Oliver Twist

CHAPTER I.

TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE

CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons

it will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will

assign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns,

great or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on

a day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as

it can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of

the business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is

prefixed to the head of this chapter.

For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and

trouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable

doubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which

case it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never

have appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of

pages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the

most concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the

literature of any age or country.

Although I am not disposed to maintain that being born in a workhouse,

is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can

possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular

instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by

possibility have occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable

difficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of

respiration,—a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered

necessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on

a little flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world

and the next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter.

Now, if, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by

careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors

of profound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have

been killed in no time. There being nobody by, however, but a pauper

old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of

beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver

and Nature fought out the point between them. The result was, that,

after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to

advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden

having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as

could reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been

possessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer

space of time than three minutes and a quarter.

As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his

lungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron

bedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly

from the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words,

“Let me see the child, and die.”

The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire:

giving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the

young woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed’s head, said, with

more kindness than might have been expected of him:

“Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.”

“Lor bless her dear heart, no!” interposed the nurse, hastily

depositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which

she had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.

“Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir,

and had thirteen children of her own, and all on ’em dead except two,

and them in the wurkus with me, she’ll know better than to take on in

that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is to be a mother,

there’s a dear young lamb, do.”

Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother’s prospects failed

in producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched

out her hand towards the child.

The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips

passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed

wildly round; shuddered; fell back—and died. They chafed her breast,

hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever. They talked of

hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.

“It’s all over, Mrs. Thingummy!” said the surgeon at last.

“Ah, poor dear, so it is!” said the nurse, picking up the cork of the

green bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to

take up the child. “Poor dear!”

“You needn’t mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,” said

the surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. “It’s very

likely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.” He

put on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door,

added, “She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?”

“She was brought here last night,” replied the old woman, “by the

overseer’s order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked

some distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came

from, or where she was going to, nobody knows.”

The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. “The old

story,” he said, shaking his head: “no wedding-ring, I see. Ah!

Good-night!”

The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once

more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair

before the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.

What an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist

was! Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only

covering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it

would have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him

his proper station in society. But now that he was enveloped in the old

calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was badged

and ticketed, and fell into his place at once—a parish child—the orphan

of a workhouse—the humble, half-starved drudge—to be cuffed and

buffeted through the world—despised by all, and pitied by none.

Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan,

left to the tender mercies of churchwardens and overseers, perhaps he

would have cried the louder.

CHAPTER II.

TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST’S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic

course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The

hungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported

by the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish

authorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether

there was no female then domiciled in “the house” who was in a

situation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of

which he stood in need. The workhouse authorities replied with

humility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities

magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be “farmed,”

or, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse

some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders

against the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the

inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental

superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and

for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week.

Sevenpence-halfpenny’s worth per week is a good round diet for a child;

a great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to

overload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was

a woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children;

and she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself.

So, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own

use, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter

allowance than was originally provided for them. Thereby finding in the

lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great

experimental philosopher.

Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a

great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who

demonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw

a day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and

rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died,

four-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable

bait of air. Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the

female to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a

similar result usually attended the operation of _her_ system; for at

the very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest

possible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen

in eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want

and cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by

accident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was

usually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers

it had never known in this.

Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest

upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead,

or inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a

washing—though the latter accident was very scarce, anything

approaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm—the jury

would take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the

parishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a

remonstrance. But these impertinences were speedily checked by the

evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of

whom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was

very probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever

the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, the board

made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the

day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and clean to

behold, when _they_ went; and what more would the people have!

It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any

very extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist’s ninth birthday

found him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and

decidedly small in circumference. But nature or inheritance had

implanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver’s breast. It had had plenty of

room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and

perhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth

birth-day at all. Be this as it may, however, it _was_ his ninth

birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party

of two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a

sound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be

hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly

startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo

the wicket of the garden-gate.

“Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?” said Mrs. Mann,

thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy.

“(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash ’em

directly.)—My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you,

sure-ly!”

Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of

responding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave

the little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick

which could have emanated from no leg but a beadle’s.

“Lor, only think,” said Mrs. Mann, running out,—for the three boys had

been removed by this time,—“only think of that! That I should have

forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them

dear children! Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.”

Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have

softened the heart of a churchwarden, it by no means mollified the

beadle.

“Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,” inquired

Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane, “to keep the parish officers a waiting

at your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with

the porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may

say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?”

“I’m sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear

children as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,” replied Mrs.

Mann with great humility.

Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his

importance. He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He

relaxed.

“Well, well, Mrs. Mann,” he replied in a calmer tone; “it may be as you

say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and

have something to say.”

Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor;

placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and

cane on the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the

perspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the

cocked hat, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr.

Bumble smiled.

“Now don’t you be offended at what I’m a going to say,” observed Mrs.

Mann, with captivating sweetness. “You’ve had a long walk, you know, or

I wouldn’t mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of somethink,

Mr. Bumble?”

“Not a drop. Nor a drop,” said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a

dignified, but placid manner.

“I think you will,” said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the

refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. “Just a leetle drop,

with a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.”

Mr. Bumble coughed.

“Now, just a leetle drop,” said Mrs. Mann persuasively.

“What is it?” inquired the beadle.

“Why, it’s what I’m obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put

into the blessed infants’ Daffy, when they ain’t well, Mr. Bumble,”

replied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a

bottle and glass. “It’s gin. I’ll not deceive you, Mr. B. It’s gin.”

“Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?” inquired Bumble, following

with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.

“Ah, bless ’em, that I do, dear as it is,” replied the nurse. “I

couldn’t see ’em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.”

“No”; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; “no, you could not. You are a humane

woman, Mrs. Mann.” (Here she set down the glass.) “I shall take a early

opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.” (He drew it

towards him.) “You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.” (He stirred the

gin-and-water.) “I—I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann”;

and he swallowed half of it.

“And now about business,” said the beadle, taking out a leathern

pocket-book. “The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine

year old today.”

“Bless him!” interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the

corner of her apron.

“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 condition.”

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 fondlings in alphabetical order. The last

was a S,—Swubble, I named him. This was a T,—Twist, I named _him_. The

next one 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. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.” He finished the

gin-and-water, and added, “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. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of

dirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed

off in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent

protectress.

“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 upward, 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

recollection.

“Will _she_ go with me?” inquired poor Oliver.

“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 make a feint of feeling great regret at

going away. It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call 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, Oliver 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. And yet he burst into an agony

of childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after him. Wretched as

were the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were

the only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in

the great wide world, sank into the child’s heart for the first time.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping

his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every

quarter of a mile whether they were “nearly there.” To these

interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for

the temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had

by this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an

hour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of

bread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old

woman, returned; and, telling him it was a board night, informed him

that the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith.

Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was,

Oliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite

certain whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about

the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head, with

his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him lively:

and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large whitewashed

room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round a table. At

the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher than the

rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red face.

“Bow to the board,” said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears

that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the table,

fortunately bowed to that.

“What’s your name, boy?” said the gentleman in the high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him

tremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him

cry. These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating

voice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool.

Which was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite

at his ease.

“Boy,” said the gentleman in the high chair, “listen to me. You know

you’re an orphan, I suppose?”

“What’s that, sir?” inquired poor Oliver.

“The boy _is_ a fool—I thought he was,” said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat.

“Hush!” said the gentleman who had spoken first. “You know you’ve got

no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don’t

you?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

“What are you crying for?” inquired the gentleman in the white

waistcoat. And to be sure it was very extraordinary. What _could_ the

boy be crying for?

“I hope you say your prayers every night,” said another gentleman in a

gruff voice; “and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of

you—like a Christian.”

“Yes, sir,” stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was

unconsciously right. It would have been _very_ like a Christian, and a

marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people

who fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn’t, because nobody had

taught him.

“Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,”

said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

“So you’ll begin to pick oakum tomorrow morning at six o’clock,” added

the surly one in the white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process

of picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and

was then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he

sobbed himself to sleep. What a novel illustration of the tender laws

of England! They let the paupers go to sleep!

Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy

unconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day

arrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence

over all his future fortunes. But they had. And this was it:

The members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and

when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out

at once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered—the poor

people liked it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the

poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public

breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and

mortar elysium, where it was all play and no work. “Oho!” said the

board, looking very knowing; “we are the fellows to set this to rights;

we’ll stop it all, in no time.” So, they established the rule, that all

poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody,

not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a

quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the

water-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a

corn-factory to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and

issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and

half a roll of Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane

regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary

to repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in

consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors’ Commons; and,

instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had

theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a

bachelor! There is no saying how many applicants for relief, under

these last two heads, might have started up in all classes of society,

if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were

long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was

inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened

people.

For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was

in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of

the increase in the undertaker’s bill, and the necessity of taking in

the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their

wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two’s gruel. But the number of

workhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were

in ecstasies.

The room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a

copper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the

purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at

mealtimes. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and

no more—except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two

ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing.

The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and

when they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the

spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at

the copper, with such eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the

very bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile,

in sucking their fingers most assiduously, with the view of catching up

any stray splashes of gruel that might have been cast thereon. Boys

have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions

suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months: at last they

got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for

his age, and hadn’t been used to that sort of thing (for his father had

kept a small cook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless

he had another basin of gruel _per diem_, he was afraid he might some

night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a

weakly youth of tender age. He had a wild, hungry eye; and they

implicitly believed him. A council was held; lots were cast who should

walk up to the master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and

it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his

cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants

ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long

grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys

whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors

nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless

with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin

and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

“Please, sir, I want some more.”

The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in

stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then

clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with

wonder; the boys with fear.

“What!” said the master at length, in a faint voice.

“Please, sir,” replied Oliver, “I want some more.”

The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him

in his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into

the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high

chair, said,

“Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for

more!”

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

“For _more_!” said Mr. Limbkins. “Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer

me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had

eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?”

“He did, sir,” replied Bumble.

“That boy will be hung,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. “I

know that boy will be hung.”

Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated

discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and

a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a

reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the

hands of the parish. In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were

offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade,

business, or calling.

“I never was more convinced of anything in my life,” said the gentleman

in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill

next morning: “I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than

I am that that boy will come to be hung.”

As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated

gentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this

narrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint

just yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination

or no.

CHAPTER III.

RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT

HAVE BEEN A SINECURE

For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of

asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and

solitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of

the board. It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose,

that, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the

prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have

established that sage individual’s prophetic character, once and for

ever, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the

wall, and attaching himself to the other. To the performance of this

feat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that

pocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for

all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the

express order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and

pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater

obstacle in Oliver’s youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all

day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands

before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner,

tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and

drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its

cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness which

surrounded him.

Let it not be supposed by the enemies of “the system,” that, during the

period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of

exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious

consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was

allowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a

stone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching

cold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated

applications of the cane. As for society, he was carried every other

day into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a

public warning and example. And so far from being denied the advantages

of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same apartment every

evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen to, and console

his mind with, a general supplication of the boys, containing a special

clause, therein inserted by authority of the board, in which they

entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, and obedient, and to be

guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: whom the supplication

distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive patronage and protection

of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct from the manufactory

of the very Devil himself.

It chanced one morning, while Oliver’s affairs were in this auspicious

and comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way

down the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means

of paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become

rather pressing. Mr. Gamfield’s most sanguine estimate of his finances

could not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount;

and, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately

cudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his

eyes encountered the bill on the gate.

“Wo—o!” said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.

The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably,

whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when

he had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was

laden; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.

Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but

more particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow

on his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a

donkey’s. Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp

wrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and

by these means turned him round. He then gave him another blow on the

head, just to stun him till he came back again. Having completed these

arrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.

The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with

his hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound

sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute

between Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that

person came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield

was exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield

smiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the

sum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was

encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse

was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing

for register stoves. So, he spelt the bill through again, from

beginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility,

accosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to ’prentis,” said Mr.

Gamfield.

“Ay, my man,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a

condescending smile. “What of him?”

“If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a

good ’spectable chimbley-sweepin’ bisness,” said Mr. Gamfield, “I wants

a ’prentis, and I am ready to take him.”

“Walk in,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield

having lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head,

and another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his

absence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room

where Oliver had first seen him.

“It’s a nasty trade,” said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated

his wish.

“Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,” said another

gentleman.

“That’s acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley

to make ’em come down again,” said Gamfield; “that’s all smoke, and no

blaze; vereas smoke ain’t o’ no use at all in making a boy come down,

for it only sinds him to sleep, and that’s wot he likes. Boys is wery

obstinit, and wery lazy, Gen’l’men, and there’s nothink like a good hot

blaze to make ’em come down vith a run. It’s humane too, gen’l’men,

acause, even if they’ve stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet

makes ’em struggle to hextricate theirselves.”

The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this

explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr.

Limbkins. The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a

few minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words “saving of

expenditure,” “looked well in the accounts,” “have a printed report

published,” were alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed,

on account of their being very frequently repeated with great emphasis.

At length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having

resumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:

“We have considered your proposition, and we don’t approve of it.”

“Not at all,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Decidedly not,” added the other members.

As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of

having bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him

that the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into

their heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their

proceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business,

if they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the

rumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the

table.

“So you won’t let me have him, gen’l’men?” said Mr. Gamfield, pausing

near the door.

“No,” replied Mr. Limbkins; “at least, as it’s a nasty business, we

think you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.”

Mr. Gamfield’s countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he

returned to the table, and said,

“What’ll you give, gen’l’men? Come! Don’t be too hard on a poor man.

What’ll you give?”

“I should say, three pound ten was plenty,” said Mr. Limbkins.

“Ten shillings too much,” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“Come!” said Gamfield; “say four pound, gen’l’men. Say four pound, and

you’ve got rid of him for good and all. There!”

“Three pound ten,” repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.

“Come! I’ll split the diff’erence, gen’l’men,” urged Gamfield. “Three

pound fifteen.”

“Not a farthing more,” was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.

“You’re desperate hard upon me, gen’l’men,” said Gamfield, wavering.

“Pooh! pooh! nonsense!” said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.

“He’d be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly

fellow! He’s just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then:

it’ll do him good; and his board needn’t come very expensive, for he

hasn’t been overfed since he was born. Ha! ha! ha!”

Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and,

observing a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself.

The bargain was made. Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver

Twist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for

signature and approval, that very afternoon.

In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive

astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself

into a clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic

performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin

of gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of

bread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously:

thinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill

him for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten

him up in that way.

“Don’t make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,”

said Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. “You’re a going to

be made a ’prentice of, Oliver.”

“A prentice, sir!” said the child, trembling.

“Yes, Oliver,” said Mr. Bumble. “The kind and blessed gentleman which

is so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of 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 nobody 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 face, and he

sobbed bitterly.

“Come,” said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying

to his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced;

“Come, Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don’t

cry into your gruel; that’s a very foolish action, Oliver.” It

certainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.

On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all

he would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the

gentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like

it very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey:

the rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in

either particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When

they arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself,

and admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch

him.

There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At

the expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned

with the cocked hat, and said aloud:

“Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.” As Mr. Bumble said this,

he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, “Mind

what I told you, you young rascal!”

Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble’s face at this somewhat

contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his

offering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining

room: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great

window. Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one

of whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with

the aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of

parchment which lay before him. Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of

the desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face,

on the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were

lounging about.

The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the

little bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had

been stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.

“This is the boy, your worship,” said Mr. Bumble.

The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a

moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon,

the last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.

“Oh, is this the boy?” said the old gentleman.

“This is him, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble. “Bow to the magistrate, my

dear.”

Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been

wondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates’ powder, whether all

boards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards

from thenceforth on that account.

“Well,” said the old gentleman, “I suppose he’s fond of

chimney-sweeping?”

“He doats on it, your worship,” replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly

pinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn’t.

“And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?” inquired the old gentleman.

“If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he’d run away

simultaneous, your worship,” replied Bumble.

“And this man that’s to be his master—you, sir—you’ll treat him well,

and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?” said the old

gentleman.

“When I says I will, I means I will,” replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.

“You’re a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest,

open-hearted man,” said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in

the direction of the candidate for Oliver’s premium, whose villainous

countenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the

magistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn’t reasonably

be expected to discern what other people did.

“I hope I am, sir,” said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.

“I have no doubt you are, my friend,” replied the old gentleman: fixing

his spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the

inkstand.

It was the critical moment of Oliver’s fate. If the inkstand had been

where the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen

into it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been

straightway hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his

nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his

desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his

search to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and

terrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks

and pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his

future master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too

palpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.

The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to

Mr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and

unconcerned aspect.

“My boy!” said the old gentleman, “you look pale and alarmed. What is

the matter?”

“Stand a little away from him, Beadle,” said the other magistrate:

laying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of

interest. “Now, boy, tell us what’s the matter: don’t be afraid.”

Oliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that

they would order him back to the dark room—that they would starve

him—beat him—kill him if they pleased—rather than send him away with

that dreadful man.

“Well!” said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most

impressive solemnity. “Well! of all the artful and designing orphans

that ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.”

“Hold your tongue, Beadle,” said the second old gentleman, when Mr.

Bumble had given vent to this compound adjective.

“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having

heard aright. “Did your worship speak to me?”

“Yes. Hold your tongue.”

Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold

his tongue! A moral revolution!

The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his

companion, he nodded significantly.

“We refuse to sanction these indentures,” said the old gentleman:

tossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.

“I hope,” stammered Mr. Limbkins: “I hope the magistrates will not form

the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper

conduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child.”

“The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the

matter,” said the second old gentleman sharply. “Take the boy back to

the workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it.”

That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively

and decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he

would be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his

head with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good;

whereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him;

which, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem

to be a wish of a totally opposite description.

The next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was

again to let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would

take possession of him.

CHAPTER IV.

OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC

LIFE

In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained,

either in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the

young man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to

sea. The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took

counsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in

some small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port. This

suggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done

with him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to

death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his

brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty

generally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman

of that class. The more the case presented itself to the board, in this

point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step appeared;

so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of providing for

Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.

Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries,

with the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a

cabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to

communicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate,

no less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.

Mr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit

of threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour,

and shoes to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a

smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional

jocosity. His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward

pleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by

the hand.

“I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr.

Bumble,” said the undertaker.

“You’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” said the beadle, as he

thrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the

undertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. “I

say you’ll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,” repeated Mr. Bumble,

tapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his

cane.

“Think so?” said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half

disputed the probability of the event. “The prices allowed by the board

are very small, Mr. Bumble.”

“So are the coffins,” replied the beadle: with precisely as near an

approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.

Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be;

and laughed a long time without cessation. “Well, well, Mr. Bumble,” he

said at length, “there’s no denying that, since the new system of

feeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more

shallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble.

Well-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron

handles come, by canal, from Birmingham.”

“Well, well,” said Mr. Bumble, “every trade has its drawbacks. A fair

profit is, of course, allowable.”

“Of course, of course,” replied the undertaker; “and if I don’t get a

profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the

long-run, you see—he! he! he!”

“Just so,” said Mr. Bumble.

“Though I must say,” continued the undertaker, resuming the current of

observations which the beadle had interrupted: “though I must say, Mr.

Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage:

which is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who

have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first

to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble,

that three or four inches over one’s calculation makes a great hole in

one’s profits: especially when one has a family to provide for, sir.”

As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an

ill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a

reflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it

advisable to change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his

mind, he made him his theme.

“By the bye,” said Mr. Bumble, “you don’t know anybody who wants a boy,

do you? A porochial ’prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a

millstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr.

Sowerberry, liberal terms?” As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to

the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words “five

pounds”: which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.

“Gadso!” said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged

lappel of his official coat; “that’s just the very thing I wanted to

speak to you about. You know—dear me, what a very elegant button this

is, Mr. Bumble! I never noticed it before.”

“Yes, I think it rather pretty,” said the beadle, glancing proudly

downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. “The

die is the same as the porochial seal—the Good Samaritan healing the

sick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear’s

morning, Mr. Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time,

to attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway

at midnight.”

“I recollect,” said the undertaker. “The jury brought it in, ‘Died from

exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,’

didn’t they?”

Mr. Bumble nodded.

“And they made it a special verdict, I think,” said the undertaker, “by

adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had—”

“Tush! Foolery!” interposed the beadle. “If the board attended to all

the nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they’d have enough to do.”

“Very true,” said the undertaker; “they would indeed.”

“Juries,” said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont

when working into a passion: “juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling

wretches.”

“So they are,” said the undertaker.

“They haven’t no more philosophy nor political economy about ’em than

that,” said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.

“No more they have,” acquiesced the undertaker.

“I despise ’em,” said the beadle, growing very red in the face.

“So do I,” rejoined the undertaker.

“And I only wish we’d a jury of the independent sort, in the house for

a week or two,” said the beadle; “the rules and regulations of the

board would soon bring their spirit down for ’em.”

“Let ’em alone for that,” replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled,

approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.

Mr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the

inside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his

rage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the

undertaker, said in a calmer voice:

“Well; what about the boy?”

“Oh!” replied the undertaker; “why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good

deal towards the poor’s rates.”

“Hem!” said Mr. Bumble. “Well?”

“Well,” replied the undertaker, “I was thinking that if I pay so much

towards ’em, I’ve a right to get as much out of ’em as I can, Mr.

Bumble; and so—I think I’ll take the boy myself.”

Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the

building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes;

and it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening “upon

liking”—a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that

if the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out

of a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for

a term of years, to do what he likes with.

When little Oliver was taken before “the gentlemen” that evening; and

informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a

coffin-maker’s; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever

came back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be

drowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so

little emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened

young rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.

Now, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the

world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror

at the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they

were rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that

Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too

much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of

brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received. He

heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had

his luggage put into his hand—which was not very difficult to carry,

inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown paper

parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep—he pulled his cap

over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble’s coat

cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.

For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark;

for the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should:

and, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by

the skirts of Mr. Bumble’s coat as they blew open, and disclosed to

great advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As

they drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it

expedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for

inspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and

becoming air of gracious patronage.

“Oliver!” said Mr. Bumble.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.

“Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.”

Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of

his unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them

when he looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon

him, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another.

The child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one.

Withdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble’s he covered his face with

both; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and

bony fingers.

“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little

charge a look of intense malignity. “Well! Of _all_ the ungratefullest,

and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the—”

“No, no, sir,” sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the

well-known cane; “no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I

will, sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so—so—”

“So what?” inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.

“So lonely, sir! So very lonely!” cried the child. “Everybody hates me.

Oh! sir, don’t, don’t pray be cross to me!” The child beat his hand

upon his heart; and looked in his companion’s face, with tears of real

agony.

Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver’s piteous and helpless look, with some

astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky

manner; and after muttering something about “that troublesome cough,”

bade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his

hand, he walked on with him in silence.

The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was

making some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate

dismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.

“Aha!” said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in

the middle of a word; “is that you, Bumble?”

“No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,” replied the beadle. “Here! I’ve brought

the boy.” Oliver made a bow.

“Oh! that’s the boy, is it?” said the undertaker: raising the candle

above his head, to get a better view of Oliver. “Mrs. Sowerberry, will

you have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?”

Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and

presented the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish

countenance.

“My dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, “this is the boy from

the workhouse that I told you of.” Oliver bowed again.

“Dear me!” said the undertaker’s wife, “he’s very small.”

“Why, he _is_ rather small,” replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as

if it were his fault that he was no bigger; “he is small. There’s no

denying it. But he’ll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry—he’ll grow.”

“Ah! I dare say he will,” replied the lady pettishly, “on our victuals

and our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they

always cost more to keep, than they’re worth. However, men always think

they know best. There! Get downstairs, little bag o’ bones.” With this,

the undertaker’s wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a

steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the

ante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated “kitchen”; wherein sat a

slatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very

much out of repair.

“Here, Charlotte,” said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down,

“give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He

hasn’t come home since the morning, so he may go without ’em. I dare

say the boy isn’t too dainty to eat ’em—are you, boy?”

Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was

trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a

plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.

I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall

within him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen

Oliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected.

I wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver

tore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine. There is only

one thing I should like better; and that would be to see the

Philosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.

“Well,” said the undertaker’s wife, when Oliver had finished his

supper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful

auguries of his future appetite: “have you done?”

There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the

affirmative.

“Then come with me,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty

lamp, and leading the way upstairs; “your bed’s under the counter. You

don’t mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn’t much

matter whether you do or don’t, for you can’t sleep anywhere else.

Come; don’t keep me here all night!”

Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.

CHAPTER V.

OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES. GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST

TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER’S BUSINESS

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker’s shop, set the lamp

down on a workman’s bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling

of awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be

at no loss to understand. An unfinished coffin on black tressels, which

stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a

cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the

direction of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see

some frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.

Against the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm

boards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like

high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets.

Coffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black

cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was

ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff

neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by

four black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and

hot. The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The

recess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust,

looked like a grave.

Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was

alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the

best of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no

friends to care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent

separation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and

well-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.

But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept

into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be

lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the

tall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep

bell to soothe him in his sleep.

Oliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of

the shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was

repeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times.

When he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.

“Open the door, will yer?” cried the voice which belonged to the legs

which had kicked at the door.

“I will, directly, sir,” replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning

the key.

“I suppose yer the new boy, ain’t yer?” said the voice through the

key-hole.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.

“How old are yer?” inquired the voice.

“Ten, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Then I’ll whop yer when I get in,” said the voice; “you just see if I

don’t, that’s all, my work’us brat!” and having made this obliging

promise, the voice began to whistle.

Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very

expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the

smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would

redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a

trembling hand, and opened the door.

For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street,

and over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had

addressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm

himself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post

in front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut

into wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then

consumed with great dexterity.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Oliver at length: seeing that no other

visitor made his appearance; “did you knock?”

“I kicked,” replied the charity-boy.

“Did you want a coffin, sir?” inquired Oliver, innocently.

At this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver

would want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that

way.

“Yer don’t know who I am, I suppose, Work’us?” said the charity-boy, in

continuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with

edifying gravity.

“No, sir,” rejoined Oliver.

“I’m Mister Noah Claypole,” said the charity-boy, “and you’re under me.

Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!” With this, Mr.

Claypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a

dignified air, which did him great credit. It is difficult for a

large-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy

countenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more

especially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red

nose and yellow smalls.

Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in

his effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a

small court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the

day, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the

assurance that “he’d catch it,” condescended to help him. Mr.

Sowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry

appeared. Oliver having “caught it,” in fulfilment of Noah’s

prediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.

“Come near the fire, Noah,” said Charlotte. “I saved a nice little bit

of bacon for you from master’s breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at

Mister Noah’s back, and take them bits that I’ve put out on the cover

of the bread-pan. There’s your tea; take it away to that box, and drink

it there, and make haste, for they’ll want you to mind the shop. D’ye

hear?”

“D’ye hear, Work’us?” said Noah Claypole.

“Lor, Noah!” said Charlotte, “what a rum creature you are! Why don’t

you let the boy alone?”

“Let him alone!” said Noah. “Why everybody lets him alone enough, for

the matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever

interfere with him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty

well. Eh, Charlotte? He! he! he!”

“Oh, you queer soul!” said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in

which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully

at poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest

corner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially

reserved for him.

Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance-child was

he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents,

who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a

drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal pension of

twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop-boys in the

neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding Noah in the public

streets, with the ignominious epithets of “leathers,” “charity,” and

the like; and Noah had borne them without reply. But, now that fortune

had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could

point the finger of scorn, he retorted on him with interest. This

affords charming food for contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful

thing human nature may be made to be; and how impartially the same

amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord and the dirtiest

charity-boy.

Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker’s some three weeks or a

month. Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry—the shop being shut up—were taking their

supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several

deferential glances at his wife, said,

“My dear—” He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up,

with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.

“Well,” said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.

“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” said Mr. Sowerberry.

“Ugh, you brute!” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“Not at all, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. “I thought you

didn’t want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say—”

“Oh, don’t tell me what you were going to say,” interposed Mrs.

Sowerberry. “I am nobody; don’t consult me, pray. _I_ don’t want to

intrude upon your secrets.” As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an

hysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.

“But, my dear,” said Sowerberry, “I want to ask your advice.”

“No, no, don’t ask mine,” replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting

manner: “ask somebody else’s.” Here, there was another hysterical

laugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common

and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very

effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special

favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to

hear. After a short duration, the permission was most graciously

conceded.

“It’s only about young Twist, my dear,” said Mr. Sowerberry. “A very

good-looking boy, that, my dear.”

“He need be, for he eats enough,” observed the lady.

“There’s an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,” resumed Mr.

Sowerberry, “which is very interesting. He would make a delightful

mute, my love.”

Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable

wonderment. Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for

any observation on the good lady’s part, proceeded.

“I don’t mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but

only for children’s practice. It would be very new to have a mute in

proportion, my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb

effect.”

Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way,

was much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been

compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances,

she merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious

suggestion had not presented itself to her husband’s mind before? Mr.

Sowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his

proposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should

be at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this

view, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of

his services being required.

The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next

morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against

the counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he

selected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.

“Aha!” said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance;

“an order for a coffin, eh?”

“For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,” replied Mr.

Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like

himself, was very corpulent.

“Bayton,” said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr.

Bumble. “I never heard the name before.”

Bumble shook his head, as he replied, “Obstinate people, Mr.

Sowerberry; very obstinate. Proud, too, I’m afraid, sir.”

“Proud, eh?” exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer. “Come, that’s too

much.”

“Oh, it’s sickening,” replied the beadle. “Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!”

“So it is,” acquiesced the undertaker.

“We only heard of the family the night before last,” said the beadle;

“and we shouldn’t have known anything about them, then, only a woman

who lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial

committee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was

very bad. He had gone out to dinner; but his ’prentice (which is a very

clever lad) sent ’em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.”

“Ah, there’s promptness,” said the undertaker.

“Promptness, indeed!” replied the beadle. “But what’s the consequence;

what’s the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband

sends back word that the medicine won’t suit his wife’s complaint, and

so she shan’t take it—says she shan’t take it, sir! Good, strong,

wholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish

labourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before—sent ’em for nothing,

with a blackin’-bottle in,—and he sends back word that she shan’t take

it, sir!”

As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble’s mind in full force, he

struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with

indignation.

“Well,” said the undertaker, “I ne—ver—did—”

“Never did, sir!” ejaculated the beadle. “No, nor nobody never did; but

now she’s dead, we’ve got to bury her; and that’s the direction; and

the sooner it’s done, the better.”

Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a

fever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.

“Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!”

said Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the

street.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of

sight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at

the mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble’s voice. He needn’t

have taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble’s glance, however; for

that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white

waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that now the

undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better avoided,

until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years, and all

danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish should be

thus effectually and legally overcome.

“Well,” said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, “the sooner this job is

done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap,

and come with me.” Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his

professional mission.

They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely

inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street

more dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused

to look for the house which was the object of their search. The houses

on either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by

people of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have

sufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the

squalid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies

half doubled, occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements

had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only

the upper rooms being inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure

from age and decay, were prevented from falling into the street, by

huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly planted in the

road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been selected as the

nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of the rough boards

which supplied the place of door and window, were wrenched from their

positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the passage of a human

body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, which here and

there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with famine.

There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver

and his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark

passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the

undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling

against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.

It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker

at once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the

apartment to which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed

him.

There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically,

over the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the

cold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged

children in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door,

there lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket.

Oliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept

involuntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the

boy felt that it was a corpse.

The man’s face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly;

his eyes were bloodshot. The old woman’s face was wrinkled; her two

remaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright

and piercing. Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They

seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.

“Nobody shall go near her,” said the man, starting fiercely up, as the

undertaker approached the recess. “Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if

you’ve a life to lose!”

“Nonsense, my good man,” said the undertaker, who was pretty well used

to misery in all its shapes. “Nonsense!”

“I tell you,” said the man: clenching his hands, and stamping furiously

on the floor,—“I tell you I won’t have her put into the ground. She

couldn’t rest there. The worms would worry her—not eat her—she is so

worn away.”

The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape

from his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.

“Ah!” said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at

the feet of the dead woman; “kneel down, kneel down—kneel round her,

every one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I

never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her

bones were starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor

candle; she died in the dark—in the dark! She couldn’t even see her

children’s faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged

for her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back,

she was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they

starved her to death. I swear it before the God that saw it! They

starved her!” He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud scream,

rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam covering

his lips.

The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had

hitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that

passed, menaced them into silence. Having unloosened the cravat of the

man who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the

undertaker.

“She was my daughter,” said the old woman, nodding her head in the

direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more

ghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. “Lord, Lord!

Well, it _is_ strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman

then, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and

stiff! Lord, Lord!—to think of it; it’s as good as a play—as good as a

play!”

As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment,

the undertaker turned to go away.

“Stop, stop!” said the old woman in a loud whisper. “Will she be buried

tomorrow, or next day, or tonight? I laid her out; and I must walk,

you know. Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is bitter

cold. We should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send

some bread—only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some

bread, dear?” she said eagerly: catching at the undertaker’s coat, as

he once more moved towards the door.

“Yes, yes,” said the undertaker, “of course. Anything you like!” He

disengaged himself from the old woman’s grasp; and, drawing Oliver

after him, hurried away.

The next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a

half-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble

himself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where

Mr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the

workhouse, who were to act as bearers. An old black cloak had been

thrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin

having been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers,

and carried into the street.

“Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!” whispered

Sowerberry in the old woman’s ear; “we are rather late; and it won’t

do, to keep the clergyman waiting. Move on, my men,—as quick as you

like!”

Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the

two mourners kept as near them, as they could. Mr. Bumble and

Sowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs

were not so long as his master’s, ran by the side.

There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had

anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the

churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were

made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by

the vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it

might be an hour or so, before he came. So, they put the bier on the

brink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp

clay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the

spectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at

hide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by

jumping backwards and forwards over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and

Bumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him,

and read the paper.

At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble,

and Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave.

Immediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice

as he came along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up

appearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the

burial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his

surplice to the clerk, and walked away again.

“Now, Bill!” said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. “Fill up!”

It was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the

uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger

shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet:

shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who

murmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.

“Come, my good fellow!” said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. “They

want to shut up the yard.”

The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the

grave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had

addressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a

swoon. The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss

of her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any

attention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came

to, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed

on their different ways.

“Well, Oliver,” said Sowerberry, as they walked home, “how do you like

it?”

“Pretty well, thank you, sir” replied Oliver, with considerable

hesitation. “Not very much, sir.”

“Ah, you’ll get used to it in time, Oliver,” said Sowerberry. “Nothing

when you _are_ used to it, my boy.”

Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time

to get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask

the question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had

seen and heard.

CHAPTER VI.

OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND

RATHER ASTONISHES HIM

The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice

sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were

looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great

deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious

speculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest

inhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so

prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful

processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to

his knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the

mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his

adult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity

of demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a

finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the

beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded

people bear their trials and losses.

For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich

old lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews

and nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous

illness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most

public occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need

be—quite cheerful and contented—conversing together with as much

freedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb

them. Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic

calmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far

from grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to

render it as becoming and attractive as possible. It was observable,

too, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during

the ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached

home, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over. All

this was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with

great admiration.

That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good

people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm

with any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for

many months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and

ill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now

that his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the

black stick and hat-band, while he, the old one, remained stationary in

the muffin-cap and leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah

did; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry

was disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and

a glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as

comfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in

the grain department of a brewery.

And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history; for I

have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance,

but which indirectly produced a material change in all his future

prospects and proceedings.

One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual

dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a half

of the worst end of the neck; when Charlotte being called out of the

way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being

hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a

worthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.

Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the

table-cloth; and pulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and

expressed his opinion that he was a “sneak”; and furthermore announced

his intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable

event should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty

annoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was.

But, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and

in his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want

to be funny. He got rather personal.

“Work’us,” said Noah, “how’s your mother?”

“She’s dead,” replied Oliver; “don’t you say anything about her to me!”

Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there

was a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole

thought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying.

Under this impression he returned to the charge.

“What did she die of, Work’us?” said Noah.

“Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,” replied Oliver:

more as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. “I think I

know what it must be to die of that!”

“Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,” said Noah, as a tear

rolled down Oliver’s cheek. “What’s set you a snivelling now?”

“Not _you_,” replied Oliver, sharply. “There; that’s enough. Don’t say

anything more to me about her; you’d better not!”

“Better not!” exclaimed Noah. “Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t be

impudent. _Your_ mother, too! She was a nice ’un, she was. Oh, Lor!”

And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of

his small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the

occasion.

“Yer know, Work’us,” continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence,

and speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most

annoying: “Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now; and of course yer

couldn’t help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all

are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was

a regular right-down bad ’un.”

“What did you say?” inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.

“A regular right-down bad ’un, Work’us,” replied Noah, coolly. “And

it’s a great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else

she’d have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung;

which is more likely than either, isn’t it?”

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table;

seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till

his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into

one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected

creature that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused

at last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire.

His breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid;

his whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly

tormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an

energy he had never known before.

“He’ll murder me!” blubbered Noah. “Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new

boy a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!”

Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a

louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen

by a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was

quite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human

life, to come further down.

“Oh, you little wretch!” screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her

utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man

in particularly good training. “Oh, you little un-grate-ful,

mur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!” And between every syllable, Charlotte

gave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream,

for the benefit of society.

Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not

be effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into

the kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she

scratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of

affairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.

This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all

wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver,

struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and

there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a

chair, and burst into tears.

“Bless her, she’s going off!” said Charlotte. “A glass of water, Noah,

dear. Make haste!”

“Oh! Charlotte,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could,

through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which

Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. “Oh! Charlotte, what a

mercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!”

“Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,” was the reply. “I only hope this’ll teach

master not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born

to be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was

all but killed, ma’am, when I came in.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the

charity-boy.

Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level

with the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his

wrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed

some affecting tears and sniffs.

“What’s to be done!” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. “Your master’s not at

home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in

ten minutes.” Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in

question, rendered this occurance highly probable.

“Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,” said Charlotte, “unless we send for

the police-officers.”

“Or the millingtary,” suggested Mr. Claypole.

“No, no,” said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver’s old

friend. “Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly,

and not to lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold

a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling

down.”

Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed;

and very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a

charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his

head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.

CHAPTER VII.

OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY

Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused

not once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested

here, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an

imposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and

presented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that

even he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of

times, started back in astonishment.

“Why, what’s the matter with the boy!” said the old pauper.

“Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!” cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in

tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr.

Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much

that he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very

curious and remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle,

acted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a

momentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of

personal dignity.

“Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!” said Noah: “Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—”

“What? What?” interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his

metallic eyes. “Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?”

“No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned wicious,” replied

Noah. “He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder

Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony,

please, sir!” And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an

extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to

understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist,

he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from which he was

at that moment suffering the acutest torture.

When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed

Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his

dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a

gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in

his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to

attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman

aforesaid.

The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked

three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young

cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with

something which would render the series of vocular exclamations so

designated, an involuntary process?

“It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,” replied Mr. Bumble, “who

has been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.”

“By Jove!” exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping

short. “I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first,

that that audacious young savage would come to be hung!”

“He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,” said

Mr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.

“And his missis,” interposed Mr. Claypole.

“And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?” added Mr. Bumble.

“No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,” replied Noah. “He said

he wanted to.”

“Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?” inquired the gentleman in the

white waistcoat.

“Yes, sir,” replied Noah. “And please, sir, missis wants to know

whether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog

him—’cause master’s out.”

“Certainly, my boy; certainly,” said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was about

three inches higher than his own. “You’re a good boy—a very good boy.

Here’s a penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your

cane, and see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.”

“No, I will not, sir,” replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane

having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr.

Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the

undertaker’s shop.

Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had

not yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished

vigour, at the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by

Mrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr.

Bumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this

view he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then,

applying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:

“Oliver!”

“Come; you let me out!” replied Oliver, from the inside.

“Do you know this here voice, Oliver?” said Mr. Bumble.

“Yes,” replied Oliver.

“Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak,

sir?” said Mr. Bumble.

“No!” replied Oliver, boldly.

An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was

in the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He

stepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and

looked from one to another of the three by-standers, in mute

astonishment.

“Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.”

“It’s not madness, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of

deep meditation. “It’s meat.”

“What?” exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.

“Meat, ma’am, meat,” replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. “You’ve

overfed him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him,

ma’am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs.

Sowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have

paupers to do with soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ’em

have live bodies. If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma’am, this would

never have happened.”

“Dear, dear!” ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to

the kitchen ceiling: “this comes of being liberal!”

The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse

bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else

would eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in

her voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation, of

which, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or

deed.

“Ah!” said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth

again; “the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to

leave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little starved

down; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the

apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs.

Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his

made her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed

any well-disposed woman, weeks before.”

At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to

know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced

kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.

Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been

explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best

calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a

twinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.

Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face

was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead.

The angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled

out of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite

undismayed.

“Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?” said Sowerberry; giving

Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.

“He called my mother names,” replied Oliver.

“Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?” said Mrs.

Sowerberry. “She deserved what he said, and worse.”

“She didn’t,” said Oliver.

“She did,” said Mrs. Sowerberry.

“It’s a lie!” said Oliver.

Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.

This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had

hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be

quite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been,

according to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a

brute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of

a man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital

within the limits of this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as

his power went—it was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the

boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because

his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no

resource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs.

Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of

the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was

shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of

bread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks

outside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his

mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of

Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.

It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the

gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings

which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a

mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he

had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in

his heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they

had roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear

him, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his

hands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few

so young may ever have cause to pour out before him!

For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The

candle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having

gazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the

fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.

It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther

from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind;

and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked

sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the

door. Having availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie

up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat

himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.

With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the

shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look

around—one moment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him,

and was in the open street.

He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.

He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up

the hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the

fields, which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the

road; struck into it, and walked quickly on.

Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside

Mr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm.

His way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly

when he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back.

He had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by

doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of

his being seen; so he walked on.

He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring

at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child

was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale

face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver

felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself,

he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and

starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.

“Hush, Dick!” said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his

thin arm between the rails to greet him. “Is any one up?”

“Nobody but me,” replied the child.

“You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,” said Oliver. “I am running away.

They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some

long way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!”

“I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,” replied the child with a

faint smile. “I am very glad to see you, dear; but don’t stop, don’t

stop!”

“Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,” replied Oliver. “I shall

see you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!”

“I hope so,” replied the child. “After I am dead, but not before. I

know the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of

Heaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake.

Kiss me,” said the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his

little arms round Oliver’s neck. “Good-b’ye, dear! God bless you!”

The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that

Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles

and sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never

once forgot it.

CHAPTER VIII.

OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more

gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly

five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by

turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then

he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think,

for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.

The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an

intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The

name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.

London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find

him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say

that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of

living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country

parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who

must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things

passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked

forward.

He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four

miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could

hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced

itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his

means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and

two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of

Sowerberry’s after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more

than ordinarily well—in his pocket. “A clean shirt,” thought Oliver,

“is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings;

and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk

in winter time.” But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other

people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his

difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of

surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular

purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and

trudged on.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing

but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he

begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he

turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined

to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind

moaned dismally over the empty fields, and he was cold and hungry, and

more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his

walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.

He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that

he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very

first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than

twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his

legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in

the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey

next morning he could hardly crawl along.

He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and

then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took

any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the

top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a

halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way,

but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When

the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets

again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve

anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust

behind.

In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all

persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to

jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of

those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand

about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a

proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady’s ordering one of

the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of

the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he

begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened to set the

dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about

the beadle—which brought Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the

only thing he had there, for many hours together.

In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a

benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the

very same process which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words,

he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But

the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady,

who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part

of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little

she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such

tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’s

soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.

Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver

limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were

closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business

of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the

light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation,

as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up;

and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver

for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried

by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he

came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great

number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern,

large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed

through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with

ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and

determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by

observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes

before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the

opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the

boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that

Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the

boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?”

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his

own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even

seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as

dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the

airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather

bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of

his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and

would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of

every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it

back to its old place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly

to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get

his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of

thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he

kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young

gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the

bluchers.

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?” said this strange young gentleman to

Oliver.

“I am very hungry and tired,” replied Oliver: the tears standing in his

eyes as he spoke. “I have walked a long way. I have been walking these

seven days.”

“Walking for sivin days!” said the young gentleman. “Oh, I see. Beak’s

order, eh? But,” he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, “I

suppose you don’t know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.”

Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth

described by the term in question.

“My eyes, how green!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Why, a beak’s a

madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight

forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you

never on the mill?”

“What mill?” inquired Oliver.

“What mill! Why, _the_ mill—the mill as takes up so little room that

it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s

low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen.

But come,” said the young gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have

it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far

as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There!

Now then! Morrice!”

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent

chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham

and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, “a fourpenny

bran!” the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the

ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a

portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under

his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led

the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer

was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver,

falling to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal,

during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time

with great attention.

“Going to London?” said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length

concluded.

“Yes.”

“Got any lodgings?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as

the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes. I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want

some place to sleep in tonight, don’t you?”

“I do, indeed,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I

left the country.”

“Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the young gentleman.

“I’ve got to be in London tonight; and I know a ’spectable old

gentleman as lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and

never ask for the change—that is, if any gentleman he knows interduces

you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means.

Certainly not!”

The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments

of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did

so.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted;

especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the

old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a

comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly

and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his

friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and

_protégé_ of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.

Mr. Dawkins’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the

comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took

under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute

mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate

friends he was better known by the _sobriquet_ of “The Artful Dodger,”

Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the

moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon

him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good

opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found

the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to

decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it

was nearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington.

They crossed from the Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small

street which terminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth

Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the

workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of

Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into

Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace,

directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of

his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either

side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place

he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air

was impregnated with filthy odours.

There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade

appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were

crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The

sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the

place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish

were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here

and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of

houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth;

and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were

cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed

or harmless errands.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when

they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the

arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him

into the passage, closed it behind them.

“Now, then!” cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the

Dodger.

“Plummy and slam!” was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the

light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the

passage; and a man’s face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the

old kitchen staircase had been broken away.

“There’s two on you,” said the man, thrusting the candle farther out,

and shielding his eyes with his hand. “Who’s the t’other one?”

“A new pal,” replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.

“Where did he come from?”

“Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?”

“Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!” The candle was drawn

back, and the face disappeared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly

grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and

broken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition

that showed he was well acquainted with them.

He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and

dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle,

stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and

butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which

was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking;

and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very

old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was

obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy

flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his

attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a

great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds

made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round

the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking

long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men.

These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to

the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew

himself, toasting-fork in hand.

“This is him, Fagin,” said Jack Dawkins; “my friend Oliver Twist.”

The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the

hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance.

Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook

both his hands very hard—especially the one in which he held his little

bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for

him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in

order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of

emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would

probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the

Jew’s toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate

youths who offered them.

“We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,” said the Jew. “Dodger,

take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah,

you’re a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear? There are a

good many of ’em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked ’em out, ready for the

wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!”

The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from

all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of

which they went to supper.

Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot

gin and water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because

another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired.

Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the

sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER IX.

CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN,

AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS

It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep.

There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling

some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to

himself as he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He would

stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below:

and when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and

stirring again, as before.

Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly

awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you

dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half

conscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would in

five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in

perfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows just enough of

what his mind is doing, to form some glimmering conception of its

mighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space,

when freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.

Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his

half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of

the spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same

senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with

almost everybody he had ever known.

When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob.

Standing, then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he

did not well know how to employ himself, he turned round and looked at

Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all

appearances asleep.

After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the

door: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver,

from some trap in the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on

the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in.

Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a

magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.

“Aha!” said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every

feature with a hideous grin. “Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the

last! Never told the old parson where they were. Never poached upon old

Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept

the drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!”

With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew

once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a

dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed

with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other

articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly

workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even of their names.

Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that

it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute

inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading

it with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put

it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair,

muttered:

“What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead

men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the

trade! Five of ’em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or

turn white-livered!”

As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been

staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were

fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only

for an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly be

conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed.

He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on

a bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled

very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the

knife quivered in the air.

“What’s that?” said the Jew. “What do you watch me for? Why are you

awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.”

“I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,” replied Oliver, meekly. “I am

very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.”

“You were not awake an hour ago?” said the Jew, scowling fiercely on

the boy.

“No! No, indeed!” replied Oliver.

“Are you sure?” cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before:

and a threatening attitude.

“Upon my word I was not, sir,” replied Oliver, earnestly. “I was not,

indeed, sir.”

“Tush, tush, my dear!” said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner,

and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to

induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. “Of course I

know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy.

Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.” The Jew rubbed his hands with a

chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.

“Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?” said the Jew, laying

his hand upon it after a short pause.

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Ah!” said the Jew, turning rather pale. “They—they’re mine, Oliver; my

little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call

me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.”

Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in

such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps

his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of

money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he

might get up.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” replied the old gentleman. “Stay.

There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here;

and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.”

Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to

raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.

He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying

the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when

the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom

Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally

introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on

the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought

home in the crown of his hat.

“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself

to the Dodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?”

“Hard,” replied the Dodger.

“As nails,” added Charley Bates.

“Good boys, good boys!” said the Jew. “What have you got, Dodger?”

“A couple of pocket-books,” replied that young gentleman.

“Lined?” inquired the Jew, with eagerness.

“Pretty well,” replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one

green, and the other red.

“Not so heavy as they might be,” said the Jew, after looking at the

insides carefully; “but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman,

ain’t he, Oliver?”

“Very indeed, sir,” said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed

uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to

laugh at, in anything that had passed.

“And what have you got, my dear?” said Fagin to Charley Bates.

“Wipes,” replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four

pocket-handkerchiefs.

“Well,” said the Jew, inspecting them closely; “they’re very good ones,

very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall

be picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall

us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!”

“If you please, sir,” said Oliver.

“You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley

Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?” said the Jew.

“Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,” replied Oliver.

Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that

he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was

drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly

terminated in his premature suffocation.

“He is so jolly green!” said Charley when he recovered, as an apology

to the company for his unpolite behaviour.

