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something to drink； as he passed the bar； entered the apartment
into which he had looked from the street。
The man who was seated there； was tall and dark； and wore a
large cloak。 He had the air of a stranger； and seemed； by a certain
haggardness in his look； as well as by the dusty soils on his dress；
to have travelled some distance。 He eyed Bumble askance； as he
entered； but scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgement
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of his salutation。
Mr。 Bumble had quite dignity enough for two； supposing even
that the stranger had been more familiar； so he drank his gin…andwater in silence； and read the paper with great show of pomp and
circumstance。
It so happened； however； as it will happen very often； when
men fall into company under such circumstances； that Mr。
Bumble felt； every now and then； a powerful inducement； which
he could not resist； to steal a look at the stranger； and that
whenever he did so； he withdrew his eyes； in some confusion； to
find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at him。
Mr。 Bumble’s awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable
expression of the stranger’s eye； which was keen and bright； but
shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion； unlike anything he
had ever observed before； and repulsive to behold。
When they had encountered each other’s glance several times
in this way； the stranger； in a harsh； deep voice； broke silence。
“Were you looking for me；” he said； “when you peered in at the
window？”
“Not that I am aware of； unless you’re Mr。—” Here Mr。 Bumble
stopped short； for he was curious to know the Like washable
beaver hats that improve with rain； his nerves were rendered
stouter and more vigorous； by showers of tears； which； being
tokens of weakness； and so far tacit admissions of his own power；
pleased and exalted him。 He eyed his good lady with looks of great
satisfaction； and begged； in an encouraging manner； that she
should cry her hardest； the exercise being looked upon； by the
faculty； as strongly conducive to health。
“It opens the lungs； washes the countenance； exercises the
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eyes； and softens down the temper；” said Mr。 Bumble。 “So cry
away。”
As he discharged himself of his pleasantry； Mr。 Bumble took his
hat from a peg； and putting it on； rather rakishly on one side； as a
man might； who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming
manner； thrust his hands into his pockets； and sauntered towards
the door； with much ease and waggishness depicted in his whole
appearance。
Now； Mrs。 Corney that was； had tried the tears； because
stranger’s name； and thought in his impatience； he might supply
the blank。
“I see you were not；” said the stranger； an expression of
sarcasm playing about his mouth； “or you would have known my
name。 You don’t know it。 I would recommend you not to ask for
it。”
“I mean no harm； young man；” observed Mr。 Bumble
majestically。
“And have done none；” said the stranger。
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue； which was again
broken by the stranger。
“I have seen you before； I think？” said he。 “You were differently
dressed at that time； and I only passed you in the street； but I
should know you again。 You were beadle here once； were you
not？”
“I was；” said Mr。 Bumble； in some surprise； “porochial beadle。”
“Just so；” rejoined the other； nodding his head。 “It was in that
character I saw you。 What are you now？”
“Master of the workhouse；” rejoined Mr。 Bumble； slowly and
impressively； to check any undue familiarity the stranger might
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otherwise assume。 “Master of the workhouse； young man！”
“You have the same eye to your own interest； that you always
had； I doubt not？” resumed the stranger； looking keenly into Mr。
Bumble’s eyes； as he raised them in astonishment at the question。
“Don’t scruple to answer freely； man。 I know you pretty well； you
see。”
“I suppose； a married man；” replied Mr。 Bumble； shading his
eyes with his hand； and surveying the stranger； from head to foot；
in evident perplexity； “is not more averse to turning an honest
penny when he can； than a single one。 Porochial officers are not so
well paid that they can afford to refuse any little extra fee； when it
comes to them in a civil and proper manner。”
The stranger smiled； and nodded his head again； as much as to
say； he had not mistaken his man； then rang the “Fill this glass
again；” he said； handing Mr。 Bumble’s empty tumbler to the
landlord。 “Let it be strong and hot。 You like it so； I suppose？” a
Not too strong；” replied Mr。 Bumble； with a delicate cough。
“You understand what that means； landlord！” said the stranger
dryly。
The host smiled； disappeared； and shortly afterwards returned
with a steaming jorum； of which； the first gulp brought the water
into Mr。 Bumble’s eyes。
“Now listen to me；” said the stranger； after closing the door and
window。 “I came down to this place； today； to find you out； and； by
one of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his
friends sometimes； you walked into the very room I was sitting in；
while you were uppermost in my mind。 I want some information
from you。 I don’t ask you to give it for nothing； slight as it is。 Put
up that； to begin with。”
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As he spoke； he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table；
to his companion； carefully； as though unwilling that the clinking
of money should be heard without。 When Mr。 Bumble had
scrupulously examined the coins； to see that they were genuine；
and had put them up； with much satisfaction in his waistcoat
pocket； he went on：
“Carry your memory back—let me see—twelve years； last
winter。”
“It’s a long time；” said Mr。 Bumble。 “Very good。 I’ve done it。”
“The scene； the workhouse。”
“Good！”
“And the time； night。”
“Yes。”
“And the place； the crazy hole； wherever it was； in which
miserable drabs brought forth the life and health so often denied
to themselves—gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear；
and hid their shame； rot ’em； in the grave！”
“The lying…in room； I suppose？” said Mr。 Bumble； not quite
following the stranger’s excited description。
“Yes；” said the stranger。 “A boy was born there。”
“A many boys；” observed Mr。 Bumble； shaking his head
despondingly。
“A murrain on the young devils！” cried the stranger； “I speak of
one； a meek…looking； pale…faced boy； who was apprenticed down
here to a coffin…maker—I wish he had made his coffin； and
screwed his body in it—and who afterwards ran away to London；
as it was supposed。”
“Why； you mean Oliver！ Young Twist！” said Mr。 Bumble； “I
remember him； of course。 There wasn’t an obstinater young
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rascal—”
“It’s not of him I want to hear； I’ve heard enough of him；” said
the stranger； stopping Mr。 Bumble in the very outset of a tirade on
the subject of poor Oliver’s vices。 “It’s of a woman； the hag that
nursed his mother。 Where is she？”
“Where is she？” said Mr。 Bumble； whom the gin…and…water had
rendered facetious。 “It would be hard to tell。 There’s no midwifery
there； whichever place she’s gone to； so I suppose she’s out of
employment； anyway。”
“What do you mean？” demanded the stranger sternly。
“That she died last winter；” rejoined Mr。 Bumble。
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this
information； and although he did not withdraw his eyes for some
time afterwards； his gaze gradually became vacant and abstracted；
and he seemed lost in thought。 For some time； he appeared
doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or disappointed by the
intelligence； but at length he breathed more freely； and
withdrawing his eyes； observed that it was no great matter。 With
that he rose； as