fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try him, do;
only this one.'

'What a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarked Mr. Claypole, after he
had swallowed it. 'What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make
you feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?'

'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.

'So it is,' acquiesced Mr. Claypole. 'An't yer fond of oysters?'

'Not overmuch,' replied Charlotte. 'I like to see you eat 'em, Noah
dear, better than eating 'em myself.'

'Lor!' said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!'

'Have another,' said Charlotte. 'Here's one with such a beautiful,
delicate beard!'

'I can't manage any more,' said Noah. 'I'm very sorry. Come here,
Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer.'

'What!' said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. 'Say that again, sir.'

Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr.
Claypole, without making any further change in his position than
suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken
terror.

'Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!' said Mr. Bumble. 'How dare
you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you
insolent minx? Kiss her!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation.
'Faugh!'

'I didn't mean to do it!' said Noah, blubbering. 'She's always
a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.'

'Oh, Noah,' cried Charlotte, reproachfully.

'Yer are; yer know yer are!' retorted Noah. 'She's always a-doin' of
it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and
makes all manner of love!'

'Silence!' cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. 'Take yourself downstairs,
ma'am. Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master
comes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that
Mr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast
to-morrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!' cried Mr. Bumble,
holding up his hands. 'The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in
this porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don't take their
abominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the
character of the peasantry gone for ever!' With these words, the
beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's
premises.

And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have
made all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set
on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether
he b