"When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly. "You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted man," said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villanous countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half blind, and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other people did. "I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield with an ugly leer. "I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman, fixing his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the inkstand. It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the inkstand had been where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen into it and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it followed as a matter of course that he looked all over his desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his search to look straight before him, his encountered the pale and terrified face of Oliver Twist, who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the very repulsive countenance of his future master with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken even by a half-blind magistrate. The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned aspect. "My boy," said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver started at the sound,--he might be excused for doing so, for the words were kindly said, and strange sounds frighten one. He trembled violently, and burst into tears. "My boy," said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the matter?" "Stand a little away from him, beadle," said the other magistrate, laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of some interest. "Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid." Oliver fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands together, prayed that they would order him back to the dark room,--that they would starve him--beat him--kill him if they pleased--rather than send him away, with that dreadful man. "Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive solemnity,--"Well! of _all_ the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest." "Hold your tongue, beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective. "I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of his having heard aright,--"did your worship speak to me?" "Yes--hold your tongue." Mr. Bumble was stupified with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his tongue! A moral revolution. The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his companion: he nodded significantly.