'is that you, Bumble?'

'No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the beadle. 'Here! I've brought the boy.' Oliver made a bow.

'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker: raising the candle above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?'

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.

'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from the workhouse that I told you of.' Oliver bowed again.

'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.'

'Why, he _is_ rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as if it were his fault that he was no bigger; 'he is small. There's no denying it. But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry--he'll grow.'

'Ah! I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our victuals and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones.' With this, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.

'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 'give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em--are you, boy?'

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.

'Well,' said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his future appetite: 'have you done?'

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the affirmative.

'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty lamp, and leading the way upstairs; 'your bed's under the counter. You don't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me here all night!'

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.

icy_zhu

the translation of the top half of chapter 4 is as follows:
举凡大户人家，遇到一个优越的位置，比方说财产、名分的拥有、复归、指定继承或者是预订继承，摊不到一个正在成长发育的子弟身上的时候，有一条非常普遍的习惯，就是打发他出海谋生。依照这一个贤明通达的惯例，理事会诸君凑到一起，商议能否把奥立弗交给一条小商船，送他去某个对健康极其有害的港口。这似乎成了处置他的最好的办法了。船长没准会在哪一天饭后闲暇之时，闹着玩似地用鞭子把他抽死，或者用铁棒把他的脑袋敲开花，这两种消遣早已远近驰名，在那个阶层的绅士中成了人人喜爱的娱乐，一点不稀罕。理事会越是琢磨这个事情，越是感到好处真是说不尽，所以他们得出结论，要把奥立弗供养成人，唯一有效的办法就是赶快送他出洋。

    邦布尔先生领了差事，在城里四处奔波，多方打听有没有哪一位船长或者别的什么人需要一个无亲无故的舱房小厮。这一天，他回到济贫院，准备报告这事的进展，刚走到大门口，迎面碰上了承办教区殡葬事务的苏尔伯雷先生。

    苏尔伯雷先生是个瘦高个，骨节大得出奇，一身黑色礼服早就磨得经纬毕露，下边配同样颜色的长统棉袜和鞋子，鞋袜上缀有补丁。他那副长相本来就不宜带有轻松愉快的笑意傅山（1607―1684）明清之际思想家。初名鼎臣，字青，不过，总的来说，他倒是有几分职业性的诙谐。他迎着邦布尔先生走上前来，步履十分轻快，亲眼地与他握手，眉间显露出内心的喜悦。

    “邦布尔先生，我已经给昨儿晚上去世的两位女士量好了尺寸。”殡葬承办人说道。

    “你要发财啦，苏尔伯雷先生，”教区干事一边说，一边把拇指和食指插进殡葬承办人递上来的鼻烟盒里，这鼻烟盒是一具精巧的棺材模型，做得十分别致。“我是说，你要发财啦，苏尔伯雷。”干事用手杖在对方肩上亲亲热热地敲了敲，又说了一遍。

    “你这样认为？”殡葬承办人的嗓音里带有一点似信非信，不尽了然的意思。“理事会开的价钱可太小啦，邦布尔先生。”

    “棺材不也是这样吗。”干事答话时面带微笑，这一丝微笑他掌握得恰到好处，以不失教区大员的身份为原则。

    苏尔伯雷被这句话逗乐了，他自然不必拘谨过头，便不歇气地打了一长串哈哈。“得，得，邦布尔先生，”他终于笑够了，“是这话呀，自打新的供给制实施以来，棺材比起以前来说，是越做越窄，越做越浅罗。话说回来，邦布尔先生，我们总还得有点赚头才行，干得呗吼叫的木料就是挺花钱的玩艺儿，铁把手呢，又全是经运河从伯明翰运来的。”

    “好啦，好啦，”邦布尔先生说，“哪一行都有哪一行的难处。当然赚得公平还是许可的。”

    “当然，当然。”殡葬承办人随声附和着，“假如我在这笔那笔买卖上没赚到钱的话，您是知道的，我迟早也会捞回来――嘿嘿嘿！”

