“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.
“You want for nothing, I’m sure.”
“I should like—” faltered the child.
“Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that you do want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—”
“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?”
“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.”
“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?”
“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.”
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, “They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them all!”
“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands, and looking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a hardened little wretch!”