2 More means less

Chapter 2 More means less By the time Oliver was seven he was sleeping in a dormitory with fifty other starving boys. "I'm so hungry I could eat the boy in the next bed!" complained a tall, strong boy with wild, angry eyes.

The boy in the next bed gulped. "We must have more food," he agreed, hastily. "Let's draw straws to decide who's going to ask Mr. Bumble." Oliver's heart was thumping as he reached out to draw his straw. He pulled it close. "Oh no!" he cried. "It's me." Supper, as usual, was gruel- a kind of thin watery porridge with a few lumps of gristle floating in it. The boys lined up in front of Mr. Bumble who stood at one end of the dining room, a huge apron tied around his fat belly, ladling a small spoonful into each boy's bowl. They returned to their tables to eat their food, packed on benches as tight as sardines, though not so plump. Their bowls never needed washing.

They were licked clean in seconds until they shone like polished china. The boys sitting near Oliver kicked him under the table. "Go on, Oliver." "Ask NOW." Shivering with fear, Oliver walked the length of the room. He clutched his bowl so tightly his knuckles gleamed white.

A terrible silence descended, pierced by Oliver's slow echoing footsteps on the stone floor. He passed table after table of boys, their spoons laid down, their empty bowls in front of them. Each round-eyed boy stared at him expectantly as he went by. Oliver guessed what they were thinking- I'm glad it's him, not me. At last he reached Mr. Bumble, who looked down his nose at Oliver, as though he were an insect he wanted to squash. Oliver forced himself to speak. "Please sir, I want some more," he whispered "WHAT?" shouted Mr. Bumble. "Please sir, I want some more."

Mr. Bumble swelled like an evil giant. His eyes bulged with fury and his face went purple. "More? How DARE you! Wicked boy!" He seized Oliver, hit him with the gruel ladle and threw him into the coal cellar, locking the door. "Your punishment starts here," he bellowed. Oliver heard him stump up the steps, muttering as he went. "No one's ever asked for more before. Mark my words, he'll be a criminal when he grows up. That boy will hang!"

In the dark, sooty cellar, cobwebs stroked Oliver's face like creepy fingers, and rats scratched the walls. He crouched in a corner, pressing himself close to the wall. Its hard, cold surface felt almost protective in the lonely gloom. He stayed awake all night, dreading what would happen to him next.