"That boy will be hung," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat; "I know that boy will be hung."
Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the perish: in other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
"I never was more convinced of anything in my life," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning,—"I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung."
As I propose to show in the sequel whether the white-waistcoated gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative, (supposing it to possess any at all,) if I ventured to hint just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist will be a long or a short piece of biography.
RICHIE BARTER;
THE MAN WHO SHOULD, BUT DID NOT.
Yes! the good Sir Toby Plum died; and the very statues in the Stock Exchange were moved,—the very pillars of that sanctuary particularly distinguished themselves by their violent agitation,—the old Lady in Threadneedle Street refused to be comforted,—and the universal brow of 'Change Alley was clouded with the profoundest grief. The dumb animals of that region—the bears and bulls—prowled about in savage woe, and "looked unutterable things," on the day that the remains of Sir Toby Plum were gathered to his fathers. He had a running personal account of seventy years and upwards with old Dame Nature, which is now paid;—(the only one, it was maliciously said, he ever paid;)—and he dies possessed—not he, but others — of —— thousands, (we leave a blank for the number, to be hereafter filled up,) or, what is quite as good, the name of them.
"What's in a name?" Ask that beautiful inconsolable creature, his widow, who, at the age of twenty-three, finds she is once more mistress of herself, and of her dear Sir Toby's worldly possessions besides. As these were supposed to be infinite, can it be imagined that we will attempt to set down in round numbers what is inconceivable, and, consequently, without a name? But see:—there is a staid, solemn, business-looking personage, just stept out of her boudoir,—Peter Smyrk, the man of business, a kind of lurcher to the late Sir Toby. She is at present too inconsolable to receive him. Perhaps he might inform you—you perceive by his impatience and disappointment he is most anxious to do so. She, poor creature! could not be supposed interested in such details, who was only a few days ago on the very brink of the grave—(for she accompanied the remains of the good Sir Toby to the churchyard).
It was about a fortnight after the death of good Sir Toby that his disconsolate widow felt reconciled to her mourning and "the novelty of her situation." Absorbed in thoughts about her own sweet person, and busy with reflections—such as her mirror gave,—the important Peter Smyrk was announced. The sweetest voice in the city welcomed Peter Smyrk.