"OLIVER TWIST\n\nOR\n\nTHE PARISH BOY'S PROGRESS\n\n\nBY\n\nCHARLES DICKENS\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n       I  TREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE\n          CIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH\n      II  TREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD\n     III  RELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH\n          WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN A SINECURE\n      IV  OLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO\n          PUBLIC LIFE\n       V  OLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES.  GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE\n          FIRST TIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S\n          BUSINESS\n      VI  OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION,\n          AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM\n     VII  OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY\n    VIII  OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON.  HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE\n          SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN\n      IX  CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD\n          GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS\n       X  OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW\n          ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A\n          SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY\n      XI  TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A\n          SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE\n     XII  IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS\n          BEFORE.  AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD\n          GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.\n    XIII  SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER,\n          CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED,\n          APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY\n     XIV  COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR.\n          BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG\n          UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND\n      XV  SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND\n          MISS NANCY WERE\n     XVI  RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED\n          BY NANCY\n    XVII  OLIVER'S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO\n          LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION\n   XVIII  HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS\n          REPUTABLE FRIENDS\n     XIX  IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON\n      XX  WHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES\n     XXI  THE EXPEDITION\n    XXII  THE BURGLARY\n   XXIII  WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN\n          MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE\n          SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS\n    XXIV  TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT.  BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE\n          FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY\n     XXV  WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY\n    XXVI  IN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY\n          THINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED\n   XXVII  ATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED\n          A LADY, MOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY\n  XXVIII  LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES\n    XXIX  HAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO\n          WHICH OLIVER RESORTED\n     XXX  RELATES WHAT OLIVER'S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM\n    XXXI  INVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION\n   XXXII  OF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS\n  XXXIII  WHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A\n          SUDDEN CHECK\n   XXXIV  CONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG\n          GENTLEMAN WHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE\n          WHICH HAPPENED TO OLIVER\n    XXXV  CONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND\n          A CONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE\n   XXXVI  IS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN\n          ITS PLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL\n          TO THE LAST, AND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME\n          ARRIVES\n  XXXVII  IN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN\n          MATRIMONIAL CASES\n XXXVIII  CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS.\n          BUMBLE, AND MR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW\n   XXXIX  INTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS\n          ALREADY ACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR\n          WORTHY HEADS TOGETHER\n      XL  A STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER\n     XLI  CONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE\n          MISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE\n    XLII  AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF\n          GENIUS, BECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS\n   XLIII  WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE\n    XLIV  THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE.\n          SHE FAILS.\n     XLV  NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION\n    XLVI  THE APPOINTMENT KEPT\n   XLVII  FATAL CONSEQUENCES\n  XLVIII  THE FLIGHT OF SIKES\n    XLIX  MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET.  THEIR CONVERSATION,\n          AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT\n       L  THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE\n      LI  AFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND\n          COMPREHENDING A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT\n          OR PIN-MONEY\n     LII  FAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE\n    LIII  AND LAST\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\nTREATS OF THE PLACE WHERE OLIVER TWIST WAS BORN AND OF THE\nCIRCUMSTANCES ATTENDING HIS BIRTH\n\nAmong other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons\nit will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will\nassign no fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns,\ngreat or small: to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born; on\na day and date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as\nit can be of no possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of\nthe business at all events; the item of mortality whose name is\nprefixed to the head of this chapter.\n\nFor a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and\ntrouble, by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable\ndoubt whether the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which\ncase it is somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never\nhave appeared; or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of\npages, they would have possessed the inestimable merit of being the\nmost concise and faithful specimen of biography, extant in the\nliterature of any age or country.\n\nAlthough I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a\nworkhouse, is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance\nthat can possibly befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this\nparticular instance, it was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could\nby possibility have occurred.  The fact is, that there was considerable\ndifficulty in inducing Oliver to take upon himself the office of\nrespiration,--a troublesome practice, but one which custom has rendered\nnecessary to our easy existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a\nlittle flock mattress, rather unequally poised between this world and\nthe next: the balance being decidedly in favour of the latter.  Now,\nif, during this brief period, Oliver had been surrounded by careful\ngrandmothers, anxious aunts, experienced nurses, and doctors of\nprofound wisdom, he would most inevitably and indubitably have been\nkilled in no time.  There being nobody by, however, but a pauper old\nwoman, who was rendered rather misty by an unwonted allowance of beer;\nand a parish surgeon who did such matters by contract; Oliver and\nNature fought out the point between them.  The result was, that, after\na few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded to advertise\nto the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden having been\nimposed  upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could\nreasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been\npossessed of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer\nspace of time than three minutes and a quarter.\n\nAs Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his\nlungs, the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron\nbedstead, rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly\nfrom the pillow; and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words,\n'Let me see the child, and die.'\n\nThe surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire:\ngiving the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately.  As the\nyoung woman spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with\nmore kindness than might have been expected of him:\n\n'Oh, you must not talk about dying yet.'\n\n'Lor bless her dear heart, no!' interposed the nurse, hastily\ndepositing in her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which\nshe had been tasting in a corner with evident satisfaction.\n\n'Lor bless her dear heart, when she has lived as long as I have, sir,\nand had thirteen children of her own, and all on 'em dead except two,\nand them in the wurkus with me, she'll know better than to take on in\nthat way, bless her dear heart!  Think what it is to be a mother,\nthere's a dear young lamb do.'\n\nApparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed\nin producing its due effect.  The patient shook her head, and stretched\nout her hand towards the child.\n\nThe surgeon deposited it in her arms.  She imprinted her cold white\nlips passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face;\ngazed wildly round; shuddered; fell back--and died. They chafed her\nbreast, hands, and temples; but the blood had stopped forever.  They\ntalked of hope and comfort. They had been strangers too long.\n\n'It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!' said the surgeon at last.\n\n'Ah, poor dear, so it is!' said the nurse, picking up the cork of the\ngreen bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to\ntake up the child.  'Poor dear!'\n\n'You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse,' said\nthe surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. 'It's very\nlikely it _will_ be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is.'  He\nput on his hat, and, pausing by the bed-side on his way to the door,\nadded, 'She was a good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?'\n\n'She was brought here last night,' replied the old woman, 'by the\noverseer's order.  She was found lying in the street.  She had walked\nsome distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came\nfrom, or where she was going to, nobody knows.'\n\nThe surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand.  'The old\nstory,' he said, shaking his head: 'no wedding-ring, I see. Ah!\nGood-night!'\n\nThe medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once\nmore applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair\nbefore the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.\n\nWhat an excellent example of the power of dress, young Oliver Twist\nwas!  Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only\ncovering, he might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it\nwould have been hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him\nhis proper station in society.  But now that he was enveloped in the\nold calico robes which had grown yellow in the same service, he was\nbadged and ticketed, and fell into his place at once--a parish\nchild--the orphan of a workhouse--the humble, half-starved drudge--to\nbe cuffed and buffeted through the world--despised by all, and pitied\nby none.\n\nOliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan,\nleft to the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he\nwould have cried the louder.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\nTREATS OF OLIVER TWIST'S GROWTH, EDUCATION, AND BOARD\n\nFor the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic\ncourse of treachery and deception.  He was brought up by hand.  The\nhungry and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported\nby the workhouse authorities to the parish authorities.  The parish\nauthorities inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether\nthere was no female then domiciled in 'the house' who was in a\nsituation to impart to Oliver Twist, the consolation and nourishment of\nwhich he stood in need.  The workhouse authorities replied with\nhumility, that there was not. Upon this, the parish authorities\nmagnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver should be 'farmed,'\nor, in other words, that he should be dispatched to a branch-workhouse\nsome three miles off, where twenty or thirty other juvenile offenders\nagainst the poor-laws, rolled about the floor all day, without the\ninconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the parental\nsuperintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at and\nfor the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week.\nSevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child;\na great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny, quite enough to\noverload its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was\na woman of wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children;\nand she had a very accurate perception of what was good for herself.\nSo, she appropriated the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own\nuse, and consigned the rising parochial generation to even a shorter\nallowance than was originally provided for them.  Thereby finding in\nthe lowest depth a deeper still; and proving herself a very great\nexperimental philosopher.\n\nEverybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a\ngreat theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who\ndemonstrated it so well, that he had got his own horse down to a straw\na day, and would unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and\nrampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died,\nfour-and-twenty hours before he was to have had his first comfortable\nbait of air.  Unfortunately for, the experimental philosophy of the\nfemale to whose protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a\nsimilar result usually attended the operation of _her_ system; for at\nthe very moment when the child had contrived to exist upon the smallest\npossible portion of the weakest possible food, it did perversely happen\nin eight and a half cases out of ten, either that it sickened from want\nand cold, or fell into the fire from neglect, or got half-smothered by\naccident; in any one of which cases, the miserable little being was\nusually summoned into another world, and there gathered to the fathers\nit had never known in this.\n\nOccasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest\nupon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead,\nor inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a\nwashing--though the latter accident was very scarce, anything\napproaching to a washing being of rare occurrence in the farm--the jury\nwould take it into their heads to ask troublesome questions, or the\nparishioners would rebelliously affix their signatures to a\nremonstrance.  But these impertinences were speedily checked by the\nevidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the beadle; the former of\nwhom had always opened the body and found nothing inside (which was\nvery probable indeed), and the latter of whom invariably swore whatever\nthe parish wanted; which was very self-devotional.  Besides, the board\nmade periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the beadle the\nday before, to say they were going.  The children were neat and clean\nto behold, when _they_ went; and what more would the people have!\n\nIt cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any\nvery extraordinary or luxuriant crop.  Oliver Twist's ninth birthday\nfound him a pale thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and\ndecidedly small in circumference.  But nature or inheritance had\nimplanted a good sturdy spirit in Oliver's breast.  It had had plenty\nof room to expand, thanks to the spare diet of the establishment; and\nperhaps to this circumstance may be attributed his having any ninth\nbirth-day at all.  Be this as it may, however, it was his ninth\nbirthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-cellar with a select party\nof two other young gentleman, who, after participating with him in a\nsound thrashing, had been locked up for atrociously presuming to be\nhungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the house, was unexpectedly\nstartled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the beadle, striving to undo\nthe wicket of the garden-gate.\n\n'Goodness gracious!  Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?' said Mrs. Mann,\nthrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy.\n'(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash 'em\ndirectly.)--My heart alive!  Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you,\nsure-ly!'\n\nNow, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of\nresponding to this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave\nthe little wicket a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick\nwhich could have emanated from no leg but a beadle's.\n\n'Lor, only think,' said Mrs. Mann, running out,--for the three boys had\nbeen removed by this time,--'only think of that!  That I should have\nforgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them\ndear children!  Walk in sir; walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir.'\n\nAlthough this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have\nsoftened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the\nbeadle.