    “一点不错。”邦布尔先生说，

    “可我也得说说，”殡葬承办人继续说道，又拣起刚才被教区干事打断的话题来，“可我也得说说，邦布尔先生，我现在面对的情况极其不利，就是说，胖子死得特别快，一进济贫院这道门，最先垮下去的就是家道好一点，常年纳税的人。我告诉你吧，邦布尔先生，只要比核算大出三四英寸，就会亏进去一大截，尤其是当一个人还得养家糊口的时候。”

    苏尔伯雷先生说话时愤愤不平，像是吃了大亏的的样子。邦布尔先生意识到，再说下去势必有损教区体面，得换个题目了。这位绅士立刻想起了奥立弗退斯特，便把话题转了过去。

    “顺便说一下，”邦布尔先生说道，“你知不知道有谁想找个小厮，啊？有一个教区见习生，眼目下跟一个沉甸甸的包袱似的，我应该说，是一盘石磨，吊在教区脖子上，对不对？报酬很可观，苏尔伯雷先生，很可观呢。”邦布尔扬起手杖，指指大门上边的告示，特意在用巨型罗马大写字母印刷的“五英镑”字样上咚咚咚敲了三下。

    “乖乖。”殡葬承办人说着，一把拉住邦布尔制服上的金边翻领，“我正想和您谈谈这档子事呢。您是知道的――喔，哟哟，这扣子好漂亮，邦布尔先生。我一直没注意到。”

    “是啊，我也觉得挺漂亮，”教区干事自豪地低头看了一眼镶嵌在外套上的硕大的铜纽扣，说道，“这图案跟教区图章上的一模一样――好心的撒玛利亚人在医治那个身受重伤的病人①。苏尔伯雷先生，这是理事会元旦早晨送给我的礼物。我记得，我头一回穿上身是去参加验尸，就是那个破了产的零售商，半夜里死在别人家门口的。”——

    ①《新约圣经路加福音》第十章：“只有一个撒玛利亚人，行路来到那里，看见他就动了慈心，上前用油和酒倒在他的伤处，包裹好了。”现用来指乐善好施的人。

    “我想起来了，”殡葬承办人说，“陪审团报告说，是死于感冒以及缺乏一般生活用品，对不？”

    邦布尔点了点头。

    “他们好像把这事作为一个专案，”殡葬承办人说，“后边还加了几句话，说是倘若承办救济的有关方面当时――”

    “胡扯。瞎说。”教区干事忍不住了，“要是理事会光去听那班什么都不懂的陪审团胡说八道，他们可就有事情干了。”

    “千真万确，”殡葬承办人说，“可不是。”

    “陪审团，”邦布尔紧握手杖说道，这是他发起火来的习惯，“陪审团一个个都是些卑鄙下流的家伙，没有教养。”

    “就是，就是。”殡葬承办人说。

    “不管是哲学还是政治经济学，他们也就懂那么一点，”邦布尔轻蔑地打了一个响指，说道，“就那么点。”

    “确实如此。”殡葬承办人表示同意。

    “我才看不起他们呢。”教区干事一张脸涨得通红。

    “我也一样。”殡葬承办人附和道。

    “我只希望能找个自以为是的陪审团，上济贫院呆上一两个礼拜，”教区干事说，“理事会的规章条款很快就会把他们那股子傲气给杀下去。”

    “随他们的便吧。”殡葬承办人回答时深表赞许地微笑起来，想平熄一下这位满腔激愤的教区公务员刚刚腾起的怒火。

    邦布尔抬起三角帽，从帽顶里取出一张手巾，抹掉额头上团刚才一阵激怒沁出的汗水，又重新把帽子戴端正，向殡葬承办人转过身去，用比较平和的语气说：

    “喂，这孩子如何？”

    “噢。”殡葬承办人答道，“哎，邦布尔先生，你也知道，我替穷人缴了好大一笔税呢。”

    “嗯。”邦布尔先生鼻子里发出了响声，“怎么？”