The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over his eyes,

and said he’d know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman,

observing Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the subject by asking

whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning?

This made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies

of the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally

wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very

industrious.

When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentleman and the two

boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in

this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of

his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat

pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond

pin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his

spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the

room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen

walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the

fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was

staring with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would

look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping

all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a

very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran

down his face. All this time, the two boys followed him closely about:

getting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that

it was impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod

upon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates

stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from

him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case,

watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the

spectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his

pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over

again.

When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young

ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet,

and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly

turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings.

They were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of

colour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being

remarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them

very nice girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were.

The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence

of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and

the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length,

Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof.

This, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly

afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went

away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with

money to spend.

“There, my dear,” said Fagin. “That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They

have gone out for the day.”

“Have they done work, sir?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes,” said the Jew; “that is, unless they should unexpectedly come

across any, when they are out; and they won’t neglect it, if they do,

my dear, depend upon it. Make ’em your models, my dear. Make ’em your

models,” tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his

words; “do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all

matters—especially the Dodger’s, my dear. He’ll be a great man himself,

and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him.—Is my

handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?” said the Jew, stopping

short.

“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.

“See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do,

when we were at play this morning.”

Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen

the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with

the other.

“Is it gone?” cried the Jew.

“Here it is, sir,” said Oliver, showing it in his hand.

“You’re a clever boy, my dear,” said the playful old gentleman, patting

Oliver on the head approvingly. “I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a

shilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you’ll be the greatest man

of the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks

out of the handkerchiefs.”

Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play, had to

do with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew,

being so much his senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to

the table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.

CHAPTER X.

OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW

ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT,

BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY

For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out

of the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought

home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which

the two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length,

he began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of

earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work

with his two companions.

Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what

he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character.

Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed,

he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy

habits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by

sending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went

so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was

carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.

At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so

eagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two

or three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these

were reasons for the old gentleman’s giving his assent; but, whether

they were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the

joint guardianship of Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.

The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up,

and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his

hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they

were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in

first.

The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,

that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive

the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a

vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small

boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some

very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering

divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and

thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that

they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.

These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring

his intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when

his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very

mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.

They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open

square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion

of terms, “The Green”: when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying

his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the

greatest caution and circumspection.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.

“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the

book-stall?”

“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”

“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.

“A prime plant,” observed Master Charley Bates.

Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he

was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked

stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman

towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces

after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood

looking on in silent amazement.

The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a

powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green

coat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a

smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall,

and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his

elbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied

himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he

saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short,

anything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through:

turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at

the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest

interest and eagerness.

What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking

on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the

Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from

thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and

finally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full

speed!

In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches,

and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.

He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his

veins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then,

confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he

did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.

This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver

began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and

missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding

away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the

depredator; and shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might, made off

after him, book in hand.

But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the

hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public

attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the

very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and

saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they

issued forth with great promptitude; and, shouting “Stop thief!” too,

joined in the pursuit like good citizens.

Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not

theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that

self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps

he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it

alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old

gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman

leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down

his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy

his parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the

child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter,

slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as

they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls:

and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and

the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through

the mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run

the people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the

very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the

shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, “Stop thief! Stop thief!”

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion _for hunting something_

deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child,

panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large

drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to

make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain

upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy.

“Stop thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!

Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the

crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling

with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little

air!” “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here

he is, coming down the street.” “Make room there for the gentleman!”

“Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”

Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,

looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when

the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by

the foremost of the pursuers.

“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”

“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”

“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”

“_I_ did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward;

“and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. _I_ stopped him,

sir.”

The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his

pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of

dislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away

himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and

thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is

generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made

his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.

“Come, get up,” said the man, roughly.

“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,” said

Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. “They are

here somewhere.”

“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be ironical,

but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off

down the first convenient court they came to.

“Come, get up!”

“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman, compassionately.

“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer, tearing his jacket half

off his back, in proof thereof. “Come, I know you; it won’t do. Will

you stand upon your legs, you young devil?”

Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his

feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at

a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side;

and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead,

and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in

triumph; and on they went.

CHAPTER XI.

TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT

SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE

The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the

immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office.

The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two

or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led

beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of

summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which

they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of

whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.

“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.

“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the

keys.

“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this

boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the

case.”

“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship

will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he

unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was

searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.

This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not

so light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and

it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up,

elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our

station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most

trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with

which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried,

found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who

doubts this, compare the two.

The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated

in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the

innocent cause of all this disturbance.

“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to

himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of

the book, in a thoughtful manner; “something that touches and interests

me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like— Bye the bye,” exclaimed the

old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky,

“Bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”

After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same

meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there,

retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast

amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many

years. “No,” said the old gentleman, shaking his head; “it must be

imagination.”

He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was

not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There

were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost

strangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of

young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that

the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to

its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling

back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming

of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond

the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be

set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to

Heaven.

But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s

features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he

awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman,

buried them again in the pages of the musty book.

He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man

with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book

hastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the

renowned Mr. Fang.

The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat

behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was a

sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited;

trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with

no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and

sides of his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were

really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good

for him, he might have brought action against his countenance for

libel, and have recovered heavy damages.

The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate’s

desk, said, suiting the action to the word, “That is my name and

address, sir.” He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite

and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading

article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent

decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth

time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State

for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an

angry scowl.

“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.

The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the

newspaper. “Who is this fellow?”

“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman,

“my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the

magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a

respectable person, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this,

Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person

who would afford him the required information.

“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, “what’s this

fellow charged with?”

“He’s not charged at all, your worship,” replied the officer. “He

appears against this boy, your worship.”

His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and

a safe one.

“Appears against the boy, does he?” said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr.

Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. “Swear him!”

“Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow;

“and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could

have believed—”

“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.

“Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the

office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How

dare you bully a magistrate!”

“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not hear another

word. Swear him.”

Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps,

that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed

his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.

“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the charge against this boy? What have you

got to say, sir?”

“I was standing at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s the

policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”

The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the

charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person;

and how that was all he knew about it.

“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“None, your worship,” replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the

prosecutor, said in a towering passion.

“Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or

do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to

give evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will,

by—”

By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed

very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy

book upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being

heard—accidently, of course.

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived

to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he

had run after the boy because he had seen him running away; and

expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him,

although not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he

would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

“He has been hurt already,” said the old gentleman in conclusion. “And

I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, “I

really fear that he is ill.”

“Oh! yes, I dare say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none of your

tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”

Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale;

and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang.

“Officer, what’s his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who

was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry;

but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and

knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the

more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.

“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-hearted

thief-taker.

“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well.

Where does he live?”

“Where he can, your worship,” replied the officer; again pretending to

receive Oliver’s answer.

“Has he any parents?” inquired Mr. Fang.

“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” replied the officer:

hazarding the usual reply.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking

round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of

water.

“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a fool of me.”

“I think he really is ill, your worship,” remonstrated the officer.

“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.

“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands

instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”

“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang; “let him, if he likes.”

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in

a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one

dared to stir.

“I knew he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were incontestable

proof of the fact. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.”

“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in

a low voice.

“Summarily,” replied Mr. Fang. “He stands committed for three

months—hard labour of course. Clear the office.”

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were

preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man

of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed

hastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench.

“Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!”

cried the new comer, breathless with haste.

Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a

summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the

character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of

the poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic

tricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are

closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr.

Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest

enter in such irreverent disorder.

“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!” cried

Mr. Fang.

“I _will_ speak,” cried the man; “I will not be turned out. I saw it

all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put

down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.”

The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was

growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

“Swear the man,” growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. “Now, man,

what have you got to say?”

“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner

here: loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman

was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done;

and I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.”

Having by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall

keeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact

circumstances of the robbery.

“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.

“I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,” replied the man. “Everybody who

could have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody

till five minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.”

“The prosecutor was reading, was he?” inquired Fang, after another

pause.

“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”

“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”

“No, it is not,” replied the man, with a smile.

“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent old gentleman,

innocently.

“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with

a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have

obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and

disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate

that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a

lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is

discharged. Clear the office!”

“D—n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had

kept down so long, “d—n me! I’ll—”

“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear

the office!”

The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed

out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a

perfect phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his

passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on

the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with

water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole

frame.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a

coach, somebody, pray. Directly!”

A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the

seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.

“May I accompany you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.

“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you.

Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow!

There’s no time to lose.”

The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.

CHAPTER XII.

IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN

WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL

FRIENDS.

The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which

Oliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the

Dodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at

Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady

street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of

time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and

comfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and

solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of

his new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and

many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy

bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm

does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow

creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have

been a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with

his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.

“What room is this? Where have I been brought to?” said Oliver. “This

is not the place I went to sleep in.”

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak;

but they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was

hastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely

dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which

she had been sitting at needle-work.

“Hush, my dear,” said the old lady softly. “You must be very quiet, or

you will be ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could

be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there’s a dear!” With those words, the

old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and,

smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving

in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in

hers, and drawing it round his neck.

“Save us!” said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. “What a grateful

little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she

had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!”

“Perhaps she does see me,” whispered Oliver, folding his hands

together; “perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.”

“That was the fever, my dear,” said the old lady mildly.

“I suppose it was,” replied Oliver, “because heaven is a long way off;

and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor

boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there;

for she was very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything

about me though,” added Oliver after a moment’s silence. “If she had

seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always

looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.”

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her

spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were

part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver

to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very

quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the

kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he

was completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell

into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a

candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with

a very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his

pulse, and said he was a great deal better.

“You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?” said the

gentleman.

“Yes, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Yes, I know you are,” said the gentleman: “You’re hungry too, an’t

you?”

“No, sir,” answered Oliver.

“Hem!” said the gentleman. “No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry,

Mrs. Bedwin,” said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to

say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor

appeared much of the same opinion himself.

“You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?” said the doctor.

“No, sir,” replied Oliver.

“No,” said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. “You’re

not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?”

“Yes, sir, rather thirsty,” answered Oliver.

“Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,” said the doctor. “It’s very natural

that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and

some dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but

be careful that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the

goodness?”

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool

stuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his

boots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went

downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly

twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly

afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just

come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a

large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the

table, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up

with him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series

of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings

forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse

effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep

again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time,

counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the

rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid

eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and

the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into

the boy’s mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many

days and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his

awful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently

prayed to Heaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent

suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain

to wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the

struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its

anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the

past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt

cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He

belonged to the world again.

In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped

up with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had

him carried downstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which

belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old

lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable

delight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most

violently.

“Never mind me, my dear,” said the old lady; “I’m only having a regular

good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.”

“You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,” said Oliver.

“Well, never you mind that, my dear,” said the old lady; “that’s got

nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the

doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we

must get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll

be pleased.” And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up,

in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver

thought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation

strength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest

computation.

“Are you fond of pictures, dear?” inquired the old lady, seeing that

Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung

against the wall; just opposite his chair.

“I don’t quite know, ma’am,” said Oliver, without taking his eyes from

the canvas; “I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful,

mild face that lady’s is!”

“Ah!” said the old lady, “painters always make ladies out prettier than

they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented

the machine for taking likenesses might have known _that_ would never

succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,” said the old lady, laughing

very heartily at her own acuteness.

“Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?” said Oliver.

“Yes,” said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;

“that’s a portrait.”

“Whose, ma’am?” asked Oliver.

“Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,” answered the old lady in a

good-humoured manner. “It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I

know, I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.”

“It is so pretty,” replied Oliver.

“Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?” said the old lady: observing in

great surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the

painting.

“Oh no, no,” returned Oliver quickly; “but the eyes look so sorrowful;

and where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,”

added Oliver in a low voice, “as if it was alive, and wanted to speak

to me, but couldn’t.”

“Lord save us!” exclaimed the old lady, starting; “don’t talk in that

way, child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel

your chair round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!”

said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; “you don’t see it

now, at all events.”

Oliver _did_ see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not

altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind

old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin,

satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of

toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a

preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He

had scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at

the door. “Come in,” said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no

sooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands

behind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at

Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd

contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and

made an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his

benefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again;

and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart,

being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane

disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic

process which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a

condition to explain.

“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. “I’m

rather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught

cold.”

“I hope not, sir,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Everything you have had, has been

well aired, sir.”

“I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,” said Mr. Brownlow; “I rather

think I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind

that. How do you feel, my dear?”

“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 strong emphasis on the

last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded,

there existed no affinity or connection 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?”

“I never told him so, sir,” returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked

somewhat sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him;

there was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.

“Some mistake,” said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking

steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance

between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly,

that he could not withdraw his gaze.

“I hope you are not angry with me, sir?” said Oliver, raising his eyes

beseechingly.

“No, no,” replied the old gentleman. “Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look

there!”

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and

then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head,

the mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the

instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with

startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being

strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A

weakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of

relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils

of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording—

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined

in the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence

of their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal

property, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very

laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the

freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the

first and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need

hardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt

them in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great

a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own

preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code

of laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid

down as the main-springs of all Nature’s deeds and actions: the said

philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady’s proceedings to

matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty compliment

to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight

any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For,

these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by

universal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and

weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of

the conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate

predicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a

foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when

the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for

their home by the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to

assert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages,

to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being

rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and

discursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the

pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I

do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable

practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories,

to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every

possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect

themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and

you may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the

amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the

distinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher

concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive,

and impartial view of his own particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through

a most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured

to halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here,

just long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an

exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an

uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and

rolled thereon in a transport of mirth.

“What’s the matter?” inquired the Dodger.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Charley Bates.

“Hold your noise,” remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round.

“Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?”

“I can’t help it,” said Charley, “I can’t help it! To see him splitting

away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up

again’ the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as

well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter

him—oh, my eye!” The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the

scene before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this

apostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than

before.

“What’ll Fagin say?” inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next

interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the

question.

“What?” repeated Charley Bates.

“Ah, what?” said the Dodger.

“Why, what should he say?” inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly

in his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. “What should

he say?”

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat,

scratched his head, and nodded thrice.

“What do you mean?” said Charley.

“Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and high

cockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual

countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so;

and again said, “What do you mean?”

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering

the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue

into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in

a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down

the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the

occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he

sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a

pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a

rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking

sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the

door, and listened.

“Why, how’s this?” muttered the Jew: changing countenance; “only two of

’em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”

The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was

slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it

behind them.

CHAPTER XIII.

SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER,

CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING

TO THIS HISTORY

“Where’s Oliver?” said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. “Where’s

the boy?”

The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his

violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.

“What’s become of the boy?” said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by

the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. “Speak out,

or I’ll throttle you!”

Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who

deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who

conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be

throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud,

well-sustained, and continuous roar—something between a mad bull and a

speaking trumpet.

“Will you speak?” thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that

his keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.

“Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,” said the

Dodger, sullenly. “Come, let go o’ me, will you!” And, swinging

himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the

Jew’s hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass

at the merry old gentleman’s waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect,

would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily

replaced.

The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could

have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and,

seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But

Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly

terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full

at that young gentleman.

“Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!” growled a deep voice. “Who

pitched that ’ere at me? It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as

hit me, or I’d have settled somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody

but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to

throw away any drink but water—and not that, unless he done the River

Company every quarter. Wot’s it all about, Fagin? D—me, if my

neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint;

wot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master!

Come in!”

The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of

about five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab

breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed

a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs,

which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete

state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on

his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the

long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he

spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance

with a beard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which

displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently

damaged by a blow.

“Come in, d’ye hear?” growled this engaging ruffian.

A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty

different places, skulked into the room.

“Why didn’t you come in afore?” said the man. “You’re getting too proud

to own me afore company, are you? Lie down!”

This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the

other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he

coiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound,

and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute,

appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.

“What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious,

in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?” said the man, seating himself deliberately.

“I wonder they don’t murder you! I would if I was them. If I’d been

your ’prentice, I’d have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold

you afterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity

of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass

bottles large enough.”

“Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,” said the Jew, trembling; “don’t speak so

loud!”

“None of your mistering,” replied the ruffian; “you always mean

mischief when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan’t

disgrace it when the time comes.”

“Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,” said the Jew, with abject humility. “You

seem out of humour, Bill.”

“Perhaps I am,” replied Sikes; “I should think you was rather out of

sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots

about, as you do when you blab and—”

“Are you mad?” said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and

pointing towards the boys.

Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left

ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb

show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant

terms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled,

but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here,

demanded a glass of liquor.

“And mind you don’t poison it,” said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the

table.

This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer

with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard,

he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish

(at all events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far

from the old gentleman’s merry heart.

After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes

condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious

act led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s

capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and

improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable

under the circumstances.

“I’m afraid,” said the Jew, “that he may say something which will get

us into trouble.”