\n\n'Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann,' inquired\nMr. Bumble, grasping his cane, 'to keep the parish officers a waiting\nat your garden-gate, when they come here upon porochial business with\nthe porochial orphans?  Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I\nmay say, a porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?'\n\n'I'm sure Mr. Bumble, that I was only a telling one or two of the dear\nchildren as is so fond of you, that it was you a coming,' replied Mrs.\nMann with great humility.\n\nMr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his\nimportance.  He had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He\nrelaxed.\n\n'Well, well, Mrs. Mann,' he replied in a calmer tone; 'it may be as you\nsay; it may be.  Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business,\nand have something to say.'\n\nMrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor;\nplaced a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and\ncane on the table before him.  Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the\nperspiration which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the\ncocked hat, and smiled.  Yes, he smiled.  Beadles are but men: and Mr.\nBumble smiled.\n\n'Now don't you be offended at what I'm a going to say,' observed Mrs.\nMann, with captivating sweetness.  'You've had a long walk, you know,\nor I wouldn't mention it.  Now, will you take a little drop of\nsomethink, Mr. Bumble?'\n\n'Not a drop.  Nor a drop,' said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a\ndignified, but placid manner.\n\n'I think you will,' said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the\nrefusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it.  'Just a leetle drop,\nwith a little cold water, and a lump of sugar.'\n\nMr. Bumble coughed.\n\n'Now, just a leetle drop,' said Mrs. Mann persuasively.\n\n'What is it?' inquired the beadle.\n\n'Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put\ninto the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble,'\nreplied Mrs. Mann as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a\nbottle and glass.  'It's gin.  I'll not deceive you, Mr. B.  It's gin.'\n\n'Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?' inquired Bumble, following\nwith his eyes the interesting process of mixing.\n\n'Ah, bless 'em, that I do, dear as it is,' replied the nurse. 'I\ncouldn't see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know sir.'\n\n'No'; said Mr. Bumble approvingly; 'no, you could not.  You are a\nhumane woman, Mrs. Mann.'  (Here she set down the glass.)  'I shall\ntake a early opportunity of mentioning it to the board, Mrs. Mann.'\n(He drew it towards him.)  'You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann.'  (He\nstirred the gin-and-water.) 'I--I drink your health with cheerfulness,\nMrs. Mann'; and he swallowed half of it.\n\n'And now about business,' said the beadle, taking out a leathern\npocket-book.  'The child that was half-baptized Oliver Twist, is nine\nyear old to-day.'\n\n'Bless him!' interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the\ncorner of her apron.\n\n'And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was\nafterwards increased to twenty pound.  Notwithstanding the most\nsuperlative, and, I may say, supernat'ral exertions on the part of this\nparish,' said Bumble, 'we have never been able to discover who is his\nfather, or what was his mother's settlement, name, or condition.'\n\nMrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's\nreflection, 'How comes he to have any name at all, then?'\n\nThe beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, 'I inwented it.'\n\n'You, Mr. Bumble!'\n\n'I, Mrs. Mann.  We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last\nwas a S,--Swubble, I named him. This was a T,--Twist, I named _him_.\nThe next one comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins.  I have got\nnames ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it\nagain, when we come to Z.'\n\n'Why, you're quite a literary character, sir!' said Mrs. Mann.\n\n'Well, well,' said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment;\n'perhaps I may be.  Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann.' He finished the\ngin-and-water, and added, 'Oliver being now too old to remain here, the\nboard have determined to have him back into the house.  I have come out\nmyself to take him there.  So let me see him at once.'\n\n'I'll fetch him directly,' said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that\npurpose.  Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of\ndirt which encrusted his face and hands, removed, as could be scrubbed\noff in one washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.\n\n'Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver,' said Mrs. Mann.\n\nOliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair,\nand the cocked hat on the table.\n\n'Will you go along with me, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic\nvoice.\n\nOliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great\nreadiness, when, glancing upward, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had\ngot behind the beadle's chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a\nfurious countenance.  He took the hint at once, for the fist had been\ntoo often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his\nrecollection.\n\n'Will she go with me?' inquired poor Oliver.\n\n'No, she can't,' replied Mr. Bumble.  'But she'll come and see you\nsometimes.'\n\nThis was no very great consolation to the child.  Young as he was,\nhowever, he had sense enough to make a feint of feeling great regret at\ngoing away.  It was no very difficult matter for the boy to call tears\ninto his eyes.  Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you\nwant to cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed.  Mrs. Mann gave\nhim a thousand embraces, and what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a\npiece of bread and butter, less he should seem too hungry when he got\nto the workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little\nbrown-cloth parish cap on his head, Oliver was then led away by Mr.\nBumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never\nlighted the gloom of his infant years.  And yet he burst into an agony\nof childish grief, as the cottage-gate closed after him.  Wretched as\nwere the little companions in misery he was leaving behind, they were\nthe only friends he had ever known; and a sense of his loneliness in\nthe great wide world, sank into the child's heart for the first time.\n\nMr. Bumble walked on with long strides; little Oliver, firmly grasping\nhis gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him, inquiring at the end of every\nquarter of a mile whether they were 'nearly there.' To these\ninterrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for\nthe temporary blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had\nby this time evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.\n\nOliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an\nhour, and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second slice of\nbread, when Mr. Bumble, who had handed him over to the care of an old\nwoman, returned; and, telling him it was a board night, informed him\nthat the board had said he was to appear before it forthwith.\n\nNot having a very clearly defined notion of what a live board was,\nOliver was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite\ncertain whether he ought to laugh or cry.  He had no time to think\nabout the matter, however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head,\nwith his cane, to wake him up: and another on the back to make him\nlively: and bidding him to follow, conducted him into a large\nwhite-washed room, where eight or ten fat gentlemen were sitting round\na table.  At the top of the table, seated in an arm-chair rather higher\nthan the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman with a very round, red\nface.\n\n'Bow to the board,' said Bumble.  Oliver brushed away two or three\ntears that were lingering in his eyes; and seeing no board but the\ntable, fortunately bowed to that.\n\n'What's your name, boy?' said the gentleman in the high chair.\n\nOliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him\ntremble: and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him\ncry.  These two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating\nvoice; whereupon a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool.\nWhich was a capital way of raising his spirits, and putting him quite\nat his ease.\n\n'Boy,' said the gentleman in the high chair, 'listen to me. You know\nyou're an orphan, I suppose?'\n\n'What's that, sir?' inquired poor Oliver.\n\n'The boy _is_ a fool--I thought he was,' said the gentleman in the\nwhite waistcoat.\n\n'Hush!' said the gentleman who had spoken first.  'You know you've got\nno father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don't\nyou?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.\n\n'What are you crying for?' inquired the gentleman in the white\nwaistcoat.  And to be sure it was very extraordinary.  What _could_ the\nboy be crying for?\n\n'I hope you say your prayers every night,' said another gentleman in a\ngruff voice; 'and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of\nyou--like a Christian.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' stammered the boy.  The gentleman who spoke last was\nunconsciously right.  It would have been very like a Christian, and a\nmarvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people\nwho fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn't, because nobody had\ntaught him.\n\n'Well!  You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,'\nsaid the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.\n\n'So you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six o'clock,' added\nthe surly one in the white waistcoat.\n\nFor the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process\nof picking oakum, Oliver bowed low by the direction of the beadle, and\nwas then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he\nsobbed himself to sleep.  What a novel illustration of the tender laws\nof England!  They let the paupers go to sleep!\n\nPoor Oliver!  He little thought, as he lay sleeping in happy\nunconsciousness of all around him, that the board had that very day\narrived at a decision which would exercise the most material influence\nover all his future fortunes.  But they had.  And this was it:\n\nThe members of this board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and\nwhen they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out\nat once, what ordinary folks would never have discovered--the poor\npeople liked it!  It was a regular place of public entertainment for\nthe poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public\nbreakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all the year round; a brick and\nmortar elysium, where it was all play and no work.  'Oho!' said the\nboard, looking very knowing; 'we are the fellows to set this to rights;\nwe'll stop it all, in no time.'  So, they established the rule, that\nall poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel\nnobody, not they), of being starved by a gradual process in the house,\nor by a quick one out of it.  With this view, they contracted with the\nwater-works to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a\ncorn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and\nissued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and\nhalf a roll of Sundays.  They made a great many other wise and humane\nregulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary\nto repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in\nconsequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctors' Commons; and,\ninstead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had\ntheretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a\nbachelor!  There is no saying how many applicants for relief, under\nthese last two heads, might have started up in all classes of society,\nif it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were\nlong-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty.  The relief was\ninseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened\npeople.\n\nFor the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was\nin full operation.  It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of\nthe increase in the undertaker's bill, and the necessity of taking in\nthe clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their\nwasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two's gruel.  But the number of\nworkhouse inmates got thin as well as the paupers; and the board were\nin ecstasies.\n\nThe room in which the boys were fed, was a large stone hall, with a\ncopper at one end: out of which the master, dressed in an apron for the\npurpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at\nmealtimes.  Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and\nno more--except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two\nounces and a quarter of bread besides.\n\nThe bowls never wanted washing.  The boys polished them with their\nspoons till they shone again; and when they had performed this\noperation (which never took very long, the spoons being nearly as large\nas the bowls), they would sit staring at the copper, with such eager\neyes, as if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was\ncomposed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers\nmost assiduously, with the view of catching up any stray splashes of\ngruel that might have been cast thereon.  Boys have generally excellent\nappetites. Oliver Twist and his companions suffered the tortures of\nslow starvation for three months: at last they got so voracious and\nwild with hunger, that one boy, who was tall for his age, and hadn't\nbeen used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small\ncook-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, that unless he had another\nbasin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might some night happen to\neat the boy who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of\ntender age.  He had a wild, hungry eye; and they implicitly believed\nhim. A council was held; lots were cast who should walk up to the\nmaster after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to\nOliver Twist.\n\nThe evening arrived; the boys took their places.  The master, in his\ncook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants\nranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long\ngrace was said over the short commons.  The gruel disappeared; the boys\nwhispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbors\nnudged him.  Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and\nreckless with misery.  He rose from the table; and advancing to the\nmaster, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own\ntemerity:\n\n'Please, sir, I want some more.'\n\nThe master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in\nstupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then\nclung for support to the copper.  The assistants were paralysed with\nwonder; the boys with fear.\n\n'What!' said the master at length, in a faint voice.\n\n'Please, sir,' replied Oliver, 'I want some more.'\n\nThe master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle; pinioned him\nin his arm; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.\n\nThe board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into\nthe room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high\nchair, said,\n\n'Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir!  Oliver Twist has asked for\nmore!'\n\nThere was a general start.  Horror was depicted on every countenance.\n\n'For _more_!' said Mr. Limbkins.  'Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer\nme distinctly.  Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had\neaten the supper allotted by the dietary?'\n\n'He did, sir,' replied Bumble.\n\n'That boy will be hung,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.  'I\nknow that boy will be hung.'\n\nNobody controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion.  An animated\ndiscussion took place.  Oliver was ordered into instant confinement;\nand a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering\na reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the\nhands of the parish.  In other words, five pounds and Oliver Twist were\noffered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade,\nbusiness, or calling.\n\n'I never was more convinced of anything in my life,' said the gentleman\nin the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill\nnext morning: 'I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than\nI am that that boy will come to be hung.'\n\nAs I purpose to show in the sequel whether the white waistcoated\ngentleman was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this\nnarrative (supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint\njust yet, whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination\nor no.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\nRELATES HOW OLIVER TWIST WAS VERY NEAR GETTING A PLACE WHICH WOULD NOT\nHAVE BEEN A SINECURE\n\nFor a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of\nasking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and\nsolitary room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of\nthe board.  It appears, at first sight not unreasonable to suppose,\nthat, if he had entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the\nprediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat, he would have\nestablished that sage individual's prophetic character, once and for\never, by tying one end of his pocket-handkerchief to a hook in the\nwall, and attaching himself to the other.  To the performance of this\nfeat, however, there was one obstacle: namely, that\npocket-handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had been, for\nall future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by the\nexpress order of the board, in council assembled: solemnly given and\npronounced under their hands and seals.  There was a still greater\nobstacle in Oliver's youth and childishness.  He only cried bitterly\nall day; and, when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little\nhands before his eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the\ncorner, tried to sleep: ever and anon waking with a start and tremble,\nand drawing himself closer and closer to the wall, as if to feel even\nits cold hard surface were a protection in the gloom and loneliness\nwhich surrounded him.