"Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly. "Come, I'll split the difference, gen'lmen," urged Gamfield. "Three pound fifteen." "Not a farthing more," was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins. "You're desp'rate hard upon me, gen'lmen," said Gamfield, wavering. "Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentlemen in the white waistcoat. "He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's just the boy for you. He wants the stick now and then; it'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!" Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain was made, and Mr. Bumble was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate for signature and approval, that very afternoon. In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him with his own hands, a basin of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread; at sight of which Oliver began to cry very piteously, thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in this way. "Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food, and be thankful," said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a-going to be made a 'prentice of, Oliver." "A 'prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling. "Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentlemen 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 expence to the parish is three pound ten!--three pound ten, Oliver!--seventy shillin's!--one hundred and forty sixpences!--and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can 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.