“That’s very likely,” returned Sikes with a malicious grin. “You’re

blowed upon, Fagin.”

“And I’m afraid, you see,” added the Jew, speaking as if he had not

noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did

so,—“I’m afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a

good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it

would for me, my dear.”

The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman’s

shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly

staring on the opposite wall.

There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie

appeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by

a certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an

attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter

in the streets when he went out.

“Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,” said Mr. Sikes

in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.

The Jew nodded assent.

“If he hasn’t peached, and is committed, there’s no fear till he comes

out again,” said Mr. Sikes, “and then he must be taken care on. You

must get hold of him somehow.”

Again the Jew nodded.

The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but,

unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being

adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and

Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and

deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or

pretext whatever.

How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of

uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to

guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however;

for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on

a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.

“The very thing!” said the Jew. “Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?”

“Wheres?” inquired the young lady.

“Only just up to the office, my dear,” said the Jew coaxingly.

It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm

that she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and

earnest desire to be “blessed” if she would; a polite and delicate

evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been

possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict

upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.

The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was

gaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and

yellow curl-papers, to the other female.

“Nancy, my dear,” said the Jew in a soothing manner, “what do _you_

say?”

“That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,” replied

Nancy.

“What do you mean by that?” said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly

manner.

“What I say, Bill,” replied the lady collectedly.

“Why, you’re just the very person for it,” reasoned Mr. Sikes: “nobody

about here knows anything of you.”

“And as I don’t want ’em to, neither,” replied Nancy in the same

composed manner, “it’s rather more no than yes with me, Bill.”

“She’ll go, Fagin,” said Sikes.

“No, she won’t, Fagin,” said Nancy.

“Yes, she will, Fagin,” said Sikes.

And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and

bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake

the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same

considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed

into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb

of Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being

recognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.

Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her

curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,—both articles of dress

being provided from the Jew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy prepared

to issue forth on her errand.

“Stop a minute, my dear,” said the Jew, producing, a little covered

basket. “Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.”

“Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,” said Sikes;

“it looks real and genivine like.”

“Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,” said the Jew, hanging a large

street-door key on the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand.

“There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!” said the Jew, rubbing

his hands.

“Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!”

exclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket

and the street-door key in an agony of distress. “What has become of

him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s

been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please,

gentlemen!”

Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone:

to the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked

to the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.

“Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,” said the Jew, turning round to his

young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition

to them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.

“She’s a honour to her sex,” said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and

smiting the table with his enormous fist. “Here’s her health, and

wishing they was all like her!”

While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the

accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the

police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity

consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she

arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.

Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the

cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and

listened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke.

“Nolly, dear?” murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; “Nolly?”

There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been

taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society

having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr.

Fang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and

amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be

more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical

instrument. He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the

loss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the

county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.

“Well!” cried a faint and feeble voice.

“Is there a little boy here?” inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.

“No,” replied the voice; “God forbid.”

This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_

playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and

doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who

was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license;

thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the

Stamp-office.

But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or

knew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in

the striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and

lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of

the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear

brother.

“I haven’t got him, my dear,” said the old man.

“Where is he?” screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.

“Why, the gentleman’s got him,” replied the officer.

“What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?” exclaimed

Nancy.

In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the

deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office,

and discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to

have been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the

prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own

residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it

was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in

the directions to the coachman.

In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman

staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a

swift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could

think of, to the domicile of the Jew.

Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered,

than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat,

expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of

wishing the company good-morning.

“We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,” said the Jew

greatly excited. “Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring

home some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust

to you, my dear,—to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,”

added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; “there’s money,

my dears. I shall shut up this shop tonight. You’ll know where to find

me! Don’t stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!”

With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully

double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of

concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver.

Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath

his clothing.

A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. “Who’s there?” he

cried in a shrill tone.

“Me!” replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.

“What now?” cried the Jew impatiently.

“Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?” inquired the

Dodger.

“Yes,” replied the Jew, “wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find

him out, that’s all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.”

The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after

his companions.

“He has not peached so far,” said the Jew as he pursued his occupation.

“If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth

yet.”

CHAPTER XIV.

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW’S, WITH

THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM,

WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s

abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was

carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the

conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s

history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse

without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast;

but, when he came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first

act was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again

looking on the face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were

disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

“Ah!” said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes.

“It is gone, you see.”

“I see it is ma’am,” replied Oliver. “Why have they taken it away?”

“It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it

seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you

know,” rejoined the old lady.

“Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,” said Oliver. “I liked to

see it. I quite loved it.”

“Well, well!” said the old lady, good-humouredly; “you get well as fast

as ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise

you that! Now, let us talk about something else.”

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at

that time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he

endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened

attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and

handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome

man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a

merchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man,

and wrote such dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought

the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had

expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the

merits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone,

poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea.

After tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as

quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played, with great

interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some

warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily

to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so

quiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after

the noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it

seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his

clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and

a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver

was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave

them to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell

them to a Jew, and keep the money for herself. This she very readily

did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew

roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think

that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger

of his ever being able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell

the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was

sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr.

Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see

him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

“Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair

nicely for you, child,” said Mrs. Bedwin. “Dear heart alive! If we had

known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar

on, and made you as smart as sixpence!”

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented

grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little

frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and

handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so

far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot,

that she really didn’t think it would have been possible, on the

longest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow

calling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room,

quite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little

gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr.

Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book

away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down.

Oliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read

such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world

wiser. Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver

Twist, every day of their lives.

“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr.

Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the

shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.

“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”

“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old gentleman

kindly; “and you will like that, better than looking at the

outsides,—that is, some cases; because there are books of which the

backs and covers are by far the best parts.”

“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to

some large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head,

and smiling as he did so; “there are other equally heavy ones, though

of a much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man,

and write books, eh?”

“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.

“What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it

would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old

gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing.

Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it

was.

“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features. “Don’t be

afraid! We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade

to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the

old gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious

instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention

to.

“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the

same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him

assume yet, “I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am

going to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am

sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would

be.”

“Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed

Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s

commencement! “Don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets

again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the

wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!”

“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of

Oliver’s sudden appeal; “you need not be afraid of my deserting you,

unless you give me cause.”

“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.

“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman. “I do not think you ever

will. I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have

endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you,

nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well

account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my

dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and

delight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my

heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections. Deep

affliction has but strengthened and refined them.”

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to

his companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards:

Oliver sat quite still.

“Well, well!” said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful

tone, “I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing

that I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful,

perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a

friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make,

confirm the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who

brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found you.

Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.”

Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on

the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the

farm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly

impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the

servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.

“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.

“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in

the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was

an old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in

his manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason

to know.

“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.

“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “I would rather you remained here.”

At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a

thick stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was

dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and

gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with

green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat;

and a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end,

dangled loosely below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were

twisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes

into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had a

manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking

out of the corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly

reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself,

the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of

orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented

voice,

“Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and

extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a

piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed

with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll

be content to eat my own head, sir!”

This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed

nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his

case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility

of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable

a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed,

Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most

sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get

through it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very

thick coating of powder.

“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon

the ground. “Hallo! what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and retreating a

pace or two.

“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr.

Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?” said

Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “Wait a minute! Don’t speak!

Stop—” continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever

in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy who had the orange! If

that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel

upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.”

“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come! Put

down your hat; and speak to my young friend.”

“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old

gentleman, drawing off his gloves. “There’s always more or less

orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it’s put there

by the surgeon’s boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit

last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I

saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light.

‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin! A

man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not—” Here the irascible old gentleman

gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was always

understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it

was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand,

he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to

a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was

the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.

“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

“That’s the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow.

“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.

“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.

Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about

to say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell

Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the

visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.

“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

“Don’t know?”

“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two

sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”

“And which is Oliver?”

“Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call

him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy;

with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of

his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a

wolf. I know him! The wretch!”

“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young

Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”

“They are not,” replied Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr.

Grimwig the most exquisite delight.

“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come

from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers

are not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers

sometimes; haven’t they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for

murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn’t

recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!”

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr.

Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and

manner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for

contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the

orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to

him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the

first, to oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one

point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he

had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he

thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled

maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was

in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn’t find

a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be

content to—and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous

gentleman: knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good

humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his

entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and

Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than

he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.

“And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of

the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr.

Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as

he resumed his subject.

“Tomorrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone

with me at the time. Come up to me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, my

dear.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because

he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.

“I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; “he

won’t come up to you tomorrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is

deceiving you, my good friend.”

“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.

“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll—” and down went the stick.

“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr. Brownlow,

knocking the table.

“And I for his falsehood with my head!” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking

the table also.

“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.

“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”

As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment,

a small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased

of the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this

history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room.

“Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to

go back.”

“He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin.

“Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a poor

man, and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back,

too.”

The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran

another; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy;

but there was no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a

breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him.

“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; “I

particularly wished those books to be returned tonight.”

“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; “he

will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.”

“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver. “I’ll run

all the way, sir.”

The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out

on any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined

him that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the

commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions: on

this head at least: at once.

“You _shall_ go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are on a

chair by my table. Fetch them down.”

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in

a great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to

take.

“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; “you

are to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have

come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so

you will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.”

“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up

the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully

under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin

followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the

nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the

street: all of which Oliver said he clearly understood. Having

superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the old lady

at length permitted him to depart.

“Bless his sweet face!” said the old lady, looking after him. “I can’t

bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.”

At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned

the corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and,

closing the door, went back to her own room.

“Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,” said Mr.

Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. “It will

be dark by that time.”

“Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.

“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.

The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast, at the

moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.

“No,” he said, smiting the table with his fist, “I do not. The boy has

a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his

arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket. He’ll join his old friends

the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house,

sir, I’ll eat my head.”

With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the

two friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.

It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our

own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and

hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a

bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see

his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly

and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come

back.

It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely

discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in

silence, with the watch between them.

CHAPTER XV.

SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY

WERE

In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of

Little Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light

burnt all day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in

the summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a

small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a

velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by

that dim light no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated

to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated,

red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his

master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh

cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some

recent conflict.

“Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!” said Mr. Sikes, suddenly

breaking silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be

disturbed by the dog’s winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought

upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable

from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for

argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a

kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.

Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by

their masters; but Mr. Sikes’s dog, having faults of temper in common

with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a

powerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth

in one of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he retired,

growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr.

Sikes levelled at his head.

“You would, would you?” said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and

deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew

from his pocket. “Come here, you born devil! Come here! D’ye hear?”

The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest

key of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some

unaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he

was, and growled more fiercely than before: at the same time grasping

the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild

beast.

This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on

his knees, began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped

from right to left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and

barking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the

struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other; when, the

door suddenly opening, the dog darted out: leaving Bill Sikes with the

poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.

There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr.

Sikes, being disappointed of the dog’s participation, at once

transferred his share in the quarrel to the new comer.

“What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?” said Sikes,

with a fierce gesture.

“I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,” replied Fagin, humbly; for the

Jew was the new comer.

“Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!” growled Sikes. “Couldn’t you

hear the noise?”

“Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,” replied the Jew.

“Oh no! You hear nothing, you don’t,” retorted Sikes with a fierce

sneer. “Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I

wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.”

“Why?” inquired the Jew with a forced smile.

“’Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as

haven’t half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,”

replied Sikes, shutting up the knife with a very expressive look;

“that’s why.”

The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to

laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at

ease, however.

“Grin away,” said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with

savage contempt; “grin away. You’ll never have the laugh at me, though,

unless it’s behind a nightcap. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin;

and, d—me, I’ll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of me.”

“Well, well, my dear,” said the Jew, “I know all that; we—we—have a

mutual interest, Bill,—a mutual interest.”

“Humph,” said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on

the Jew’s side than on his. “Well, what have you got to say to me?”

“It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,” replied Fagin, “and

this is your share. It’s rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but

as I know you’ll do me a good turn another time, and—”

“Stow that gammon,” interposed the robber, impatiently. “Where is it?

Hand over!”

“Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,” replied the Jew,

soothingly. “Here it is! All safe!” As he spoke, he drew forth an old

cotton handkerchief from his breast; and untying a large knot in one

corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from

him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it

contained.

“This is all, is it?” inquired Sikes.

“All,” replied the Jew.

“You haven’t opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come

along, have you?” inquired Sikes, suspiciously. “Don’t put on an

injured look at the question; you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the

tinkler.”

These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell.

It was answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile

and repulsive in appearance.

Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly

understanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a

remarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if

in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the

action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third

person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie

the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had observed the

brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no

good to him.

“Is anybody here, Barney?” inquired Fagin; speaking, now that

Sikes was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.

“Dot a shoul,” replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the

heart or not: made their way through the nose.

“Nobody?” inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might

mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.

“Dobody but Biss Dadsy,” replied Barney.

“Nancy!” exclaimed Sikes. “Where? Strike me blind, if I don’t honour

that ’ere girl, for her native talents.”

“She’s bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,” replied Barney.

“Send her here,” said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. “Send her

here.”

Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining

silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and

presently returned, ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the

bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.

“You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?” inquired Sikes, proffering the

glass.

“Yes, I am, Bill,” replied the young lady, disposing of its contents;

“and tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat’s been ill and

confined to the crib; and—”

“Ah, Nancy, dear!” said Fagin, looking up.

Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew’s red eye-brows, and a

half closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was

disposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance.

The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she

suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr.

Sikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes’

time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy

pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it was time to go.

Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself,

expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together,

followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard

as soon as his master was out of sight.

The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it;

looked after him as he walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched

fist; muttered a deep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated

himself at the table; where he was soon deeply absorbed in the

interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.

Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very

short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the

book-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a

by-street which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his

mistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in

the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back; and

so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.

He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to

feel; and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick,

who, starved and beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment;

when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud. “Oh, my

dear brother!” And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter was,

when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his

neck.

“Don’t,” cried Oliver, struggling. “Let go of me. Who is it? What are

you stopping me for?”

The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from

the young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a

street-door key in her hand.

“Oh my gracious!” said the young woman, “I have found him! Oh! Oliver!

Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your

account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank gracious

goodness heavins, I’ve found him!” With these incoherent exclamations,

the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully

hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a

butcher’s boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was

also looking on, whether he didn’t think he had better run for the

doctor. To which, the butcher’s boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to

say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not.

“Oh, no, no, never mind,” said the young woman, grasping Oliver’s hand;

“I’m better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!”

“Oh, ma’am,” replied the young woman, “he ran away, near a month ago,

from his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went

and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his

mother’s heart.”

“Young wretch!” said one woman.

“Go home, do, you little brute,” said the other.

“I am not,” replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. “I don’t know her. I

haven’t any sister, or father and mother either. I’m an orphan; I live

at Pentonville.”

“Only hear him, how he braves it out!” cried the young woman.

“Why, it’s Nancy!” exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first

time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.

“You see he knows me!” cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. “He

can’t help himself. Make him come home, there’s good people, or he’ll

kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!”

“What the devil’s this?” said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with

a white dog at his heels; “young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother,

you young dog! Come home directly.”

“I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help! help!” cried Oliver,

struggling in the man’s powerful grasp.

“Help!” repeated the man. “Yes; I’ll help you, you young rascal! What

books are these? You’ve been a stealing ’em, have you? Give ’em here.”

With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck

him on the head.

“That’s right!” cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. “That’s the

only way of bringing him to his senses!”

“To be sure!” cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look

at the garret-window.

“It’ll do him good!” said the two women.

“And he shall have it, too!” rejoined the man, administering another

blow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. “Come on, you young villain!

Here, Bull’s-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!”

Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of

the attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the

brutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders

that he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be;

what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low

neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another

moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was

forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to

give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed,

whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for

them, had they been ever so plain.

The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the

open door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if

there were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat,

perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.

CHAPTER XVI.

RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY

The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open

space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other

indications of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they

reached this spot: the girl being quite unable to support any longer,

the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he

roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy’s hand.

“Do you hear?” growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.

They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.

Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He

held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.

“Give me the other,” said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand.

“Here, Bull’s-Eye!”

The dog looked up, and growled.

“See here, boy!” said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver’s throat;

“if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D’ye mind!”

The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were

anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.

“He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn’t!” said

Sikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval.

“Now, you know what you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick

as you like; the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young ’un!”

Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually

endearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl

for the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.

It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been

Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night

was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle

through the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the

streets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger

in Oliver’s eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and

depressing.

They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the

hour. With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned

their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded.

“Eight o’clock, Bill,” said Nancy, when the bell ceased.

“What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I?” replied

Sikes.

“I wonder whether _they_ can hear it,” said Nancy.

“Of course they can,” replied Sikes. “It was Bartlemy time when I was

shopped; and there warn’t a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t

hear the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and

din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost

have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door.”

“Poor fellow!” said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the

quarter in which the bell had sounded. “Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps

as them!”