\n\nLet it not be supposed by the enemies of 'the system,' that, during the\nperiod of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of\nexercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious\nconsolation.  As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was\nallowed to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a\nstone yard, in the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching\ncold, and caused a tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated\napplications of the cane.  As for society, he was carried every other\nday into the hall where the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a\npublic warning and example.  And so far from being denied the\nadvantages of religious consolation, he was kicked into the same\napartment every evening at prayer-time, and there permitted to listen\nto, and console his mind with, a general supplication of the boys,\ncontaining a special clause, therein inserted by authority of the\nboard, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented,\nand obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver\nTwist: whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the\nexclusive patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an\narticle direct from the manufactory of the very Devil himself.\n\nIt chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious\nand comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweep, went his way\ndown the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means\nof paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become\nrather pressing.  Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances\ncould not raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount;\nand, in a species of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately\ncudgelling his brains and his donkey, when passing the workhouse, his\neyes encountered the bill on the gate.\n\n'Wo--o!' said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.\n\nThe donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably,\nwhether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when\nhe had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was\nladen; so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.\n\nMr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but\nmore particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow\non his head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a\ndonkey's.  Then, catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp\nwrench, by way of gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and\nby these means turned him round.  He then gave him another blow on the\nhead, just to stun him till he came back again.  Having completed these\narrangements, he walked up to the gate, to read the bill.\n\nThe gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with\nhis hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound\nsentiments in the board-room.  Having witnessed the little dispute\nbetween Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that\nperson came up to read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield\nwas exactly the sort of master Oliver Twist wanted.  Mr. Gamfield\nsmiled, too, as he perused the document; for five pounds was just the\nsum he had been wishing for; and, as to the boy with which it was\nencumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the dietary of the workhouse\nwas, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, just the very thing\nfor register stoves.  So, he spelt the bill through again, from\nbeginning to end; and then, touching his fur cap in token of humility,\naccosted the gentleman in the white waistcoat.\n\n'This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis,' said Mr.\nGamfield.\n\n'Ay, my man,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a\ncondescending smile.  'What of him?'\n\n'If the parish vould like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a\ngood 'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness,' said Mr. Gamfield, 'I wants\na 'prentis, and I am ready to take him.'\n\n'Walk in,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.  Mr. Gamfield\nhaving lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head,\nand another wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his\nabsence, followed the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room\nwhere Oliver had first seen him.\n\n'It's a nasty trade,' said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated\nhis wish.\n\n'Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now,' said another\ngentleman.\n\n'That's acause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley\nto make 'em come down again,' said Gamfield; 'that's all smoke, and no\nblaze; vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down,\nfor it only sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes.  Boys is wery\nobstinit, and wery lazy, Gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot\nblaze to make 'em come down vith a run.  It's humane too, gen'l'men,\nacause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet\nmakes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves.'\n\nThe gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this\nexplanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr.\nLimbkins.  The board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a\nfew minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words 'saving of\nexpenditure,' 'looked well in the accounts,' 'have a printed report\npublished,' were alone audible.  These only chanced to be heard,\nindeed, or account of their being very frequently repeated with great\nemphasis.\n\nAt length the whispering ceased; and the members of the board, having\nresumed their seats and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said:\n\n'We have considered your proposition, and we don't approve of it.'\n\n'Not at all,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.\n\n'Decidedly not,' added the other members.\n\nAs Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of\nhaving bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him\nthat the board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into\ntheir heads that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their\nproceedings. It was very unlike their general mode of doing business,\nif they had; but still, as he had no particular wish to revive the\nrumour, he twisted his cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the\ntable.\n\n'So you won't let me have him, gen'l'men?' said Mr. Gamfield, pausing\nnear the door.\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Limbkins; 'at least, as it's a nasty business, we\nthink you ought to take something less than the premium we offered.'\n\nMr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he\nreturned to the table, and said,\n\n'What'll you give, gen'l'men?  Come!  Don't be too hard on a poor man.\nWhat'll you give?'\n\n'I should say, three pound ten was plenty,' said Mr. Limbkins.\n\n'Ten shillings too much,' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.\n\n'Come!' said Gamfield; 'say four pound, gen'l'men.  Say four pound, and\nyou've got rid of him for good and all.  There!'\n\n'Three pound ten,' repeated Mr. Limbkins, firmly.\n\n'Come!  I'll split the diff'erence, gen'l'men,' urged Gamfield. 'Three\npound fifteen.'\n\n'Not a farthing more,' was the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.\n\n'You're desperate hard upon me, gen'l'men,' said Gamfield, wavering.\n\n'Pooh!  pooh!  nonsense!' said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.\n'He'd be cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly\nfellow!  He's just the boy for you.  He wants the stick, now and then:\nit'll do him good; and his board needn't come very expensive, for he\nhasn't been overfed since he was born.  Ha!  ha!  ha!'\n\nMr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and,\nobserving a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself.\nThe bargain was made.  Mr. Bumble, was at once instructed that Oliver\nTwist and his indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate, for\nsignature and approval, that very afternoon.\n\nIn pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive\nastonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself\ninto a clean shirt.  He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic\nperformance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin\nof gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of\nbread. At this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously:\nthinking, not unnaturally, that the board must have determined to kill\nhim for some useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten\nhim up in that way.\n\n'Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful,'\nsaid Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. 'You're a going to\nbe made a 'prentice of, Oliver.'\n\n'A prentice, sir!' said the child, trembling.\n\n'Yes, Oliver,' said Mr. Bumble.  'The kind and blessed gentleman which\nis so many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own: are\na going to 'prentice' you: and to set you up in life, and make a man of\nyou: although the expense to the parish is three pound ten!--three\npound ten, Oliver!--seventy shillins--one hundred and forty\nsixpences!--and all for a naughty orphan which nobody can't love.'\n\nAs Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in\nan awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he\nsobbed bitterly.\n\n'Come,' said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for it was gratifying\nto his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced;\n'Come, Oliver!  Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't\ncry into your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver.'  It\ncertainly was, for there was quite enough water in it already.\n\nOn their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all\nhe would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the\ngentleman asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like\nit very much indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey:\nthe rather as Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in\neither particular, there was no telling what would be done to him. When\nthey arrived at the office, he was shut up in a little room by himself,\nand admonished by Mr. Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch\nhim.\n\nThere the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour.  At\nthe expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned\nwith the cocked hat, and said aloud:\n\n'Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman.'  As Mr. Bumble said\nthis, he put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice,\n'Mind what I told you, you young rascal!'\n\nOliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat\ncontradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his\noffering any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining\nroom: the door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great\nwindow.  Behind a desk, sat two old gentleman with powdered heads: one\nof whom was reading the newspaper; while the other was perusing, with\nthe aid of a pair of tortoise-shell spectacles, a small piece of\nparchment which lay before him.  Mr. Limbkins was standing in front of\nthe desk on one side; and Mr. Gamfield, with a partially washed face,\non the other; while two or three bluff-looking men, in top-boots, were\nlounging about.\n\nThe old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off, over the\nlittle bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had\nbeen stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.\n\n'This is the boy, your worship,' said Mr. Bumble.\n\nThe old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a\nmoment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon,\nthe last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.\n\n'Oh, is this the boy?' said the old gentleman.\n\n'This is him, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble.  'Bow to the magistrate, my\ndear.'\n\nOliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance.  He had been\nwondering, with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all\nboards were born with that white stuff on their heads, and were boards\nfrom thenceforth on that account.\n\n'Well,' said the old gentleman, 'I suppose he's fond of\nchimney-sweeping?'\n\n'He doats on it, your worship,' replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly\npinch, to intimate that he had better not say he didn't.\n\n'And he _will_ be a sweep, will he?' inquired the old gentleman.\n\n'If we was to bind him to any other trade to-morrow, he'd run away\nsimultaneous, your worship,' replied Bumble.\n\n'And this man that's to be his master--you, sir--you'll treat him well,\nand feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?' said the old\ngentleman.\n\n'When I says I will, I means I will,' replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.\n\n'You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest,\nopen-hearted man,' said the old gentleman: turning his spectacles in\nthe direction of the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous\ncountenance was a regular stamped receipt for cruelty.  But the\nmagistrate was half blind and half childish, so he couldn't reasonably\nbe expected to discern what other people did.\n\n'I hope I am, sir,' said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.\n\n'I have no doubt you are, my friend,' replied the old gentleman: fixing\nhis spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the\ninkstand.\n\nIt was the critical moment of Oliver's fate.  If the inkstand had been\nwhere the old gentleman thought it was, he would have dipped his pen\ninto it, and signed the indentures, and Oliver would have been\nstraightway hurried off.  But, as it chanced to be immediately under\nhis nose, it followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over\nhis desk for it, without finding it; and happening in the course of his\nsearch to look straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and\nterrified face of Oliver Twist: who, despite all the admonitory looks\nand pinches of Bumble, was regarding the repulsive countenance of his\nfuture master, with a mingled expression of horror and fear, too\npalpable to be mistaken, even by a half-blind magistrate.\n\nThe old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to\nMr. Limbkins; who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and\nunconcerned aspect.\n\n'My boy!' said the old gentleman, 'you look pale and alarmed. What is\nthe matter?'\n\n'Stand a little away from him, Beadle,' said the other magistrate:\nlaying aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of\ninterest.  'Now, boy, tell us what's the matter: don't be afraid.'\n\nOliver fell on his knees, and clasping his hands together, prayed that\nthey would order him back to the dark room--that they would starve\nhim--beat him--kill him if they pleased--rather than send him away with\nthat dreadful man.\n\n'Well!' said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most\nimpressive solemnity.  'Well! of all the artful and designing orphans\nthat ever I see, Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest.'\n\n'Hold your tongue, Beadle,' said the second old gentleman, when Mr.\nBumble had given vent to this compound adjective.\n\n'I beg your worship's pardon,' said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of having\nheard aright.  'Did your worship speak to me?'\n\n'Yes.  Hold your tongue.'\n\nMr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment.  A beadle ordered to hold\nhis tongue!  A moral revolution!\n\nThe old gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles looked at his\ncompanion, he nodded significantly.\n\n'We refuse to sanction these indentures,' said the old gentleman:\ntossing aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.\n\n'I hope,' stammered Mr. Limbkins:  'I hope the magistrates will not\nform the opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper\nconduct, on the unsupported testimony of a child.'\n\n'The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the\nmatter,' said the second old gentleman sharply.  'Take the boy back to\nthe workhouse, and treat him kindly.  He seems to want it.'\n\nThat same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively\nand decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he\nwould be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his\nhead with gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good;\nwhereunto Mr. Gamfield replied, that he wished he might come to him;\nwhich, although he agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem\nto be a wish of a totally opposite description.\n\nThe next morning, the public were once informed that Oliver Twist was\nagain To Let, and that five pounds would be paid to anybody who would\ntake possession of him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\nOLIVER, BEING OFFERED ANOTHER PLACE, MAKES HIS FIRST ENTRY INTO PUBLIC\nLIFE\n\nIn great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained,\neither in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the\nyoung man who is growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to\nsea.  The board, in imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took\ncounsel together on the expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in\nsome small trading vessel bound to a good unhealthy port.  This\nsuggested itself as the very best thing that could possibly be done\nwith him: the probability being, that the skipper would flog him to\ndeath, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, or would knock his\nbrains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is pretty\ngenerally known, very favourite and common recreations among gentleman\nof that class.  The more the case presented itself to the board, in\nthis point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step\nappeared; so, they came to the conclusion that the only way of\nproviding for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.\n\nMr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries,\nwith the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a\ncabin-boy without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to\ncommunicate the result of his mission; when he encountered at the gate,\nno less a person than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.