“Yes, Oliver,” said Mr. Bumble. “The kind and blessed gentleman which is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are a going to ’prentice you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!⁠—three pound ten, Oliver!⁠—seventy shillins⁠—one hundred and forty sixpences!⁠—and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can’t love.”

As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child’s face, and he sobbed bitterly.

“Come,” said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; “Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don’t cry into your gruel; that’s a very foolish action, Oliver.” It certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.