“Yes; that’s all you women think of,” answered Sikes. “Fine young

chaps! Well, they’re as good as dead, so it don’t much matter.”

With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency

to jealousy, and, clasping Oliver’s wrist more firmly, told him to step

out again.

“Wait a minute!” said the girl: “I wouldn’t hurry by, if it was you

that was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o’clock struck,

Bill. I’d walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow

was on the ground, and I hadn’t a shawl to cover me.”

“And what good would that do?” inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes.

“Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout

rope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at

all, for all the good it would do me. Come on, and don’t stand

preaching there.”

The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and

they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in

her face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly

white.

They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full

half-hour: meeting very few people, and those appearing from their

looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself.

At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of

old-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there

was no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the

door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was

in a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating

that it was to let: which looked as if it had hung there for many

years.

“All right,” cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.

Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell.

They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few

moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised,

was heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then

seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and

all three were quickly inside the house.

The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had

let them in, chained and barred the door.

“Anybody here?” inquired Sikes.

“No,” replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.

“Is the old ’un here?” asked the robber.

“Yes,” replied the voice, “and precious down in the mouth he has been.

Won’t he be glad to see you? Oh, no!”

The style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it,

seemed familiar to Oliver’s ears: but it was impossible to distinguish

even the form of the speaker in the darkness.

“Let’s have a glim,” said Sikes, “or we shall go breaking our necks, or

treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!”

“Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,” replied the voice. The

receding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute,

the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He

bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft

stick.

The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of

recognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away,

beckoned the visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They

crossed an empty kitchen; and, opening the door of a low

earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a small

back-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.

“Oh, my wig, my wig!” cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the

laughter had proceeded: “here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin,

look at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly

game, I can’t bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.”

With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself

flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an

ectasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the

cleft stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round

and round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number

of low bows to the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a

rather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it

interfered with business, rifled Oliver’s pockets with steady

assiduity.

“Look at his togs, Fagin!” said Charley, putting the light so close to

his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. “Look at his togs!

Superfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And

his books, too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!”

“Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,” said the Jew, bowing

with mock humility. “The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear,

for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my

dear, and say you were coming? We’d have got something warm for

supper.”

At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed,

and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound

note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery

awakened his merriment.

“Hallo, what’s that?” inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew

seized the note. “That’s mine, Fagin.”

“No, no, my dear,” said the Jew. “Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the

books.”

“If that ain’t mine!” said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a

determined air; “mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take the boy back

again.”

The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different

cause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being

taken back.

“Come! Hand over, will you?” said Sikes.

“This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?” inquired the

Jew.

“Fair, or not fair,” retorted Sikes, “hand over, I tell you! Do you

think Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time

but to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as

gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton,

give it here!”

With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between

the Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face,

folded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.

“That’s for our share of the trouble,” said Sikes; “and not half

enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If

you ain’t, sell ’em.”

“They’re very pretty,” said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces,

had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; “beautiful

writing, isn’t is, Oliver?” At sight of the dismayed look with which

Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a

lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more

boisterous than the first.

“They belong to the old gentleman,” said Oliver, wringing his hands;

“to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had

me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back;

send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but

pray, pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady: all

of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have

mercy upon me, and send them back!”

With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate

grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew’s feet; and beat his hands

together, in perfect desperation.

“The boy’s right,” remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting

his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. “You’re right, Oliver, you’re

right; they _will_ think you have stolen ’em. Ha! ha!” chuckled the

Jew, rubbing his hands, “it couldn’t have happened better, if we had

chosen our time!”

“Of course it couldn’t,” replied Sikes; “I know’d that, directly I see

him coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all

right enough. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have

taken him in at all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they

should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He’s safe

enough.”

Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being

spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what

passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet,

and tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made

the bare old house echo to the roof.

“Keep back the dog, Bill!” cried Nancy, springing before the door, and

closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. “Keep

back the dog; he’ll tear the boy to pieces.”

“Serve him right!” cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from

the girl’s grasp. “Stand off from me, or I’ll split your head against

the wall.”

“I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,” screamed the

girl, struggling violently with the man, “the child shan’t be torn down

by the dog, unless you kill me first.”

“Shan’t he!” said Sikes, setting his teeth. “I’ll soon do that, if you

don’t keep off.”

The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the

room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among

them.

“What’s the matter here!” said Fagin, looking round.

“The girl’s gone mad, I think,” replied Sikes, savagely.

“No, she hasn’t,” said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle;

“no, she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.”

“Then keep quiet, will you?” said the Jew, with a threatening look.

“No, I won’t do that, neither,” replied Nancy, speaking very loud.

“Come! What do you think of that?”

Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs

of that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel

tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any

conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the

attention of the company, he turned to Oliver.

“So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?” said the Jew, taking up

a jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; “eh?”

Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed

quickly.

“Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?” sneered the

Jew, catching the boy by the arm. “We’ll cure you of that, my young

master.”

The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders with the club; and

was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it

from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought

some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.

“I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,” cried the girl. “You’ve got

the boy, and what more would you have?—Let him be—let him be—or I shall

put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before

my time.”

The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this

threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked

alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless

from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.

“Why, Nancy!” said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during

which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted

manner; “you,—you’re more clever than ever tonight. Ha! ha! my dear,

you are acting beautifully.”

“Am I?” said the girl. “Take care I don’t overdo it. You will be the

worse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep

clear of me.”

There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all

her other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and

despair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be

hopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss

Nancy’s rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a

glance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that

he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue.

Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal

pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy

to reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and

threats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the

fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the

object against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more

tangible arguments.

“What do you mean by this?” said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very

common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features:

which, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand

times that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a

disorder as measles: “what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know

who you are, and what you are?”

“Oh, yes, I know all about it,” replied the girl, laughing

hysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor

assumption of indifference.

“Well, then, keep quiet,” rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was

accustomed to use when addressing his dog, “or I’ll quiet you for a

good long time to come.”

The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting

a hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the

blood came.

“You’re a nice one,” added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a

contemptuous air, “to take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty

subject for the child, as you call him, to make a friend of!”

“God Almighty help me, I am!” cried the girl passionately; “and I wish

I had been struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them

we passed so near tonight, before I had lent a hand in bringing him

here. He’s a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night

forth. Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without blows?”

“Come, come, Sikes,” said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory

tone, and motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all

that passed; “we must have civil words; civil words, Bill.”

“Civil words!” cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see.

“Civil words, you villain! Yes, you deserve ’em from me. I thieved for

you when I was a child not half as old as this!” pointing to Oliver. “I

have been in the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years

since. Don’t you know it? Speak out! Don’t you know it?”

“Well, well,” replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; “and,

if you have, it’s your living!”

“Aye, it is!” returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the

words in one continuous and vehement scream. “It is my living; and the

cold, wet, dirty streets are my home; and you’re the wretch that drove

me to them long ago, and that’ll keep me there, day and night, day and

night, till I die!”

“I shall do you a mischief!” interposed the Jew, goaded by these

reproaches; “a mischief worse than that, if you say much more!”

The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a

transport of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably

have left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been

seized by Sikes at the right moment; upon which, she made a few

ineffectual struggles, and fainted.

“She’s all right now,” said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. “She’s

uncommon strong in the arms, when she’s up in this way.”

The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have

the disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the

boys, seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurance

incidental to business.

“It’s the worst of having to do with women,” said the Jew, replacing

his club; “but they’re clever, and we can’t get on, in our line,

without ’em. Charley, show Oliver to bed.”

“I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had

he?” inquired Charley Bates.

“Certainly not,” replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which

Charley put the question.

Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the

cleft stick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were

two or three of the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with

many uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical old

suit of clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon

leaving off at Mr. Brownlow’s; and the accidental display of which, to

Fagin, by the Jew who purchased them, had been the very first clue

received, of his whereabout.

“Put off the smart ones,” said Charley, “and I’ll give ’em to Fagin to

take care of. What fun it is!”

Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates rolling up the new

clothes under his arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the

dark, and locking the door behind him.

The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who

opportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other

feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept

many people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which

Oliver was placed. But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound

asleep.

CHAPTER XVII.

OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON

TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION

It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to

present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as

the layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks

upon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the

next scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience

with a comic song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the

grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in

danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the

other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest

pitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the

great hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny

chorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of

places, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company,

carolling perpetually.

Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would

seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread

boards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are

not a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of

passive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the

mimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt

impulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of

mere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.

As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place,

are not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many

considered as the great art of authorship: an author’s skill in his

craft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the

dilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter:

this brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed

unnecessary. If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the

part of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver

Twist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good

and substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be

invited to proceed upon such an expedition.

Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked

with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was

in the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were

dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous

tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high;

but this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in

his eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant

stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for

utterance.

Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and

others who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely

returned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in

his dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended

the infant paupers with parochial care.

“Drat that beadle!” said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at

the garden-gate. “If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk,

Mr. Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it _is_ a

pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.”

The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of

delight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the

garden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the

house.

“Mrs. Mann,” said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself

into a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself

gradually and slowly down into a chair; “Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good

morning.”

“Well, and good morning to _you_, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann, with many

smiles; “and hoping you find yourself well, sir!”

“So-so, Mrs. Mann,” replied the beadle. “A porochial life is not a bed

of roses, Mrs. Mann.”

“Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,” rejoined the lady. And all the

infant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety,

if they had heard it.

“A porochial life, ma’am,” continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table

with his cane, “is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but

all public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.”

Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her

hands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.

“Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!” said the beadle.

Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again: evidently to the

satisfaction of the public character: who, repressing a complacent

smile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,

“Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.”

“Lauk, Mr. Bumble!” cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.

“To London, ma’am,” resumed the inflexible beadle, “by coach. I and two

paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement;

and the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the matter

before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell. And I very much question,”

added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, “whether the Clerkinwell Sessions

will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with

me.”

“Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,” said Mrs. Mann,

coaxingly.

“The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,”

replied Mr. Bumble; “and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they

come off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have

only themselves to thank.”

There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing

manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs.

Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,

“You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them

paupers in carts.”

“That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,” said the beadle. “We put the sick

paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking

cold.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Mann.

“The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,”

said Mr. Bumble. “They are both in a very low state, and we find it

would come two pound cheaper to move ’em than to bury ’em—that is, if

we can throw ’em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to

do, if they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!”

When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered

the cocked hat; and he became grave.

“We are forgetting business, ma’am,” said the beadle; “here is your

porochial stipend for the month.”

Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his

pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.

“It’s very much blotted, sir,” said the farmer of infants; “but it’s

formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much

obliged to you, I’m sure.”

Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey;

and inquired how the children were.

“Bless their dear little hearts!” said Mrs. Mann with emotion, “they’re

as well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last

week. And little Dick.”

“Isn’t that boy no better?” inquired Mr. Bumble.

Mrs. Mann shook her head.

“He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,”

said Mr. Bumble angrily. “Where is he?”

“I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,” replied Mrs. Mann. “Here,

you Dick!”

After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under

the pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful

presence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.

The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large

and bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung

loosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like

those of an old man.

Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s

glance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even

to hear the beadle’s voice.

“Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?” said Mrs. Mann.

The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.

“What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?” inquired Mr. Bumble, with

well-timed jocularity.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the child faintly.

“I should think not,” said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very

much at Mr. Bumble’s humour.

“You want for nothing, I’m sure.”

“I should like—” faltered the child.

“Hey-day!” interposed Mrs. Mann, “I suppose you’re going to say that

you _do_ want for something, now? Why, you little wretch—”

“Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!” said the beadle, raising his hand with a show

of authority. “Like what, sir, eh?”

“I should like,” faltered the child, “if somebody that can write, would

put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and

seal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.”

“Why, what does the boy mean?” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the

earnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression:

accustomed as he was to such things. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I should like,” said the child, “to leave my dear love to poor Oliver

Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to

think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help

him. And I should like to tell him,” said the child pressing his small

hands together, and speaking with great fervour, “that I was glad to

die when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man,

and had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me,

or be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both

children there together.”

Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with

indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said,

“They’re all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had

demogalized them all!”

“I couldn’t have believed it, sir” said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands,

and looking malignantly at Dick. “I never see such a hardened little

wretch!”

“Take him away, ma’am!” said Mr. Bumble imperiously. “This must be

stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.”

“I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?”

said Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.

“They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the

true state of the case,” said Mr. Bumble. “There; take him away, I

can’t bear the sight on him.”

Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr.

Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.

At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked

hat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a

cape to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by

the criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course

of time, he arrived in London.

He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated

in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in

shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble

declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel

quite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.

Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble

sat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a

temperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass

of hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the

fire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of

discontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.

The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the

following advertisement.

“FIVE GUINEAS REWARD

“Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on

Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since

been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will

give such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver

Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which

the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.”

And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person,

appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr.

Brownlow at full length.

Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and

carefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes

was on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left

the glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted.

“Is Mr. Brownlow at home?” inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened

the door.

To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive

reply of “I don’t know; where do you come from?”

Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his

errand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door,

hastened into the passage in a breathless state.

“Come in, come in,” said the old lady: “I knew we should hear of him.

Poor dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I

said so all along.”

Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour

again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who

was not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now

returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately:

which he did.

He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his

friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter

gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:

“A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.”

“Pray don’t interrupt just now,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Take a seat, will

you?”

Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr.

Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an

uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little

impatience,

“Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?”

“Yes, sir,” said Mr. Bumble.

“And you _are_ a beadle, are you not?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.

“I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,” rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.

“Of course,” observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, “I knew he was.

A beadle all over!”

Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and

resumed:

“Do you know where this poor boy is now?”

“No more than nobody,” replied Mr. Bumble.

“Well, what _do_ you know of him?” inquired the old gentleman. “Speak

out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What _do_ you know of

him?”

“You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?” said Mr. Grimwig,

caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.

Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with

portentous solemnity.

“You see?” said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.

Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up

countenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding

Oliver, in as few words as possible.

Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms;

inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’

reflection, commenced his story.

It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it

did, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of

it was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents.

That he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than

treachery, ingratitude, and malice. That he had terminated his brief

career in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly

attack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from

his master’s house. In proof of his really being the person he

represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had

brought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s

observations.

“I fear it is all too true,” said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after

looking over the papers. “This is not much for your intelligence; but I

would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable

to the boy.”

It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this

information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have

imparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too

late to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and,

pocketing the five guineas, withdrew.

Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so

much disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to

vex him further.

At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.

“Mrs. Bedwin,” said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; “that

boy, Oliver, is an imposter.”

“It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,” said the old lady energetically.

“I tell you he is,” retorted the old gentleman. “What do you mean by

can’t be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and

he has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.”

“I never will believe it, sir,” replied the old lady, firmly. “Never!”

“You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying

story-books,” growled Mr. Grimwig. “I knew it all along. Why didn’t you

take my advice in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I

suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!” And Mr.

Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.

“He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,” retorted Mrs. Bedwin,

indignantly. “I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty

years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about

them. That’s my opinion!”

This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted

nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head,

and smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was

stopped by Mr. Brownlow.

“Silence!” said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from

feeling. “Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you

that. Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs.

Bedwin. Remember! I am in earnest.”

There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.

Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it

was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it

might have broken outright.

CHAPTER XVIII.

HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE

FRIENDS

About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to

pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of

reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of

which he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary

extent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious

friends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so

much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin

laid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and

cherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished

with hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young

lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel

circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing

a desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be

hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin did not seek to conceal

his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that

the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in

question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of

certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not precisely true,

was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. Fagin) and a few

select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable

picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great friendliness and

politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he might never

be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.

Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s words, and

imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was

possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the

guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and

that deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or

over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by

the Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely,

when he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that

gentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some

foregone conspiracy of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the

Jew’s searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs

were neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.

The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that

if he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they

would be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering

himself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the

room-door behind him.

And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many

subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and

left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which,

never failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must

long ago have formed of him, were sad indeed.

After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked;

and he was at liberty to wander about the house.

It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden

chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the

ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were

ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded

that a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to

better people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and

dreary as it looked now.

Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings;

and sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would

scamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With

these exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living

thing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from

room to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the

street-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain

there, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys

returned.

In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars

which held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which

was admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which

made the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There

was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter;

and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours

together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and

crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends.

Sometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the

parapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again;

and as the window of Oliver’s observatory was nailed down, and dimmed

with the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make

out the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any

attempt to be seen or heard,—which he had as much chance of being, as

if he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that

evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to

evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him

justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with

this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in

his toilet, straightway.

Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some

faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those

about him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the

way of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and,

kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he

could take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which

Mr. Dawkins designated as “japanning his trotter-cases.” The phrase,

rendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.

Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational

animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy

attitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and

having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of

having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to

disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco

that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer

that mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce,

with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature.

He looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief

space; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said,

half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:

“What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!”

“Ah!” said Master Charles Bates; “he don’t know what’s good for him.”