\n\nMr. Sowerberry was a tall gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit\nof threadbare black, with darned cotton stockings of the same colour,\nand shoes to answer.  His features were not naturally intended to wear\na smiling aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional\njocosity.  His step was elastic, and his face betokened inward\npleasantry, as he advanced to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by\nthe hand.\n\n'I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr.\nBumble,' said the undertaker.\n\n'You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' said the beadle, as he\nthrust his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the\nundertaker: which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin.  'I\nsay you'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry,' repeated Mr. Bumble,\ntapping the undertaker on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his\ncane.\n\n'Think so?' said the undertaker in a tone which half admitted and half\ndisputed the probability of the event.  'The prices allowed by the\nboard are very small, Mr. Bumble.'\n\n'So are the coffins,' replied the beadle: with precisely as near an\napproach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.\n\nMr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this: as of course he ought to be;\nand laughed a long time without cessation.  'Well, well, Mr. Bumble,'\nhe said at length, 'there's no denying that, since the new system of\nfeeding has come in, the coffins are something narrower and more\nshallow than they used to be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble.\nWell-seasoned timber is an expensive article, sir; and all the iron\nhandles come, by canal, from Birmingham.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Mr. Bumble, 'every trade has its drawbacks. A fair\nprofit is, of course, allowable.'\n\n'Of course, of course,' replied the undertaker; 'and if I don't get a\nprofit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the\nlong-run, you see--he! he! he!'\n\n'Just so,' said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'Though I must say,' continued the undertaker, resuming the current of\nobservations which the beadle had interrupted: 'though I must say, Mr.\nBumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage:\nwhich is, that all the stout people go off the quickest.  The people\nwho have been better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the\nfirst to sink when they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr.\nBumble, that three or four inches over one's calculation makes a great\nhole in one's profits: especially when one has a family to provide for,\nsir.'\n\nAs Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an\nill-used man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a\nreflection on the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it\nadvisable to change the subject.  Oliver Twist being uppermost in his\nmind, he made him his theme.\n\n'By the bye,' said Mr. Bumble, 'you don't know anybody who wants a boy,\ndo you?  A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a\nmillstone, as I may say, round the porochial throat?  Liberal terms,\nMr. Sowerberry, liberal terms?'  As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his\ncane to the bill above him, and gave three distinct raps upon the words\n'five pounds':  which were printed thereon in Roman capitals of\ngigantic size.\n\n'Gadso!' said the undertaker: taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged\nlappel of his official coat; 'that's just the very thing I wanted to\nspeak to you about.  You know--dear me, what a very elegant button this\nis, Mr. Bumble!  I never noticed it before.'\n\n'Yes, I think it rather pretty,' said the beadle, glancing proudly\ndownwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. 'The\ndie is the same as the porochial seal--the Good Samaritan healing the\nsick and bruised man. The board presented it to me on Newyear's\nmorning, Mr. Sowerberry.  I put it on, I remember, for the first time,\nto attend the inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway\nat midnight.'\n\n'I recollect,' said the undertaker. 'The jury brought it in, \"Died from\nexposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life,\"\ndidn't they?'\n\nMr. Bumble nodded.\n\n'And they made it a special verdict, I think,' said the undertaker, 'by\nadding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had--'\n\n'Tush!  Foolery!' interposed the beadle.  'If the board attended to all\nthe nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do.'\n\n'Very true,' said the undertaker; 'they would indeed.'\n\n'Juries,' said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont\nwhen working into a passion: 'juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling\nwretches.'\n\n'So they are,' said the undertaker.\n\n'They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than\nthat,' said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.\n\n'No more they have,' acquiesced the undertaker.\n\n'I despise 'em,' said the beadle, growing very red in the face.\n\n'So do I,' rejoined the undertaker.\n\n'And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort, in the house for\na week or two,' said the beadle; 'the rules and regulations of the\nboard would soon bring their spirit down for 'em.'\n\n'Let 'em alone for that,' replied the undertaker.  So saying, he\nsmiled, approvingly: to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish\nofficer.\n\nMr Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the\ninside of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his\nrage had engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the\nundertaker, said in a calmer voice:\n\n'Well; what about the boy?'\n\n'Oh!' replied the undertaker; 'why, you know, Mr. Bumble, I pay a good\ndeal towards the poor's rates.'\n\n'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble.  'Well?'\n\n'Well,' replied the undertaker, 'I was thinking that if I pay so much\ntowards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr.\nBumble; and so--I think I'll take the boy myself.'\n\nMr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the\nbuilding.  Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the board for five minutes;\nand it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening 'upon\nliking'--a phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that\nif the master find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out\nof a boy without putting too much food into him, he shall have him for\na term of years, to do what he likes with.\n\nWhen little Oliver was taken before 'the gentlemen' that evening; and\ninformed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a\ncoffin-maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever\ncame back to the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be\ndrowned, or knocked on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so\nlittle emotion, that they by common consent pronounced him a hardened\nyoung rascal, and ordered Mr. Bumble to remove him forthwith.\n\nNow, although it was very natural that the board, of all people in the\nworld, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror\nat the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they\nwere rather out, in this particular instance.  The simple fact was,\nthat Oliver, instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather\ntoo much; and was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state\nof brutal stupidity and sullenness by the ill usage he had received.\nHe heard the news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having\nhad his luggage put into his hand--which was not very difficult to\ncarry, inasmuch as it was all comprised within the limits of a brown\npaper parcel, about half a foot square by three inches deep--he pulled\nhis cap over his eyes; and once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's\ncoat cuff, was led away by that dignitary to a new scene of suffering.\n\nFor some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark;\nfor the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should:\nand, it being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by\nthe skirts of Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to\ngreat advantage his flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches.  As\nthey drew near to their destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it\nexpedient to look down, and see that the boy was in good order for\ninspection by his new master: which he accordingly did, with a fit and\nbecoming air of gracious patronage.\n\n'Oliver!'  said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.\n\n'Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir.'\n\nAlthough Oliver did as he was desired, at once; and passed the back of\nhis unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them\nwhen he looked up at his conductor.  As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon\nhim, it rolled down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another.\nThe child made a strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one.\nWithdrawing his other hand from Mr. Bumble's he covered his face with\nboth; and wept until the tears sprung out from between his chin and\nbony fingers.\n\n'Well!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little\ncharge a look of intense malignity.  'Well!  Of _all_ the\nungratefullest, and worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are\nthe--'\n\n'No, no, sir,' sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the\nwell-known cane; 'no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I\nwill, sir!  I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so--so--'\n\n'So what?' inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.\n\n'So lonely, sir!  So very lonely!' cried the child.  'Everybody hates\nme.  Oh! sir, don't, don't pray be cross to me!'  The child beat his\nhand upon his heart; and looked in his companion's face, with tears of\nreal agony.\n\nMr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some\nastonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky\nmanner; and after muttering something about 'that troublesome cough,'\nbade Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then once more taking his\nhand, he walked on with him in silence.\n\nThe undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was\nmaking some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate\ndismal candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.\n\n'Aha!' said the undertaker; looking up from the book, and pausing in\nthe middle of a word; 'is that you, Bumble?'\n\n'No one else, Mr. Sowerberry,' replied the beadle.  'Here! I've brought\nthe boy.'  Oliver made a bow.\n\n'Oh! that's the boy, is it?' said the undertaker:  raising the candle\nabove his head, to get a better view of Oliver. 'Mrs. Sowerberry, will\nyou have the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?'\n\nMrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and\npresented the form of a short, then, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish\ncountenance.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry, deferentially, 'this is the boy from\nthe workhouse that I told you of.'  Oliver bowed again.\n\n'Dear me!' said the undertaker's wife, 'he's very small.'\n\n'Why, he _is_ rather small,' replied Mr. Bumble: looking at Oliver as\nif it were his fault that he was no bigger; 'he is small. There's no\ndenying it.  But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry--he'll grow.'\n\n'Ah!  I dare say he will,' replied the lady pettishly, 'on our victuals\nand our drink.  I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they\nalways cost more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think\nthey know best. There!  Get downstairs, little bag o' bones.'  With\nthis, the undertaker's wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down\na steep flight of stairs into a stone cell, damp and dark: forming the\nante-room to the coal-cellar, and denominated 'kitchen'; wherein sat a\nslatternly girl, in shoes down at heel, and blue worsted stockings very\nmuch out of repair.\n\n'Here, Charlotte,' said Mr. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down,\n'give this boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip.  He\nhasn't come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em.  I dare\nsay the boy isn't too dainty to eat 'em--are you, boy?'\n\nOliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was\ntrembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a\nplateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.\n\nI wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall\nwithin him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen\nOliver Twist clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected.\nI wish he could have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver\ntore the bits asunder with all the ferocity of famine.  There is only\none thing I should like better; and that would be to see the\nPhilosopher making the same sort of meal himself, with the same relish.\n\n'Well,' said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his\nsupper: which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful\nauguries of his future appetite: 'have you done?'\n\nThere being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the\naffirmative.\n\n'Then come with me,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: taking up a dim and dirty\nlamp, and leading the way upstairs; 'your bed's under the counter.  You\ndon't mind sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much\nmatter whether you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else.\nCome; don't keep me here all night!'\n\nOliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\nOLIVER MINGLES WITH NEW ASSOCIATES.  GOING TO A FUNERAL FOR THE FIRST\nTIME, HE FORMS AN UNFAVOURABLE NOTION OF HIS MASTER'S BUSINESS\n\nOliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp\ndown on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling\nof awe and dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be\nat no loss to understand.  An unfinished coffin on black tressels,\nwhich stood in the middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like\nthat a cold tremble came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the\ndirection of the dismal object: from which he almost expected to see\nsome frightful form slowly rear its head, to drive him mad with terror.\nAgainst the wall were ranged, in regular array, a long row of elm\nboards cut in the same shape: looking in the dim light, like\nhigh-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their breeches pockets.\nCoffin-plates, elm-chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds of black\ncloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter was\nornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff\nneckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by\nfour black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and\nhot.  The atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins.  The\nrecess beneath the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust,\nlooked like a grave.\n\nNor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was\nalone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the\nbest of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no\nfriends to care for, or to care for him.  The regret of no recent\nseparation was fresh in his mind; the absence of no loved and\nwell-remembered face sank heavily into his heart.\n\nBut his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as he crept\ninto his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could be\nlain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the\ntall grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep\nbell to soothe him in his sleep.\n\nOliver was awakened in the morning, by a loud kicking at the outside of\nthe shop-door: which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was\nrepeated, in an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times.\nWhen he began to undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began.\n\n'Open the door, will yer?' cried the voice which belonged to the legs\nwhich had kicked at the door.\n\n'I will, directly, sir,' replied Oliver: undoing the chain, and turning\nthe key.\n\n'I suppose yer the new boy, ain't yer?' said the voice through the\nkey-hole.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'How old are yer?' inquired the voice.\n\n'Ten, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Then I'll whop yer when I get in,' said the voice; 'you just see if I\ndon't, that's all, my work'us brat!' and having made this obliging\npromise, the voice began to whistle.\n\nOliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very\nexpressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the\nsmallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would\nredeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a\ntrembling hand, and opened the door.\n\nFor a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street,\nand over the way: impressed with the belief that the unknown, who had\naddressed him through the key-hole, had walked a few paces off, to warm\nhimself; for nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post\nin front of the house, eating a slice of bread and butter: which he cut\ninto wedges, the size of his mouth, with a clasp-knife, and then\nconsumed with great dexterity.\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver at length: seeing that no other\nvisitor made his appearance; 'did you knock?'\n\n'I kicked,' replied the charity-boy.\n\n'Did you want a coffin, sir?' inquired Oliver, innocently.\n\nAt this, the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver\nwould want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that\nway.\n\n'Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?' said the charity-boy, in\ncontinuation: descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with\nedifying gravity.\n\n'No, sir,' rejoined Oliver.\n\n'I'm Mister Noah Claypole,' said the charity-boy, 'and you're under me.\nTake down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!' With this, Mr.\nClaypole administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a\ndignified air, which did him great credit.  