Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards from thenceforth on that account.

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I suppose he’s fond of chimney-sweeping?”

“He doats on it, your worship,” replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.

“And he will be a sweep, will he?” inquired the old gentleman.

“If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he’d run away simultaneous, your worship,” replied Bumble.

“And this man that’s to be his master⁠—you, sir⁠—you’ll treat him well, and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?” said the old gentleman.