The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates.

They both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.

“I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?” said the Dodger

mournfully.

“I think I know that,” replied Oliver, looking up. “It’s a the—; you’re

one, are you not?” inquired Oliver, checking himself.

“I am,” replied the Dodger. “I’d scorn to be anything else.” Mr.

Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment,

and looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged

by his saying anything to the contrary.

“I am,” repeated the Dodger. “So’s Charley. So’s Fagin. So’s Sikes.

So’s Nancy. So’s Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he’s the

downiest one of the lot!”

“And the least given to peaching,” added Charley Bates.

“He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing

himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without

wittles for a fortnight,” said the Dodger.

“Not a bit of it,” observed Charley.

“He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs

or sings when he’s in company!” pursued the Dodger. “Won’t he growl at

all, when he hears a fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as

ain’t of his breed! Oh, no!”

“He’s an out-and-out Christian,” said Charley.

This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s abilities, but it

was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only

known it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to

be out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog, there

exist strong and singular points of resemblance.

“Well, well,” said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they

had strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced

all his proceedings. “This hasn’t got anything to do with young Green

here.”

“No more it has,” said Charley. “Why don’t you put yourself under

Fagin, Oliver?”

“And make your fortun’ out of hand?” added the Dodger, with a grin.

“And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I

mean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the

forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,” said Charley Bates.

“I don’t like it,” rejoined Oliver, timidly; “I wish they would let me

go. I—I—would rather go.”

“And Fagin would _rather_ not!” rejoined Charley.

Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to

express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his

boot-cleaning.

“Go!” exclaimed the Dodger. “Why, where’s your spirit? Don’t you take

any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your

friends?”

“Oh, blow that!” said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk

handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard,

“that’s too mean; that is.”

“_I_ couldn’t do it,” said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.

“You can leave your friends, though,” said Oliver with a half smile;

“and let them be punished for what you did.”

“That,” rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, “That was all out

of consideration for Fagin, ’cause the traps know that we work

together, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn’t made our

lucky; that was the move, wasn’t it, Charley?”

Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection

of Oliver’s flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was

inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and

down into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping,

about five minutes long.

“Look here!” said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and

halfpence. “Here’s a jolly life! What’s the odds where it comes from?

Here, catch hold; there’s plenty more where they were took from. You

won’t, won’t you? Oh, you precious flat!”

“It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?” inquired Charley Bates. “He’ll come

to be scragged, won’t he?”

“I don’t know what that means,” replied Oliver.

“Something in this way, old feller,” said Charley. As he said it,

Master Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect

in the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious

sound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic

representation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.

“That’s what it means,” said Charley. “Look how he stares, Jack! I

never did see such prime company as that ’ere boy; he’ll be the death

of me, I know he will.” Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily

again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.

“You’ve been brought up bad,” said the Dodger, surveying his boots with

much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. “Fagin will make

something of you, though, or you’ll be the first he ever had that

turned out unprofitable. You’d better begin at once; for you’ll come to

the trade long before you think of it; and you’re only losing time,

Oliver.”

Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his

own: which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched

into a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the

life they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the

best thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin’s favour without more

delay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it.

“And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,” said the Dodger, as the Jew

was heard unlocking the door above, “if you don’t take fogels and

tickers—”

“What’s the good of talking in that way?” interposed Master Bates; “he

don’t know what you mean.”

“If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,” said the Dodger,

reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver’s capacity, “some

other cove will; so that the coves that lose ’em will be all the worse,

and you’ll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the

better, except the chaps wot gets them—and you’ve just as good a right

to them as they have.”

“To be sure, to be sure!” said the Jew, who had entered unseen by

Oliver. “It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the

Dodger’s word for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his

trade.”

The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the

Dodger’s reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his

pupil’s proficiency.

The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had

returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver

had never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom

Chitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few

gallantries with the lady, now made his appearance.

Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps

numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his

deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that

he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius

and professional aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a

pock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy

fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out

of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his

“time” was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having

worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow

any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong

marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder

was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there

was no remedy against the county. The same remark he considered to

apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be

decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating

that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long

hard-working days; and that he “wished he might be busted if he warn’t

as dry as a lime-basket.”

“Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?” inquired the

Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the

table.

“I—I—don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Who’s that?” inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at

Oliver.

“A young friend of mine, my dear,” replied the Jew.

“He’s in luck, then,” said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin.

“Never mind where I came from, young ’un; you’ll find your way there,

soon enough, I’ll bet a crown!”

At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same

subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.

After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew

their chairs towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and

sit by him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to

interest his hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade,

the proficiency of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the

liberality of the Jew himself. At length these subjects displayed signs

of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same: for the

house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy

accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.

From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost

constant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with

the Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr.

Fagin best knew. At other times the old man would tell them stories of

robberies he had committed in his younger days: mixed up with so much

that was droll and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing

heartily, and showing that he was amused in spite of all his better

feelings.

In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared

his mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the

companionship of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was

now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would

blacken it, and change its hue for ever.

CHAPTER XIX.

IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON

It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his

great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up

over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face:

emerged from his den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and

chained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure,

and until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down

the street as quickly as he could.

The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of

Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the

street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck

off in the direction of the Spitalfields.

The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the

streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and

clammy to the touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a

being as the Jew to be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping

beneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man

seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and

darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of

some rich offal for a meal.

He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he

reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon

became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in

that close and densely-populated quarter.

The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be

at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the

intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets,

and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the

farther end. At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having

exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked

upstairs.

A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man’s

voice demanded who was there.

“Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,” said the Jew looking in.

“Bring in your body then,” said Sikes. “Lie down, you stupid brute!

Don’t you know the devil when he’s got a great-coat on?”

Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin’s outer

garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a

chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his

tail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his

nature to be.

“Well!” said Sikes.

“Well, my dear,” replied the Jew.—“Ah! Nancy.”

The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to

imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had

not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon

the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady’s

behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and

bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold

night, and no mistake.

“It _is_ cold, Nancy dear,” said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands

over the fire. “It seems to go right through one,” added the old man,

touching his side.

“It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,” said

Mr. Sikes. “Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make

haste! It’s enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase

shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.”

Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were

many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were

filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of

brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.

“Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,” replied the Jew, putting down the

glass after just setting his lips to it.

“What! You’re afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?”

inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. “Ugh!”

With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw

the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony

to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.

The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second

glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a

restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly

furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to

induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and

with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three

heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a “life-preserver” that

hung over the chimney-piece.

“There,” said Sikes, smacking his lips. “Now I’m ready.”

“For business?” inquired the Jew.

“For business,” replied Sikes; “so say what you’ve got to say.”

“About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?” said the Jew, drawing his chair

forward, and speaking in a very low voice.

“Yes. Wot about it?” inquired Sikes.

“Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,” said the Jew. “He knows what I

mean, Nancy; don’t he?”

“No, he don’t,” sneered Mr. Sikes. “Or he won’t, and that’s the same

thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit

there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you

warn’t the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?”

“Hush, Bill, hush!” said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop

this burst of indignation; “somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody

will hear us.”

“Let ’em hear!” said Sikes; “I don’t care.” But as Mr. Sikes _did_

care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and

grew calmer.

“There, there,” said the Jew, coaxingly. “It was only my caution,

nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to

be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such

plate!” said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in

a rapture of anticipation.

“Not at all,” replied Sikes coldly.

“Not to be done at all!” echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.

“No, not at all,” rejoined Sikes. “At least it can’t be a put-up job,

as we expected.”

“Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,” said the Jew, turning pale

with anger. “Don’t tell me!”

“But I will tell you,” retorted Sikes. “Who are you that’s not to be

told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for

a fortnight, and he can’t get one of the servants in line.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Bill,” said the Jew: softening as the other

grew heated: “that neither of the two men in the house can be got

over?”

“Yes, I do mean to tell you so,” replied Sikes. “The old lady has had

’em these twenty years; and if you were to give ’em five hundred pound,

they wouldn’t be in it.”

“But do you mean to say, my dear,” remonstrated the Jew, “that the

women can’t be got over?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes.

“Not by flash Toby Crackit?” said the Jew incredulously. “Think what

women are, Bill,”

“No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,” replied Sikes. “He says he’s worn

sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he’s been

loitering down there, and it’s all of no use.”

“He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my

dear,” said the Jew.

“So he did,” rejoined Sikes, “and they warn’t of no more use than the

other plant.”

The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some

minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said,

with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared

the game was up.

“And yet,” said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, “it’s a

sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon

it.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Sikes. “Worse luck!”

A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep

thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy

perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time.

Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her

eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.

“Fagin,” said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed;

“is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done from the

outside?”

“Yes,” said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.

“Is it a bargain?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, my dear, yes,” rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every

muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had

awakened.

“Then,” said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with some disdain,

“let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the

garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and

shutters. The crib’s barred up at night like a jail; but there’s one

part we can crack, safe and softly.”

“Which is that, Bill?” asked the Jew eagerly.

“Why,” whispered Sikes, “as you cross the lawn—”

“Yes?” said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost

starting out of it.

“Umph!” cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her

head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew’s

face. “Never mind which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know;

but it’s best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.”

“As you like, my dear, as you like” replied the Jew. “Is there no help

wanted, but yours and Toby’s?”

“None,” said Sikes, “’cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we’ve both

got; the second you must find us.”

“A boy!” exclaimed the Jew. “Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?”

“Never mind wot it is!” replied Sikes. “I want a boy, and he musn’t be

a big ’un. Lord!” said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, “if I’d only got that

young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose,

and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the

Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade

where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time

makes a ’prentice of him. And so they go on,” said Mr. Sikes, his wrath

rising with the recollection of his wrongs, “so they go on; and, if

they’d got money enough (which it’s a Providence they haven’t,) we

shouldn’t have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or

two.”

“No more we should,” acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering

during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. “Bill!”

“What now?” inquired Sikes.

The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the

fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave

the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought

the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting

Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.

“You don’t want any beer,” said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining

her seat very composedly.

“I tell you I do!” replied Sikes.

“Nonsense,” rejoined the girl coolly, “Go on, Fagin. I know what he’s

going to say, Bill; he needn’t mind me.”

The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some

surprise.

“Why, you don’t mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?” he asked at length.

“You’ve known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil’s in it. She

ain’t one to blab. Are you Nancy?”

“_I_ should think not!” replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to

the table, and putting her elbows upon it.

“No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,” said the Jew; “but—” and again

the old man paused.

“But wot?” inquired Sikes.

“I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of sorts, you know,

my dear, as she was the other night,” replied the Jew.

At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing

a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst

into sundry exclamations of “Keep the game a-going!” “Never say die!”

and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both

gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and

resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.

“Now, Fagin,” said Nancy with a laugh. “Tell Bill at once, about

Oliver!”

“Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!” said

the Jew, patting her on the neck. “It _was_ about Oliver I was going to

speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!”

“What about him?” demanded Sikes.

“He’s the boy for you, my dear,” replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper;

laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.

“He!” exclaimed Sikes.

“Have him, Bill!” said Nancy. “I would, if I was in your place. He

mayn’t be so much up, as any of the others; but that’s not what you

want, if he’s only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he’s a safe

one, Bill.”

“I know he is,” rejoined Fagin. “He’s been in good training these last

few weeks, and it’s time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the

others are all too big.”

“Well, he is just the size I want,” said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.

“And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,” interposed the Jew;

“he can’t help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.”

“Frighten him!” echoed Sikes. “It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you.

If there’s anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in

for a penny, in for a pound. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin.

Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!” said the robber,

poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.

“I’ve thought of it all,” said the Jew with energy. “I’ve—I’ve had my

eye upon him, my dears, close—close. Once let him feel that he is one

of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and

he’s ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better!”

The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and

shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.

“Ours!” said Sikes. “Yours, you mean.”

“Perhaps I do, my dear,” said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. “Mine, if

you like, Bill.”

“And wot,” said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, “wot

makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know

there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you

might pick and choose from?”

“Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,” replied the Jew, with some

confusion, “not worth the taking. Their looks convict ’em when they get

into trouble, and I lose ’em all. With this boy, properly managed, my

dears, I could do what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,” said

the Jew, recovering his self-possession, “he has us now if he could

only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us.

Never mind how he came there; it’s quite enough for my power over him

that he was in a robbery; that’s all I want. Now, how much better this

is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way—which

would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.”

“When is it to be done?” asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent

exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with

which he received Fagin’s affectation of humanity.

“Ah, to be sure,” said the Jew; “when is it to be done, Bill?”

“I planned with Toby, the night arter tomorrow,” rejoined Sikes in a

surly voice, “if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.”

“Good,” said the Jew; “there’s no moon.”

“No,” rejoined Sikes.

“It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?” asked the Jew.

Sikes nodded.

“And about—”

“Oh, ah, it’s all planned,” rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. “Never

mind particulars. You’d better bring the boy here tomorrow night. I

shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your

tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to

do.”

After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was

decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew’s next evening when the

night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily

observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would

be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in

his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor

Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be

unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes;

and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought

fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or

evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to

render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by

Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and

corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash

Toby Crackit.

These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a

furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner;

yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song,

mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional

enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools:

which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of

explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it

contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he

fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.

“Good-night, Nancy,” said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.

“Good-night.”

Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no

flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as

Toby Crackit himself could be.

The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the

prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped

downstairs.

“Always the way!” muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward.

“The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call

up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never

lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!”

Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended

his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger

was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.

“Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,” was his first remark as they

descended the stairs.

“Hours ago,” replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. “Here he is!”

The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale

with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he

looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in

the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle

spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the

world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.

“Not now,” said the Jew, turning softly away. “Tomorrow. Tomorrow.”

CHAPTER XX.

WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find

that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at

his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was

pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of

his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting

down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and

manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the

residence of Bill Sikes that night.

“To—to—stop there, sir?” asked Oliver, anxiously.

“No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,” replied the Jew. “We shouldn’t

like to lose you. Don’t be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us

again. Ha! ha! ha! We won’t be so cruel as to send you away, my dear.

Oh no, no!”

The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread,

looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show

that he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could.

“I suppose,” said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, “you want to know

what you’re going to Bill’s for—eh, my dear?”

Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been

reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.

“Why, do you think?” inquired Fagin, parrying the question.

“Indeed I don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Bah!” said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from

a close perusal of the boy’s face. “Wait till Bill tells you, then.”

The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver’s not expressing any greater

curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt

very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of

Fagin’s looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries

just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly

and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.

“You may burn a candle,” said the Jew, putting one upon the table. “And

here’s a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you.

Good-night!”

“Good-night!” replied Oliver, softly.

The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he

went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.

Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to

light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table,

saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and

contracted brows, from the dark end of the room.

“Take heed, Oliver! take heed!” said the old man, shaking his right

hand before him in a warning manner. “He’s a rough man, and thinks

nothing of blood when his own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing;

and do what he bids you. Mind!” Placing a strong emphasis on the last

word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a

ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room.

Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and

pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The

more he thought of the Jew’s admonition, the more he was at a loss to

divine its real purpose and meaning.

He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes,

which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin;

and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been

selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker,

until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He

was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where

he was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained

lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed

the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him,

began to read.

He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a

passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the

volume. It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals;

and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of

dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that

had been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye

of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as

they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so

maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had

confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony.

Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night,

had been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts,

to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs

quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid,

that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon

them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow

murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.

In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him.

Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such

deeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved

for crimes, so fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm,

and besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from

his present dangers; and that if any aid were to be raised up for a

poor outcast boy who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it

might come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in

the midst of wickedness and guilt.

He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in

his hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.

“What’s that!” he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure

standing by the door. “Who’s there?”

“Me. Only me,” replied a tremulous voice.

Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door.

It was Nancy.

“Put down the light,” said the girl, turning away her head. “It hurts

my eyes.”

Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill.

The girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and

wrung her hands; but made no reply.

“God forgive me!” she cried after a while, “I never thought of this.”

“Has anything happened?” asked Oliver. “Can I help you? I will if I

can. I will, indeed.”

She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a

gurgling sound, gasped for breath.

“Nancy!” cried Oliver, “What is it?”

The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground;

and, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered

with cold.

Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there,

for a little time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head,

and looked round.

“I don’t know what comes over me sometimes,” said she, affecting to

busy herself in arranging her dress; “it’s this damp dirty room, I

think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?”

“Am I to go with you?” asked Oliver.

“Yes. I have come from Bill,” replied the girl. “You are to go with

me.”

“What for?” asked Oliver, recoiling.

“What for?” echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again,

the moment they encountered the boy’s face. “Oh! For no harm.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Oliver: who had watched her closely.

“Have it your own way,” rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. “For no

good, then.”

Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl’s better

feelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion

for his helpless state. But, then, the thought darted across his mind

that it was barely eleven o’clock; and that many people were still in

the streets: of whom surely some might be found to give credence to his

tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said,

somewhat hastily, that he was ready.

Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his

companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a

look of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what

had been passing in his thoughts.

“Hush!” said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as

she looked cautiously round. “You can’t help yourself. I have tried

hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If

ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time.”

Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with

great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was

white and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.

“I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do

now,” continued the girl aloud; “for those who would have fetched you,

if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised

for your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm

to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne

all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.”

She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and

continued, with great rapidity:

“Remember this! And don’t let me suffer more for you, just now. If I

could help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don’t mean to

harm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every

word from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your

hand!”

She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and,

blowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was

opened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as

quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in

waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing

Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close.

The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed,

without the delay of an instant.

The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into

his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was

so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he

was, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to

which the Jew’s steps had been directed on the previous evening.

For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty

street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl’s voice was

in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that

he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity

was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.

“This way,” said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time.

“Bill!”

“Hallo!” replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a

candle. “Oh! That’s the time of day. Come on!”

This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty

welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes’ temperament. Nancy, appearing much

gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.

“Bull’s-eye’s gone home with Tom,” observed Sikes, as he lighted them

up. “He’d have been in the way.”

“That’s right,” rejoined Nancy.

“So you’ve got the kid,” said Sikes when they had all reached the room:

closing the door as he spoke.

“Yes, here he is,” replied Nancy.

“Did he come quiet?” inquired Sikes.

“Like a lamb,” rejoined Nancy.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; “for the

sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it.

Come here, young ’un; and let me read you a lectur’, which is as well

got over at once.”

Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver’s cap and

threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat

himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him.

“Now, first: do you know wot this is?” inquired Sikes, taking up a

pocket-pistol which lay on the table.

Oliver replied in the affirmative.

“Well, then, look here,” continued Sikes. “This is powder; that ’ere’s

a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin’.”

Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to;

and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and

deliberation.

“Now it’s loaded,” said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.

“Yes, I see it is, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Well,” said the robber, grasping Oliver’s wrist, and putting the

barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the

boy could not repress a start; “if you speak a word when you’re out

o’doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in

your head without notice. So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak

without leave, say your prayers first.”

Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase

its effect, Mr. Sikes continued.

“As near as I know, there isn’t anybody as would be asking very

partickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn’t take this

devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn’t for

your own good. D’ye hear me?”

“The short and the long of what you mean,” said Nancy: speaking very

emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his

serious attention to her words: “is, that if you’re crossed by him in

this job you have on hand, you’ll prevent his ever telling tales

afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance

of swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way

of business, every month of your life.”

“That’s it!” observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; “women can always put

things in fewest words.—Except when it’s blowing up; and then they

lengthens it out. And now that he’s thoroughly up to it, let’s have

some supper, and get a snooze before starting.”

In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth;

disappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of

porter and a dish of sheep’s heads: which gave occasion to several

pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular

coincidence of “jemmies” being a can name, common to them, and also to

an ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy

gentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on

active service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof,

it may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a

draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than

four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal.

Supper being ended—it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great

appetite for it—Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits

and water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many

imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver

stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on

a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before

it, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time.

For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy

might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the

girl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to

trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell

asleep.

When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was

thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which

hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing

breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning,

and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against

the window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.

“Now, then!” growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; “half-past five! Look

sharp, or you’ll get no breakfast; for it’s late as it is.”

Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast,

he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite

ready.

Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie

round his throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his

shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely

pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same

pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his,

and, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.

Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope

of meeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in

front of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE EXPEDITION

It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and

raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had

been very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the

kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming

day in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the

scene: the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street

lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the

wet house-tops, and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody

stirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were

all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were

noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had

fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a

few country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and

then, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver

bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy waggoner

who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered his

arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time. The

public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By

degrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people

were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to their

work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads;

donkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock

or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken

concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern

suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic

gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch

and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was

as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy

morning of half the London population had begun.

Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square,

Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into

Long Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a

tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.

It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with

filth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking

bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest

upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre

of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into

the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the

gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep.

Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and

vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the

whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of

the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs,

the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides;

the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every

public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and

yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every

corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty

figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the

throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite

confounded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the

thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the

numerous sights and sounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded,

twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as many

invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they

were clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane

into Holborn.

“Now, young ’un!” said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew’s

Church, “hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag behind

already, Lazy-legs!”

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion’s

wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast

walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as

well as he could.

They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park

corner, and were on their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his

pace, until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind,

came up. Seeing “Hounslow” written on it, he asked the driver with as

much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far

as Isleworth.

“Jump up,” said the man. “Is that your boy?”

“Yes; he’s my boy,” replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting

his hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.

“Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?”

inquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes, interposing. “He’s used to it. Here,

take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!”

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver,

pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest

himself.

As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and

more, where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith,

Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on

as steadily as if they had only just begun their journey. At length,

they came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses; a little way

beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart

stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand

all the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look

upon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant

manner.

“Good-bye, boy,” said the man.

“He’s sulky,” replied Sikes, giving him a shake; “he’s sulky. A young

dog! Don’t mind him.”

“Not I!” rejoined the other, getting into his cart. “It’s a fine day,

after all.” And he drove away.

Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he

might look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his

journey.

They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and

then, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many

large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and

stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town. Here

against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large

letters, “Hampton.” They lingered about, in the fields, for some hours.

At length they came back into the town; and, turning into an old

public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the

kitchen fire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the

middle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the

fire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking

and smoking. They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes;

and, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade

sat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their

company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr.

Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to

feel quite certain they were not going any further. Being much tired

with the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first;

then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell

asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing

himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy

in close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint

of ale.

“So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, I am,” replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better,

as the case might be—for drinking; “and not slow about it neither. My

horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in

the mornin’; and he won’t be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him.

Ecod! he’s a good ’un!”

“Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?” demanded Sikes,

pushing the ale towards his new friend.

“If you’re going directly, I can,” replied the man, looking out of the

pot. “Are you going to Halliford?”

“Going on to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.

“I’m your man, as far as I go,” replied the other. “Is all paid,

Becky?”

“Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,” replied the girl.

“I say!” said the man, with tipsy gravity; “that won’t do, you know.”

“Why not?” rejoined Sikes. “You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s

to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?”

The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face;

having done so, he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real

good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had

been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.

After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company

good-night, and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as

they did so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see

the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing

outside: ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without

any further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered

for a minute or two “to bear him up,” and to defy the hostler and the

world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to

give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a very

unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and

running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing those

feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he

started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right

gallantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the

marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was

piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken;

for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him

into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the

cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange

objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as

if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a

light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the

road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves

beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and

the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed

like quiet music for the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road.

Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took

Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected;

but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes

and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights

of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw

that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the

foot of a bridge.

Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then

turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.

“The water!” thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. “He has brought me

to this lonely place to murder me!”

He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for

his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house:

all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the

dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible.

The house was dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low

porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they

passed in together.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE BURGLARY

“Hallo!” cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the

passage.

“Don’t make such a row,” said Sikes, bolting the door. “Show a glim,

Toby.”

“Aha! my pal!” cried the same voice. “A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the

gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.”

The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the

person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a

wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct

muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.

“Do you hear?” cried the same voice. “There’s Bill Sikes in the passage

with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you

took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any

fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you

thoroughly?”

A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the

room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on

the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same

individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the

infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at

the public-house on Saffron Hill.

“Bister Sikes!” exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; “cub

id, sir; cub id.”

“Here! you get on first,” said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him.

“Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.”

Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him;

and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken

chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much

higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long

clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with

large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring,

shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was)

had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but

what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew

curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,

ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle

size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by

no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he

contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.

“Bill, my boy!” said this figure, turning his head towards the door,

“I’m glad to see you. I was almost afraid you’d given it up: in which

case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!”

Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes

rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting

posture, and demanded who that was.

“The boy. Only the boy!” replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the

fire.

“Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,” exclaimed Barney, with a grin.

“Fagin’s, eh!” exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. “Wot an inwalable boy

that’ll make, for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His mug is a

fortin’ to him.”

“There—there’s enough of that,” interposed Sikes, impatiently; and

stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his

ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a

long stare of astonishment.

“Now,” said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, “if you’ll give us something

to eat and drink while we’re waiting, you’ll put some heart in us; or

in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself;

for you’ll have to go out with us again tonight, though not very far

off.”

Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool

to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarcely knowing

where he was, or what was passing around him.

“Here,” said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and

a bottle upon the table, “Success to the crack!” He rose to honour the

toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced

to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents.

Mr. Sikes did the same.

“A drain for the boy,” said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. “Down with

it, innocence.”

“Indeed,” said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man’s face;

“indeed, I—”

“Down with it!” echoed Toby. “Do you think I don’t know what’s good for

you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.”

“He had better!” said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. “Burn my

body, if he isn’t more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink

it, you perwerse imp; drink it!”

Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily

swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a

violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and

even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.

This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat

nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the

two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained

his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself

on the floor: close outside the fender.

They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but

Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell

into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes,

or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other

of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit

jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.

In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively

engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their

necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats;

Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he

hastily crammed into the pockets.

“Barkers for me, Barney,” said Toby Crackit.

“Here they are,” replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. “You

loaded them yourself.”

“All right!” replied Toby, stowing them away. “The persuaders?”

“I’ve got ’em,” replied Sikes.

“Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?” inquired Toby:

fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.

“All right,” rejoined his companion. “Bring them bits of timber,

Barney. That’s the time of day.”

With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s hands, who,

having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on

Oliver’s cape.

“Now then!” said Sikes, holding out his hand.

Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the

air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand

mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.

“Take his other hand, Toby,” said Sikes. “Look out, Barney.”

The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet.

The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having

made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.

It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in

the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that,

although no rain fell, Oliver’s hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes

after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture

that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards

the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance

off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.

“Slap through the town,” whispered Sikes; “there’ll be nobody in the

way, tonight, to see us.”

Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little

town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at

intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs

occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody

abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.

Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After

walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house

surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely

pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.

“The boy next,” said Toby. “Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold of him.”

Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the

arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass

on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously

towards the house.

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and

terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the

objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and

involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came

before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs

failed him; and he sank upon his knees.

“Get up!” murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol

from his pocket; “Get up, or I’ll strew your brains upon the grass.”

“Oh! for God’s sake let me go!” cried Oliver; “let me run away and die

in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray

have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the

bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!”

The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had

cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his

hand upon the boy’s mouth, and dragged him to the house.

“Hush!” cried the man; “it won’t answer here. Say another word, and

I’ll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no

noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench

the shutter open. He’s game enough now, I’ll engage. I’ve seen older

hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold

night.”

Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head for sending

Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little

noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to

which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.

It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the

ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or

small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so

small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to

defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of

Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sikes’s art,

sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood

wide open also.

“Now listen, you young limb,” whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern

from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver’s face; “I’m a

going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps

straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door;

unfasten it, and let us in.”

“There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,” interposed

Toby. “Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill,

with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on ’em: which is the

old lady’s arms.”

“Keep quiet, can’t you?” replied Sikes, with a threatening look. “The

room-door is open, is it?”

“Wide,” replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. “The game of

that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog,

who’s got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels

wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney ’ticed him away tonight. So neat!”

Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed

without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get

to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it

on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against

the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to

make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting

upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first;

and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the

floor inside.

“Take this lantern,” said Sikes, looking into the room. “You see the

stairs afore you?”

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, “Yes.” Sikes, pointing to the

street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice

that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would

fall dead that instant.

“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes, in the same low whisper. “Directly

I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!”

“What’s that?” whispered the other man.

They listened intently.

“Nothing,” said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. “Now!”

In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly

resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one

effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled

with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.

“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back! back!”

Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and

by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew

not whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two terrified

half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—a

flash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash somewhere, but where he knew

not,—and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him

by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own

pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy

up.

“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through the

window. “Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick! How the boy

bleeds!”

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of

fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried

over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused

in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart;

and he saw or heard no more.

CHAPTER XXIII.

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR.

BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON

SOME POINTS

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a

hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways

and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which,

as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it

savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,

scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for

the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God

they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him

down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare

streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,

can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the

matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already

introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a

cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree

of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of

corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most

grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to

solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the

fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a

small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently

increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking

reflectively at the fire; “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to

be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental

blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver

spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin

tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The

black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.

Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s

hand.

“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on

the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What

use is it of, to anybody! Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except

to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”

With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more

resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small

teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections

of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years);

and she was overpowered.

“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall

never get another—like him.”

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is

uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it

as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first

cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old

women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand

there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”

“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr.

Bumble?”

“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping

outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and

who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a

bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any

impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors.

Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold

himself, shut it without permission.

“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather

this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a

matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very

blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”

“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron,

sipping her tea.

“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that,

in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and

a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he

grateful? Not a copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am,

but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he

says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with ’em and

then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give

’em a apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another,

the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible

simile; and the beadle went on.

“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to.

The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am,

and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back

(here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door

when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be

relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company

very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a

pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s the

use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron

spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again,

‘you won’t get anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’

says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”

“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?”

interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”

“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he _did_ die in

the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”

“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron

emphatically. “But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing,

any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to

know. Come.”

“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious

of superior information, “out-of-door relief, properly managed:

properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great

principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what

they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”

“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the

great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases

that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that

sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule

now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,” said the beadle,

stopping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not

to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers,

such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered

for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask

this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to

test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of

drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it

carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.

“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.

“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar,

“enough to cut one’s ears off.”

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was

moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to

bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t

take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat

and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he

slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon

the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she

sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;

she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again

Mr. Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.

“Sweet? Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on

Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.

Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a

handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the

splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these

amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had

no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather

seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who,

in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; “and kittens

too, I declare!”

“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the

matron. “They’re _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that

they are quite companions for me.”

“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so very

domestic.”

“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home

too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”

“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time

with his teaspoon, “I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten,

that could live with you, ma’am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be

a ass, ma’am.”

“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

“It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly

flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him

doubly impressive; “I would drown it myself, with pleasure.”

“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously, as she held out

her hand for the beadle’s cup; “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”

“Hard-hearted, ma’am?” said Mr. Bumble. “Hard?” Mr. Bumble resigned his

cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she

took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat,

gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther

from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been

sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and

fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from

the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance

between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers

will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great

heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part: he being in some sort tempted by time,

place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings,

which however well they may become the lips of the light and

thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the

land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other

great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the

stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be

the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were

of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before

remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble,

moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the

distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel

round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close

to that in which the matron was seated.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble

stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have

been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen

into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt

foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was,

and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and

looking up into the matron’s face; “are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs.

Corney?”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a

single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;

whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately

kissed the matron.

“Mr. Bumble!” cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was

so great, that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall

scream!” Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner,

put his arm round the matron’s waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would

have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was

rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no

sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine

bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron

sharply demanded who was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy

of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that

her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.

“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously

ugly: putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”

“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep

her alive, can I?”

“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman, “nobody can; she’s far

beyond the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and

great strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But

she’s troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and

that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got

something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you

come, mistress.”

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of

invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely

annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which

she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she

came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger

walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed

her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable.

He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,

closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the

genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put

on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four

distinct times round the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off

the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his

back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact

inventory of the furniture.

CHAPTER XXIV.

TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF

IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY

It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the

matron’s room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy;

her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque

shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.

Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their

beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change

them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep,

and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off,

and leave Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the

countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to

subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and

settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they

grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by

the coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering

some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at

length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand,

and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble

superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end.

There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish

apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick

out of a quill.

“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this young gentleman, as the matron

entered.

“Very cold, indeed, sir,” replied the mistress, in her most civil

tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.

“You should get better coals out of your contractors,” said the

apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the

rusty poker; “these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.”

“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least

they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard

enough.”

The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

“Oh!” said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he

had previously quite forgotten the patient, “it’s all U.P. there, Mrs.

Corney.”

“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.

“If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the

apothecary’s apprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a

break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”

The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the

affirmative.

“Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said

the young man. “Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.”

The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to

intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she

resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time

returned. The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped

herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.

The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the

toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it

for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished

Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from

the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to

catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled

faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,

they began to converse in a low voice.

“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the

messenger.

“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for

a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She

hasn’t much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so

weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!”

“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded

the first.

“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other. “But her teeth were tight

set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do

to get it back again. So _I_ drank it; and it did me good!”

Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard,

the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done

the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.”

“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A

many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as

waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—ay, and those old hands touched

them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.”

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature

shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket,

brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook

a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few

more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had

been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her

stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to

wait?

“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her

face. “We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience!

He’ll be here soon enough for us all.”

“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron sternly. “You,

Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”

“Often,” answered the first woman.

“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is, she’ll never

wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”