It is difficult for a\nlarge-headed, small-eyed youth, of lumbering make and heavy\ncountenance, to look dignified under any circumstances; but it is more\nespecially so, when superadded to these personal attractions are a red\nnose and yellow smalls.\n\nOliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in\nhis effort to stagger away beneath the weight of the first one to a\nsmall court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the\nday, was graciously assisted by Noah: who having consoled him with the\nassurance that 'he'd catch it,' condescended to help him.  Mr.\nSowerberry came down soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry\nappeared.  Oliver having 'caught it,' in fulfilment of Noah's\nprediction, followed that young gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.\n\n'Come near the fire, Noah,' said Charlotte.  'I saved a nice little bit\nof bacon for you from master's breakfast.  Oliver, shut that door at\nMister Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover\nof the bread-pan.  There's your tea; take it away to that box, and\ndrink it there, and make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop.\nD'ye hear?'\n\n'D'ye hear, Work'us?' said Noah Claypole.\n\n'Lor, Noah!' said Charlotte, 'what a rum creature you are!  Why don't\nyou let the boy alone?'\n\n'Let him alone!' said Noah.  'Why everybody lets him alone enough, for\nthe matter of that.  Neither his father nor his mother will ever\ninterfere with him.  All his relations let him have his own way pretty\nwell.  Eh, Charlotte?  He! he! he!'\n\n'Oh, you queer soul!' said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in\nwhich she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully\nat poor Oliver Twist, as he sat shivering on the box in the coldest\ncorner of the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially\nreserved for him.\n\nNoah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan.  No chance-child\nwas he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his\nparents, who lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his\nfather a drunken soldier, discharged with a wooden leg, and a diurnal\npension of twopence-halfpenny and an unstateable fraction.  The\nshop-boys in the neighbourhood had long been in the habit of branding\nNoah in the public streets, with the ignominious epithets of\n'leathers,' 'charity,' and the like; and Noah had bourne them without\nreply.  But, now that fortune had cast in his way a nameless orphan, at\nwhom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, he retorted on\nhim with interest.  This affords charming food for contemplation.  It\nshows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made to be; and how\nimpartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the finest lord\nand the dirtiest charity-boy.\n\nOliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a\nmonth.  Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry--the shop being shut up--were taking\ntheir supper in the little back-parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after\nseveral deferential glances at his wife, said,\n\n'My dear--'  He was going to say more; but, Mrs. Sowerberry looking up,\nwith a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped short.\n\n'Well,' said Mrs. Sowerberry, sharply.\n\n'Nothing, my dear, nothing,' said Mr. Sowerberry.\n\n'Ugh, you brute!' said Mrs. Sowerberry.\n\n'Not at all, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry humbly.  'I thought you\ndidn't want to hear, my dear.  I was only going to say--'\n\n'Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say,' interposed Mrs.\nSowerberry.  'I am nobody; don't consult me, pray.  _I_ don't want to\nintrude upon your secrets.'  As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an\nhysterical laugh, which threatened violent consequences.\n\n'But, my dear,' said Sowerberry, 'I want to ask your advice.'\n\n'No, no, don't ask mine,' replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting\nmanner: 'ask somebody else's.'  Here, there was another hysterical\nlaugh, which frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much.  This is a very\ncommon and much-approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is\noften very effective. It at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as\na special favour, to be allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most\ncurious to hear.  After a short duration, the permission was most\ngraciously conceded.\n\n'It's only about young Twist, my dear,' said Mr. Sowerberry. 'A very\ngood-looking boy, that, my dear.'\n\n'He need be, for he eats enough,' observed the lady.\n\n'There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear,' resumed Mr.\nSowerberry, 'which is very interesting.  He would make a delightful\nmute, my love.'\n\nMrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable\nwonderment.  Mr. Sowerberry remarked it and, without allowing time for\nany observation on the good lady's part, proceeded.\n\n'I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but\nonly for children's practice.  It would be very new to have a mute in\nproportion, my dear.  You may depend upon it, it would have a superb\neffect.'\n\nMrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way,\nwas much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been\ncompromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances,\nshe merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious\nsuggestion had not presented itself to her husband's mind before?  Mr.\nSowerberry rightly construed this, as an acquiescence in his\nproposition; it was speedily determined, therefore, that Oliver should\nbe at once initiated into the mysteries of the trade; and, with this\nview, that he should accompany his master on the very next occasion of\nhis services being required.\n\nThe occasion was not long in coming.  Half an hour after breakfast next\nmorning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against\nthe counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he\nselected a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.\n\n'Aha!' said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance;\n'an order for a coffin, eh?'\n\n'For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards,' replied Mr.\nBumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocket-book: which, like\nhimself, was very corpulent.\n\n'Bayton,' said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr.\nBumble.  'I never heard the name before.'\n\nBumble shook his head, as he replied, 'Obstinate people, Mr.\nSowerberry; very obstinate.  Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir.'\n\n'Proud, eh?' exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry with a sneer.  'Come, that's too\nmuch.'\n\n'Oh, it's sickening,' replied the beadle.  'Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!'\n\n'So it is,' acquiesced the undertaker.\n\n'We only heard of the family the night before last,' said the beadle;\n'and we shouldn't have known anything about them, then, only a woman\nwho lodges in the same house made an application to the porochial\ncommittee for them to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was\nvery bad.  He had gone out to dinner; but his 'prentice (which is a\nvery clever lad) sent 'em some medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand.'\n\n'Ah, there's promptness,' said the undertaker.\n\n'Promptness, indeed!' replied the beadle.  'But what's the consequence;\nwhat's the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir?  Why, the husband\nsends back word that the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and\nso she shan't take it--says she shan't take it, sir!  Good, strong,\nwholesome medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish\nlabourers and a coal-heaver, only a week before--sent 'em for nothing,\nwith a blackin'-bottle in,--and he sends back word that she shan't take\nit, sir!'\n\nAs the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he\nstruck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with\nindignation.\n\n'Well,' said the undertaker, 'I ne--ver--did--'\n\n'Never did, sir!' ejaculated the beadle.  'No, nor nobody never did;\nbut now she's dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction;\nand the sooner it's done, the better.'\n\nThus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a\nfever of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.\n\n'Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!'\nsaid Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the\nstreet.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of\nsight, during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at\nthe mere recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice.\n\nHe needn't haven taken the trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance,\nhowever; for that functionary, on whom the prediction of the gentleman\nin the white waistcoat had made a very strong impression, thought that\nnow the undertaker had got Oliver upon trial the subject was better\navoided, until such time as he should be firmly bound for seven years,\nand all danger of his being returned upon the hands of the parish\nshould be thus effectually and legally overcome.\n\n'Well,' said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, 'the sooner this job is\ndone, the better.  Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap,\nand come with me.'  Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his\nprofessional mission.\n\nThey walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely\ninhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street\nmore dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused\nto look for the house which was the object of their search.  The houses\non either side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by\npeople of the poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have\nsufficiently denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the\nsqualid looks of the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies\nhalf doubled, occasionally skulked along.  A great many of the\ntenements had shop-fronts; but these were fast closed, and mouldering\naway; only the upper rooms being inhabited.  Some houses which had\nbecome insecure from age and decay, were prevented from falling into\nthe street, by huge beams of wood reared against the walls, and firmly\nplanted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed to have been\nselected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for many of\nthe rough boards which supplied the place of door and window, were\nwrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for\nthe passage of a human body.  The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The\nvery rats, which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were\nhideous with famine.\n\nThere was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver\nand his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark\npassage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid the\nundertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs.  Stumbling\nagainst a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.\n\nIt was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen.  The undertaker\nat once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the\napartment to which he had been directed.  He stepped in; Oliver\nfollowed him.\n\nThere was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching, mechanically,\nover the empty stove.  An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the\ncold hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged\nchildren in another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door,\nthere lay upon the ground, something covered with an old blanket.\nOliver shuddered as he cast his eyes toward the place, and crept\ninvoluntarily closer to his master; for though it was covered up, the\nboy felt that it was a corpse.\n\nThe man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly;\nhis eyes were bloodshot.  The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two\nremaining teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright\nand piercing.  Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man.\nThey seemed so like the rats he had seen outside.\n\n'Nobody shall go near her,' said the man, starting fiercely up, as the\nundertaker approached the recess. 'Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if\nyou've a life to lose!'\n\n'Nonsense, my good man,' said the undertaker, who was pretty well used\nto misery in all its shapes.  'Nonsense!'\n\n'I tell you,' said the man:  clenching his hands, and stamping\nfuriously on the floor,--'I tell you I won't have her put into the\nground.  She couldn't rest there.  The worms would worry her--not eat\nher--she is so worn away.'\n\nThe undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but producing a tape\nfrom his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.\n\n'Ah!' said the man: bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at\nthe feet of the dead woman; 'kneel down, kneel down--kneel round her,\nevery one of you, and mark my words!  I say she was starved to death.\nI never knew how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then\nher bones were starting through the skin.  There was neither fire nor\ncandle; she died in the dark--in the dark!  She couldn't even see her\nchildren's faces, though we heard her gasping out their names. I begged\nfor her in the streets: and they sent me to prison. When I came back,\nshe was dying; and all the blood in my heart has dried up, for they\nstarved her to death.  I swear it before the God that saw it! They\nstarved her!'  He twined his hands in his hair; and, with a loud\nscream, rolled grovelling upon the floor: his eyes fixed, and the foam\ncovering his lips.\n\nThe terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had\nhitherto remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that\npassed, menaced them into silence.  Having unloosened the cravat of the\nman who still remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the\nundertaker.\n\n'She was my daughter,' said the old woman, nodding her head in the\ndirection of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more\nghastly than even the presence of death in such a place. 'Lord, Lord!\nWell, it _is_ strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman\nthen, should be alive and merry now, and she lying there: so cold and\nstiff!  Lord, Lord!--to think of it; it's as good as a play--as good as\na play!'\n\nAs the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment,\nthe undertaker turned to go away.\n\n'Stop, stop!' said the old woman in a loud whisper.  'Will she be\nburied to-morrow, or next day, or to-night?  I laid her out; and I must\nwalk, you know.  Send me a large cloak: a good warm one: for it is\nbitter cold.  We should have cake and wine, too, before we go!  Never\nmind; send some bread--only a loaf of bread and a cup of water.  Shall\nwe have some bread, dear?' she said eagerly: catching at the\nundertaker's coat, as he once more moved towards the door.\n\n'Yes, yes,' said the undertaker,'of course.  Anything you like!' He\ndisengaged himself from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver\nafter him, hurried away.\n\nThe next day, (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a\nhalf-quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble\nhimself,) Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where\nMr. Bumble had already arrived, accompanied by four men from the\nworkhouse, who were to act as bearers.  An old black cloak had been\nthrown over the rags of the old woman and the man; and the bare coffin\nhaving been screwed down, was hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers,\nand carried into the street.\n\n'Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!' whispered\nSowerberry in the old woman's ear; 'we are rather late; and it won't\ndo, to keep the clergyman waiting.  Move on, my men,--as quick as you\nlike!'\n\nThus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the\ntwo mourners kept as near them, as they could.  Mr. Bumble and\nSowerberry walked at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs\nwere not so long as his master's, ran by the side.\n\nThere was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had\nanticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the\nchurchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were\nmade, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by\nthe vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it\nmight be an hour or so, before he came.  So, they put the bier on the\nbrink of the grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp\nclay, with a cold rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the\nspectacle had attracted into the churchyard played a noisy game at\nhide-and-seek among the tombstones, or varied their amusements by\njumping backwards and forwards over the coffin.  Mr. Sowerberry and\nBumble, being personal friends of the clerk, sat by the fire with him,\nand read the paper.\n\nAt length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble,\nand Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave.\nImmediately afterwards, the clergyman appeared: putting on his surplice\nas he came along.  Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up\nappearances; and the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the\nburial service as could be compressed into four minutes, gave his\nsurplice to the clerk, and walked away again.\n\n'Now, Bill!' said Sowerberry to the grave-digger. 'Fill up!'\n\nIt was no very difficult task, for the grave was so full, that the\nuppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface.  The\ngrave-digger shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his\nfeet: shouldered his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who\nmurmured very loud complaints at the fun being over so soon.\n\n'Come, my good fellow!' said Bumble, tapping the man on the back. 'They\nwant to shut up the yard.'\n\nThe man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the\ngrave side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had\naddressed him, walked forward for a few paces; and fell down in a\nswoon.  The crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss\nof her cloak (which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any\nattention; so they threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came\nto, saw him safely out of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed\non their different ways.