‘I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from the nurse, who stole them from the corpse,’ answered Monks without raising his eyes. ‘You know what became of them.’
Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her unwilling consort after him.
‘Do my hi’s deceive me!’ cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm, ‘or is that little Oliver? Oh O-li-ver, if you know’d how I’ve been a-grieving for you—’
‘Hold your tongue, fool,’ murmured Mrs. Bumble.
‘Isn’t natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?’ remonstrated the workhouse master. ‘Can’t I be supposed to feel—I as brought him up porochially—when I see him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest description! I always loved that boy as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather,’ said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. ‘Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated handles, Oliver.’
‘Come, sir,’ said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; ‘suppress your feelings.’
‘I will do my endeavours, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble. ‘How do you do, sir? I hope you are very well.’
This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to Monks,
‘Do you know that person?’
‘No,’ replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.