"And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards increased to twenty pound; notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may say, supernat’ral exertions on the part of this parish," said Bumble, "we have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his mother’s settlement, name, or con-dition." Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment’s reflection, "How comes he to have any name at all, then?" The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "I inwented it." "You, Mr. Bumble!" "I, Mrs. Mann. We name our foundlings in alphabetical order. The last was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist I named _him_. The next one as comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to Z." "Why, you’re quite a literary character, sir!" said Mrs. Mann. "Well, well," said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment; "perhaps I may be. But the boy Oliver being now too old to remain here, the Board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once." "I’ll fetch him directly," said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that purpose. And so Oliver, having had as much of the outer coat of dirt which encrusted his face and hands removed as could be scrubbed off in one washing, was presently led into the room. "Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver," said Mrs. Mann. Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair and the cocked hat on the table. "Will you go along with me, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic voice. Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great readiness, when, glancing upwards, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had got behind the beadle’s chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his memory. "Will _she_ go with me?" he inquired. "No, she can’t," replied Mr. Bumble, "but she’ll come and see you sometimes." This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was, however, he had sense enough to pretend great regret at going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call the tears into his eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a thousand embraces, and, what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little brown-cloth parish cap on his head, the boy was then led away by Mr. Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never lighted the gloom of his infant years.