Oliver was awakened in the morning by a loud kicking at the outside of his door. "Here, you sir!" said a voice through the keyhole, "you're a-going to be locked up again, as sure as you're born." Oliver got up, and made his toilet as well as he could, and unlocked the door. He was taken downstairs into the stone hall, where breakfast was already placed on the table. The fare was not tempting. Oliver looked piteously at the lumps of bread and morsel of bacon, but said nothing.

Mr. Bumble, the parish beadle, stood near the door, with a cocked hat on his head, and a gold-laced coat. He was a fat man, and a choleric; and his face was red with the exertion of getting upstairs. When Oliver appeared, Mr. Bumble raised his head, and said, in a pompous voice: "Well! Of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest."

Oliver made no reply, but looked timidly up into the gentleman's face, and then upon the ground. He was frightened at Mr. Bumble's angry appearance, and trembled violently. The parish beadle surveyed the little rebel from head to foot, with great satisfaction, and bestowed upon Oliver a tap with his cane upon the head.