your own: are a going to 'prentice you: and to set you up in
life, and make a man of you: although the expense to the parish
is three pound ten!--three pound ten, Oliver!--seventy
shillins--one hundred and forty sixpences!--and all for a naughty
orphan which noboday can't love.'
As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this
address in an awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's
'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was