\n\n'Well, Oliver,' said Sowerberry, as they walked home, 'how do you like\nit?'\n\n'Pretty well, thank you, sir' replied Oliver, with considerable\nhesitation.  'Not very much, sir.'\n\n'Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver,' said Sowerberry. 'Nothing\nwhen you _are_ used to it, my boy.'\n\nOliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time\nto get Mr. Sowerberry used to it.  But he thought it better not to ask\nthe question; and walked back to the shop: thinking over all he had\nseen and heard.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\nOLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO ACTION, AND\nRATHER ASTONISHES HIM\n\nThe month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed.  It was a nice\nsickly season just at this time.  In commercial phrase, coffins were\nlooking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great\ndeal of experience.  The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious\nspeculation, exceeded even his most sanguine hopes.  The oldest\ninhabitants recollected no period at which measles had been so\nprevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; and many were the mournful\nprocessions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-band reaching down to\nhis knees, to the indescribable admiration and emotion of all the\nmothers in the town.  As Oliver accompanied his master in most of his\nadult expeditions too, in order that he might acquire that equanimity\nof demeanour and full command of nerve which was essential to a\nfinished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the\nbeautiful resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded\npeople bear their trials and losses.\n\nFor instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich\nold lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews\nand nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous\nillness, and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most\npublic occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need\nbe--quite cheerful and contented--conversing together with as much\nfreedom and gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb\nthem.  Husbands, too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic\ncalmness. Wives, again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far\nfrom grieving in the garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to\nrender it as becoming and attractive as possible.  It was observable,\ntoo, that ladies and gentlemen who were in passions of anguish during\nthe ceremony of interment, recovered almost as soon as they reached\nhome, and became quite composed before the tea-drinking was over.  All\nthis was very pleasant and improving to see; and Oliver beheld it with\ngreat admiration.\n\nThat Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good\npeople, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm\nwith any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for\nmany months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and\nill-treatment of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now\nthat his jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the\nblack stick and hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in\nthe muffin-cap and leathers.  Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah\ndid; and Mrs. Sowerberry was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry\nwas disposed to be his friend; so, between these three on one side, and\na glut of funerals on the other, Oliver was not altogether as\ncomfortable as the hungry pig was, when he was shut up, by mistake, in\nthe grain department of a brewery.\n\nAnd now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I\nhave to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance,\nbut which indirectly produced a material change in all his future\nprospects and proceedings.\n\nOne day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual\ndinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton--a pound and a\nhalf of the worst end of the neck--when Charlotte being called out of\nthe way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole,\nbeing hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a\nworthier purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.\n\nIntent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the\ntable-cloth; and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and\nexpressed his opinion that he was a 'sneak'; and furthermore announced\nhis intention of coming to see him hanged, whenever that desirable\nevent should take place; and entered upon various topics of petty\nannoyance, like a malicious and ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was.\nBut, making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more facetious still; and\nin his attempt, did what many sometimes do to this day, when they want\nto be funny.  He got rather personal.\n\n'Work'us,' said Noah, 'how's your mother?'\n\n'She's dead,' replied Oliver; 'don't you say anything about her to me!'\n\nOliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there\nwas a curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole\nthought must be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying.\nUnder this impression he returned to the charge.\n\n'What did she die of, Work'us?' said Noah.\n\n'Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,' replied Oliver:\nmore as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. 'I think I\nknow what it must be to die of that!'\n\n'Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us,' said Noah, as a tear\nrolled down Oliver's cheek.  'What's set you a snivelling now?'\n\n'Not _you_,' replied Oliver, sharply. 'There; that's enough. Don't say\nanything more to me about her; you'd better not!'\n\n'Better not!' exclaimed Noah. 'Well!  Better not!  Work'us, don't be\nimpudent.  _Your_ mother, too!  She was a nice 'un she was.  Oh, Lor!'\nAnd here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of\nhis small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the\noccasion.\n\n'Yer know, Work'us,' continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence,\nand speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most\nannoying: 'Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer\ncouldn't help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all\nare, and pity yer very much.  But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother\nwas a regular right-down bad 'un.'\n\n'What did you say?' inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.\n\n'A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us,' replied Noah, coolly. 'And\nit's a great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else\nshe'd have been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung;\nwhich is more likely than either, isn't it?'\n\nCrimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table;\nseized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till\nhis teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into\none heavy blow, felled him to the ground.\n\nA minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected\ncreature that harsh treatment had made him.  But his spirit was roused\nat last; the cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire.\nHis breast heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid;\nhis whole person changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly\ntormentor who now lay crouching at his feet; and defied him with an\nenergy he had never known before.\n\n'He'll murder me!' blubbered Noah.  'Charlotte!  missis!  Here's the\nnew boy a murdering of me!  Help! help!  Oliver's gone mad!\nChar--lotte!'\n\nNoah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a\nlouder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen\nby a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was\nquite certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human\nlife, to come further down.\n\n'Oh, you little wretch!' screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her\nutmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man\nin particularly good training.  'Oh, you little un-grate-ful,\nmur-de-rous, hor-rid villain!'  And between every syllable, Charlotte\ngave Oliver a blow with all her might: accompanying it with a scream,\nfor the benefit of society.\n\nCharlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not\nbe effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into\nthe kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she\nscratched his face with the other. In this favourable position of\naffairs, Noah rose from the ground, and pommelled him behind.\n\nThis was rather too violent exercise to last long.  When they were all\nwearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver,\nstruggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and\nthere locked him up.  This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a\nchair, and burst into tears.\n\n'Bless her, she's going off!' said Charlotte.  'A glass of water, Noah,\ndear.  Make haste!'\n\n'Oh!  Charlotte,' said Mrs. Sowerberry:  speaking as well as she could,\nthrough a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which\nNoah had poured over her head and shoulders.  'Oh! Charlotte, what a\nmercy we have not all been murdered in our beds!'\n\n'Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am,' was the reply.  I only hope this'll teach\nmaster not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born\nto be murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah!  He was\nall but killed, ma'am, when I come in.'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the\ncharity-boy.\n\nNoah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level\nwith the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his\nwrists while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed\nsome affecting tears and sniffs.\n\n'What's to be done!' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.  'Your master's not at\nhome; there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in\nten minutes.'  Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in\nquestion, rendered this occurance highly probable.\n\n'Dear, dear!  I don't know, ma'am,' said Charlotte, 'unless we send for\nthe police-officers.'\n\n'Or the millingtary,' suggested Mr. Claypole.\n\n'No, no,' said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver's old\nfriend.  'Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly,\nand not to lose a minute; never mind your cap!  Make haste!  You can\nhold a knife to that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the\nswelling down.'\n\nNoah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed;\nand very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a\ncharity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his\nhead, and a clasp-knife at his eye.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\nOLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY\n\nNoah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused\nnot once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested\nhere, for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an\nimposing show of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and\npresented such a rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that\neven he, who saw nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of\ntimes, started back in astonishment.\n\n'Why, what's the matter with the boy!' said the old pauper.\n\n'Mr. Bumble!  Mr. Bumble!' cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and\nin tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr.\nBumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much\nthat he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,--which is a very\ncurious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle,\nacted upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a\nmomentary visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of\npersonal dignity.\n\n'Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!' said Noah:  'Oliver, sir,--Oliver has--'\n\n'What?  What?' interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his\nmetallic eyes. 'Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?'\n\n'No, sir, no.  Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious,' replied\nNoah. 'He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder\nCharlotte; and then missis.  Oh! what dreadful pain it is!\n\nSuch agony, please, sir!'  And here, Noah writhed and twisted his body\ninto an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving Mr.\nBumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of\nOliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from\nwhich he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.\n\nWhen Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed\nMr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his\ndreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a\ngentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in\nhis lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to\nattract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman\naforesaid.\n\nThe gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked\nthree paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young\ncur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with\nsomething which would render the series of vocular exclamations so\ndesignated, an involuntary process?\n\n'It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble, 'who\nhas been nearly murdered--all but murdered, sir,--by young Twist.'\n\n'By Jove!' exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping\nshort.  'I knew it!  I felt a strange presentiment from the very first,\nthat that audacious young savage would come to be hung!'\n\n'He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,' said\nMr. Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.\n\n'And his missis,' interposed Mr. Claypole.\n\n'And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?' added Mr. Bumble.\n\n'No! he's out, or he would have murdered him,' replied Noah. 'He said\nhe wanted to.'\n\n'Ah!  Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?' inquired the gentleman in the\nwhite waistcoat.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Noah.  'And please, sir, missis wants to know\nwhether Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog\nhim--'cause master's out.'\n\n'Certainly, my boy; certainly,' said the gentleman in the white\nwaistcoat: smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about\nthree inches higher than his own.  'You're a good boy--a very good boy.\nHere's a penny for you.  Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your\ncane, and see what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble.'\n\n'No, I will not, sir,' replied the beadle.  And the cocked hat and cane\nhaving been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr.\nBumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the\nundertaker's shop.\n\nHere the position of affairs had not at all improved.  Sowerberry had\nnot yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished\nvigour, at the cellar-door.  The accounts of his ferocity as related by\nMrs. Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr.\nBumble judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door.  With this\nview he gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then,\napplying his mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:\n\n'Oliver!'\n\n'Come; you let me out!' replied Oliver, from the inside.\n\n'Do you know this here voice, Oliver?' said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'Yes,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Ain't you afraid of it, sir?  Ain't you a-trembling while I speak,\nsir?' said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'No!' replied Oliver, boldly.\n\nAn answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was\nin the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little.  He\nstepped back from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and\nlooked from one to another of the three bystanders, in mute\nastonishment.\n\n'Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.\n\n'No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.'\n\n'It's not Madness, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of\ndeep meditation.  'It's Meat.'\n\n'What?' exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.\n\n'Meat, ma'am, meat,' replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. 'You've\nover-fed him, ma'am.  You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in\nhim, ma'am unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs.\nSowerberry, who are practical philosophers, will tell you.  What have\npaupers to do with soul or spirit?  It's quite enough that we let 'em\nhave live bodies.  If you had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would\nnever have happened.'\n\n'Dear, dear!' ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to\nthe kitchen ceiling: 'this comes of being liberal!'\n\nThe liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse\nbestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else\nwould eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in\nher voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation.  Of\nwhich, to do her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or\ndeed.\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth\nagain; 'the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to\nleave him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved\ndown; and then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the\napprenticeship.  He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs.\nSowerberry!  Both the nurse and doctor said, that that mother of his\nmade her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed\nany well-disposed woman, weeks before.'\n\nAt this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to\nknow that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced\nkicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.\nSowerberry returned at this juncture.  Oliver's offence having been\nexplained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best\ncalculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a\ntwinkling, and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.\n\nOliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face\nwas bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead.\nThe angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled\nout of his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite\nundismayed.\n\n'Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?' said Sowerberry; giving\nOliver a shake, and a box on the ear.\n\n'He called my mother names,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?' said Mrs.\nSowerberry.  'She deserved what he said, and worse.'\n\n'She didn't' said Oliver.\n\n'She did,' said Mrs. Sowerberry.\n\n'It's a lie!' said Oliver.\n\nMrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.\n\nThis flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative.  If he had\nhesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be\nquite clear to every experienced reader that he would have been,\naccording to all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a\nbrute, an unnatural husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of\na man, and various other agreeable characters too numerous for recital\nwithin the limits of this chapter.  To do him justice, he was, as far\nas his power went--it was not very extensive--kindly disposed towards\nthe boy; perhaps, because it was his interest to be so; perhaps,\nbecause his wife disliked him. The flood of tears, however, left him no\nresource; so he at once gave him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs.\nSowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. Bumble's subsequent application of\nthe parochial cane, rather unnecessary.  For the rest of the day, he\nwas shut up in the back kitchen, in company with a pump and a slice of\nbread; and at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after making various remarks\noutside the door, by no means complimentary to the memory of his\nmother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and pointings of\nNoah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.\n\nIt was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the\ngloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings\nwhich the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a\nmere child.  He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt;\nhe had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in\nhis heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they\nhad roasted him alive.  But now, when there were none to see or hear\nhim, he fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his\nhands, wept such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few\nso young may ever have cause to pour out before him!\n\nFor a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The\ncandle was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having\ngazed cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the\nfastenings of the door, and looked abroad.\n\nIt was a cold, dark night.  The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes,\nfarther from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no\nwind; and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground,\nlooked sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly\nreclosed the door.  Having availed himself of the expiring light of the\ncandle to tie up in a handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel\nhe had, sat himself down upon a bench, to wait for morning.\n\nWith the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the\nshutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door.  One timid look\naround--one moment's pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him,\nand was in the open street.\n\nHe looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.\n\nHe remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up\nthe hill.  He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across\nthe fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the\nroad; struck into it, and walked quickly on.\n\nAlong this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside\nMr. Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm.\nHis way lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly\nwhen he bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back.\nHe had come a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by\ndoing so.  Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of\nhis being seen; so he walked on.\n\nHe reached the house.  There was no appearance of its inmates stirring\nat that early hour.  Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden.  A\nchild was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his\npale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions.\nOliver felt glad to see him, before he went; for, though younger than\nhimself, he had been his little friend and playmate.  They had been\nbeaten, and starved, and shut up together, many and many a time.\n\n'Hush, Dick!' said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his\nthin arm between the rails to greet him.  'Is any one up?'\n\n'Nobody but me,' replied the child.\n\n'You musn't say you saw me, Dick,' said Oliver.  'I am running away.\nThey beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some\nlong way off.  I don't know where.  How pale you are!'\n\n'I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,' replied the child with a\nfaint smile.  'I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't\nstop!'\n\n'Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b'ye to you,' replied Oliver. 'I shall\nsee you again, Dick.  I know I shall!  You will be well and happy!'\n\n'I hope so,' replied the child.  'After I am dead, but not before.  I\nknow the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of\nHeaven, and Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake.\nKiss me,' said the child,  climbing up the low gate, and flinging his\nlittle arms round Oliver's neck. 'Good-b'ye, dear!  God bless you!'\n\nThe blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that\nOliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles\nand sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never\nonce forgot it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\nOLIVER WALKS TO LONDON.  HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF\nYOUNG GENTLEMAN\n\nOliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more\ngained the high-road.  It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly\nfive miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by\nturns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken.  Then\nhe sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think,\nfor the first time, where he had better go and try to live.\n\nThe stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an\nintimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The\nname awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind.\n\nLondon!--that great place!--nobody--not even Mr. Bumble--could ever\nfind him there!  He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too,\nsay that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways\nof living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in\ncountry parts had no idea of.  It was the very place for a homeless\nboy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these\nthings passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again\nwalked forward.\n\nHe had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four\nmiles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could\nhope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced\nitself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his\nmeans of getting there.  He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and\ntwo pairs of stockings, in his bundle.  He had a penny too--a gift of\nSowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more\nthan ordinarily well--in his pocket. 'A clean shirt,' thought Oliver,\n'is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings;\nand so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk\nin winter time.'  But Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other\npeople, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his\ndifficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of\nsurmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular\npurpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and\ntrudged on.\n\nOliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing\nbut the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he\nbegged at the cottage-doors by the road-side.  When the night came, he\nturned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined\nto lie there, till morning.  He felt frightened at first, for the wind\nmoaned dismally over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and\nmore alone than he had ever felt before.  Being very tired with his\nwalk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.\n\nHe felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that\nhe was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very\nfirst village through which he passed.  He had walked no more than\ntwelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his\nlegs so weak that they trembled beneath him.  Another night passed in\nthe bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey\nnext morning he could hardly crawl along.\n\nHe waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and\nthen begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took\nany notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the\ntop of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a\nhalfpenny.  Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way,\nbut was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet.  When\nthe outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets\nagain, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn't deserve\nanything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust\nbehind.\n\nIn some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all\npersons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to\njail.  This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out\nof those villages with all possible expedition.  In others, he would\nstand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed:\na proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady's ordering one\nof the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out\nof the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something.  If he\nbegged at a farmer's house, ten to one but they threatened to set the\ndog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about\nthe beadle--which brought Oliver's heart into his mouth,--very often\nthe only thing he had there, for many hours together.\n\nIn fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a\nbenevolent old lady, Oliver's troubles would have been shortened by the\nvery same process which had put an end to his mother's; in other words,\nhe would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king's highway.  But\nthe turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady,\nwho had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part\nof the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little\nshe could afford--and more--with such kind and gentle words, and such\ntears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver's\nsoul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.\n\nEarly on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver\nlimped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were\nclosed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business\nof the day.  The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the\nlight only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation,\nas he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.\n\nBy degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up;\nand people began passing to and fro.  Some few stopped to gaze at\nOliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they\nhurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire\nhow he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.\n\nHe had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great\nnumber of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern,\nlarge or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed\nthrough, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with\nease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and\ndetermination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by\nobserving that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes\nbefore, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the\nopposite side of the way.  He took little heed of this at first; but\nthe boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long,\nthat Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look.  Upon this,\nthe boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,\n\n'Hullo, my covey!  What's the row?'\n\nThe boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his\nown age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even\nseen.  He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and\nas dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all\nthe airs and manners of a man.  He was short of his age: with rather\nbow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes.  His hat was stuck on the top\nof his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every\nmoment--and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a\nknack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which\nbrought it back to its old place again.  He wore a man's coat, which\nreached nearly to his heels.  He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up\nhis arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the\nultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy\ntrousers; for there he kept them.  He was, altogether, as roystering\nand swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or\nsomething less, in the bluchers.\n\n'Hullo, my covey!  What's the row?' said this strange young gentleman\nto Oliver.\n\n'I am very hungry and tired,' replied Oliver: the tears standing in his\neyes as he spoke. 'I have walked a long way.  I have been walking these\nseven days.'\n\n'Walking for sivin days!' said the young gentleman.  'Oh, I see. Beak's\norder, eh?  But,' he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, 'I\nsuppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.'\n\nOliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth\ndescribed by the term in question.\n\n'My eyes, how green!' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'Why, a beak's a\nmadgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight\nforerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin.  Was you\nnever on the mill?'\n\n'What mill?' inquired Oliver.\n\n'What mill!  Why, _the_ mill--the mill as takes up so little room that\nit'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's\nlow with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen.\nBut come,' said the young gentleman; 'you want grub, and you shall have\nit.  I'm at low-water-mark myself--only one bob and a magpie; but, as\nfar as it goes, I'll fork out and stump.  Up with you on your pins.\nThere!  Now then! 'Morrice!'\n\nAssisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent\nchandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham\nand a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, 'a fourpenny\nbran!' the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the\ningenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a\nportion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein.  Taking the bread under\nhis arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led\nthe way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer\nwas brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver,\nfalling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal,\nduring the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time\nwith great attention.\n\n'Going to London?' said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length\nconcluded.\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Got any lodgings?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'Money?'\n\n'No.'\n\nThe strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as\nthe big coat-sleeves would let them go.\n\n'Do you live in London?' inquired Oliver.\n\n'Yes. I do, when I'm at home,' replied the boy. 'I suppose you want\nsome place to sleep in to-night, don't you?'\n\n'I do, indeed,' answered Oliver. 'I have not slept under a roof since I\nleft the country.'\n\n'Don't fret your eyelids on that score,' said the young gentleman.\n'I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old\ngentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and\nnever ask for the change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces\nyou. And don't he know me?  Oh, no! Not in the least!  By no means.\nCertainly not!'\n\nThe young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments\nof discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did\nso.\n\nThis unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted;\nespecially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the\nold gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a\ncomfortable place, without loss of time.  This led to a more friendly\nand confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his\nfriend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and\nprotege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.\n\nMr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the\ncomforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took\nunder his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute\nmode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate\nfriends he was better known by the sobriquet of 'The Artful Dodger,'\nOliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the\nmoral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon\nhim.  Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good\nopinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found\nthe Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to\ndecline the honour of his farther acquaintance.\n\nAs John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it\nwas nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington.\nThey crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small\nstreet which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth\nStreet and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the\nworkhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of\nHockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into\nSaffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace,\ndirecting Oliver to follow close at his heels.