    “哦，”殡葬承办人回答，“我想，既然我掏了那么多钞票给他们，我当然有权利凭我的本事照数收回来，邦布尔先生，这个――这个――我想自个儿要这个孩子。”

    邦布尔一把拉住殡葬承办人的胳膊，领着他走进楼里。苏尔伯雷与理事们关起门来谈了五分钟，商定当天傍晚就让他带奥立弗到棺材铺去“见习”――这个词用在教区学徒身上的意思是，经过短期试用之后，只要雇主觉得能叫徒弟干很多活，而伙食方面也还合算的话，就可以留用若干年，高兴叫他干什么就叫他干什么。

    傍晚，小奥立弗被带到了“绅士们”面前，他得知当天夜里自己就要作为一个普通的济贫院学童到一家棺材铺去了。倘若他去了以后诉苦抱怨，或者去而复返，就打发他出海去，不管到时候他是淹死还是被打烂了脑袋瓜，这种情况是完全可能的。听了这些话，奥立弗几乎毫无反应。于是，他们众口一辞地宣告他是一个无可救药的小坏蛋，命令邦布尔先生立即把他带走。

    说起来，世间一应人等当中，如果有谁流露出一丝一毫缺少感情的迹象，理事会理所当然会处于一种满腔义愤、震惊不已的状况，然而，这一回他们却有些误会了。事情很简单，奥立弗的感受并非太少，而应当说太多了，大有可能被落到头上的虐待弄得一辈子傻里傻气，心灰意懒。他无动于衷地听完这一条有关他的去向的消息，接过塞到他手里的行李――拿在手里实在费不了多大劲，因为他的行李也就是一个牛皮纸包，半英尺见方，三英寸厚――把帽檐往下拉了拉，又一次紧紧拉住邦布尔先生的外套袖口，由这位大人物领着去了一处新的受难场所。

xiaomeixin

回复 32# icy_zhu


    I just have interested it reading novels.

icy_zhu

回复 31# xiaomeixin


    ok,it stands that your read speed is fast~~
we should learn from you!

xiaomeixin

回复 30# icy_zhu


    I read it everyday now.

icy_zhu

回复 27# xiaomeixin


   dear meixin，I invite you to join us to read it,will you?

icy_zhu

Chapter 4

OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC LIFE
In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate, no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.
Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.
'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. Bumble,' said the undertaker.
'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. 'I say you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half disputed the probability of the event. 'The prices allowed by the board are very small, Mr. Bumble.'
'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as near an approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be; and laughed a long time without cessation. 'Well, well, Mr. Bumble,' he said at length, 'there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.'
'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. A fair profit is, of course, allowable.'
'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't get a profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long-run, you see--he! he! he!'
'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.
'Though I must say,' continued the undertaker, resuming the current of observations which the beadle had interrupted: 'though I must say, Mr. Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.'
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him his theme.
'By the bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?' As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words 'five pounds': which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lappel of his official coat; 'that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you about. You know--dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.'
'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. 'The die is the same as the porochial seal--the Good Samaritan healing the sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight.'
'I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought it in, "Died from exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life," didn't they?'
Mr. Bumble nodded.
'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the undertaker, 'by adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had--'
'Tush! Foolery!' interposed the beadle. 'If the board attended to all the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.'
'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'
'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when working into a passion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling wretches.'
'So they are,' said the undertaker.
'They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than that,' said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.
'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.
'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for a week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and regulations of the board would soon bring their spirit down for 'em.'
'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, said in a calmer voice:
'Well; what about the boy?'
'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal towards the poor's rates.'
'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble. 'Well?'
'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so much towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; and so--I think I'll take the boy myself.'
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes; and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening 'upon liking'--a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage put into his hand--which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep--he pulled his cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.

icy_zhu

chapter 4
go on reading,~~
但看情况来将，内容似乎不能太多了，不然消化不良。。。
但是呢，我仍然希望，大家加油。。。