Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned, and, telling him it was a board night, informed him that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith. Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was, Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head with his cane to wake him up, and another on the back to make him lively, and bidding him follow, conducted him into a large whitewashed room where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table, at the top of which, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face. “Bow to the board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table, fortunately bowed to that. “What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair. Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him tremble; and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry; and these two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool, which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite at his ease. “Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know you’re an orphan, I suppose?” “What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver. “The boy _is_ a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, in a very decided tone. If one member of a class be blessed with an intuitive perception of others of the same race, the gentleman in the white waistcoat was unquestionably well qualified to pronounce an opinion on the matter. “Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got no father or mother, and that you are brought up by the parish, don’t you?” “Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly. “What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What _could_ the boy be crying for? “I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a gruff voice, “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of you, like a Christian.” “Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was unconsciously right. It would have been _very_ like a Christian, and a marvellously good Christian, too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn’t, because nobody had taught him. “Well, you have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,” said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.