"Very happy, sir," replied Oliver, and very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to me."
"Good boy," said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin?—any slops, eh?"
"He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong emphasis on the last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there existed no affinity or connexion whatsoever.
"Ugh!" said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; "a couple of glasses of port wine would have done him a great deal more good,—wouldn't they, Tom White,—eh?"
"My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid with a look of great astonishment.
"Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White,—eh?"
"No, sir, Twist,—Oliver Twist."
"Queer name," said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate your name was White?"