\n\nAlthough Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of\nhis leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either\nside of the way, as he passed along.  A dirtier or more wretched place\nhe had never seen.  The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air\nwas impregnated with filthy odours.\n\nThere were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade\nappeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were\ncrawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside.  The\nsole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the\nplace, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish\nwere wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here\nand there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of\nhouses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth;\nand from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were\ncautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed\nor harmless errands.\n\nOliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when\nthey reached the bottom of the hill.  His conductor, catching him by\nthe arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing\nhim into the passage, closed it behind them.\n\n'Now, then!' cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the\nDodger.\n\n'Plummy and slam!' was the reply.\n\nThis seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the\nlight of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the\npassage; and a man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the\nold kitchen staircase had been broken away.\n\n'There's two on you,' said the man, thrusting the candle farther out,\nand shielding his eyes with his hand.  'Who's the t'other one?'\n\n'A new pal,' replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.\n\n'Where did he come from?'\n\n'Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?'\n\n'Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes.  Up with you!'  The candle was drawn\nback, and the face disappeared.\n\nOliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly\ngrasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and\nbroken stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition\nthat showed he was well acquainted with them.\n\nHe threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.\n\nThe walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and\ndirt.  There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a\ncandle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf\nand butter, and a plate.  In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and\nwhich was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were\ncooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was\na very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face\nwas obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a\ngreasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing\nhis attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which\na great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging.  Several rough beds\nmade of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round\nthe table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking\nlong clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men.\nThese all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to\nthe Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver.  So did the Jew\nhimself, toasting-fork in hand.\n\n'This is him, Fagin,' said Jack Dawkins;'my friend Oliver Twist.'\n\nThe Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the\nhand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance.\nUpon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook\nboth his hands very hard--especially the one in which he held his\nlittle bundle.  One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap\nfor him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his\npockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the\ntrouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed.  These\ncivilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal\nexercise of the Jew's toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the\naffectionate youths who offered them.\n\n'We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,' said the Jew. 'Dodger,\ntake off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver.  Ah,\nyou're a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a\ngood many of 'em, ain't there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the\nwash; that's all, Oliver; that's all. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nThe latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from\nall the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of\nwhich they went to supper.\n\nOliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot\ngin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, because\nanother gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired.\nImmediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the\nsacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\nCONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN,\nAND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS\n\nIt was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep.\nThere was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling\nsome coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to\nhimself as he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He would\nstop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below:\nand when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and\nstirring again, as before.\n\nAlthough Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly\nawake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you\ndream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half\nconscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would in\nfive nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in\nperfect unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows just enough of\nwhat his mind is doing, to form some glimmering conception of its\nmighty powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space,\nwhen freed from the restraint of its corporeal associate.\n\nOliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his\nhalf-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of\nthe spoon grating against the saucepan's sides: and yet the self-same\nsenses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with\nalmost everybody he had ever known.\n\nWhen the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob.\nStanding, then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he\ndid not well know how to employ himself, he turned round and looked at\nOliver, and called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all\nappearances asleep.\n\nAfter satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the\ndoor: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver,\nfrom some trap in the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on\nthe table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in.\nDragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a\nmagnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.\n\n'Aha!' said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every\nfeature with a hideous grin. 'Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the\nlast! Never told the old parson where they were. Never poached upon old\nFagin! And why should they? It wouldn't have loosened the knot, or kept\nthe drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!'\n\nWith these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew\nonce more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a\ndozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed\nwith equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other\narticles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly\nworkmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even of their names.\n\nHaving replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that\nit lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute\ninscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading\nit with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put\nit down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair,\nmuttered:\n\n'What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead\nmen never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it's a fine thing for the\ntrade! Five of 'em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or\nturn white-livered!'\n\nAs the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been\nstaring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver's face; the boy's eyes were\nfixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only\nfor an instant--for the briefest space of time that can possibly be\nconceived--it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed.\n\nHe closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on\na bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled\nvery much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the\nknife quivered in the air.\n\n'What's that?' said the Jew. 'What do you watch me for? Why are you\nawake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick--quick! for your life.\n\n'I wasn't able to sleep any longer, sir,' replied Oliver, meekly. 'I am\nvery sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.'\n\n'You were not awake an hour ago?' said the Jew, scowling fiercely on\nthe boy.\n\n'No! No, indeed!' replied Oliver.\n\n'Are you sure?' cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before:\nand a threatening attitude.\n\n'Upon my word I was not, sir,' replied Oliver, earnestly. 'I was not,\nindeed, sir.'\n\n'Tush, tush, my dear!' said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner,\nand playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to\ninduce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. 'Of course I\nknow that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You're a brave boy.\nHa! ha! you're a brave boy, Oliver.' The Jew rubbed his hands with a\nchuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.\n\n'Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?' said the Jew, laying\nhis hand upon it after a short pause.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Ah!' said the Jew, turning rather pale. 'They--they're mine, Oliver;\nmy little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks\ncall me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's all.'\n\nOliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in\nsuch a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps\nhis fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of\nmoney, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he\nmight get up.\n\n'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' replied the old gentleman. 'Stay.\nThere's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here;\nand I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.'\n\nOliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to\nraise the pitcher.  When he turned his head, the box was gone.\n\nHe had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying\nthe basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew's directions, when\nthe Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom\nOliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally\nintroduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on\nthe coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought\nhome in the crown of his hat.\n\n'Well,' said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself\nto the Dodger, 'I hope you've been at work this morning, my dears?'\n\n'Hard,' replied the Dodger.\n\n'As nails,' added Charley Bates.\n\n'Good boys, good boys!' said the Jew. 'What have you got, Dodger?'\n\n'A couple of pocket-books,' replied that young gentlman.\n\n'Lined?' inquired the Jew, with eagerness.\n\n'Pretty well,' replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one\ngreen, and the other red.\n\n'Not so heavy as they might be,' said the Jew, after looking at the\ninsides carefully; 'but very neat and nicely made.  Ingenious workman,\nain't he, Oliver?'\n\n'Very indeed, sir,' said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed\nuproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to\nlaugh at, in anything that had passed.\n\n'And what have you got, my dear?' said Fagin to Charley Bates.\n\n'Wipes,' replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four\npocket-handkerchiefs.\n\n'Well,' said the Jew, inspecting them closely; 'they're very good ones,\nvery. You haven't marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall\nbe picked out with a needle, and we'll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall\nus, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!'\n\n'If you please, sir,' said Oliver.\n\n'You'd like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley\nBates, wouldn't you, my dear?' said the Jew.\n\n'Very much, indeed, if you'll teach me, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\nMaster Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that\nhe burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was\ndrinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly\nterminated in his premature suffocation.\n\n'He is so jolly green!' said Charley when he recovered, as an apology\nto the company for his unpolite behaviour.\n\nThe Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes,\nand said he'd know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman,\nobserving Oliver's colour mounting, changed the subject by asking\nwhether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that morning?\nThis made him wonder more and more; for it was plain from the replies\nof the two boys that they had both been there; and Oliver naturally\nwondered how they could possibly have found time to be so very\nindustrious.\n\nWhen the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two\nboys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in\nthis way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of\nhis trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat\npocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond\npin in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his\nspectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the\nroom with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen\nwalk about the streets any hour in the day.  Sometimes he stopped at\nthe fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was\nstaring with all his might into shop-windows.  At such times, he would\nlook constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping\nall his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn't lost anything, in such a\nvery funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran\ndown his face.  All this time, the two boys followed him closely about:\ngetting out of his sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that\nit was impossible to follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod\nupon his toes, or ran upon his boot accidently, while Charley Bates\nstumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment they took from\nhim, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case,\nwatch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket-handkerchief, even the\nspectacle-case.  If the old gentlman felt a hand in any one of his\npockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over\nagain.\n\nWhen this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young\nladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet,\nand the other Nancy.  They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly\nturned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings.\nThey were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of\ncolour in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty.  Being\nremarkably free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them\nvery nice girls indeed.  As there is no doubt they were.\n\nThe visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence\nof one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and\nthe conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length,\nCharley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof.\nThis, it occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly\nafterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went\naway together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with\nmoney to spend.\n\n'There, my dear,' said Fagin. 'That's a pleasant life, isn't it? They\nhave gone out for the day.'\n\n'Have they done work, sir?' inquired Oliver.\n\n'Yes,' said the Jew; 'that is, unless they should unexpectedly come\nacross any, when they are out; and they won't neglect it, if they do,\nmy dear, depend upon it.  Make 'em your models, my dear. Make 'em your\nmodels,' tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his\nwords; 'do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all\nmatters--especially the Dodger's, my dear. He'll be a great man\nhimself, and will make you one too, if you take pattern by him.--Is my\nhandkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?' said the Jew, stopping\nshort.\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Oliver.\n\n'See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do,\nwhen we were at play this morning.'\n\nOliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen\nthe Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with\nthe other.\n\n'Is it gone?' cried the Jew.\n\n'Here it is, sir,' said Oliver, showing it in his hand.\n\n'You're a clever boy, my dear,' said the playful old gentleman, patting\nOliver on the head approvingly. 'I never saw a sharper lad. Here's a\nshilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you'll be the greatest man\nof the time. And now come here, and I'll show you how to take the marks\nout of the handkerchiefs.'\n\nOliver wondered what picking the old gentleman's pocket in play, had to\ndo with his chances of being a great man.  But, thinking that the Jew,\nbeing so much his senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to\nthe table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\nOLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW\nASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT,\nBUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY\n\nFor many days, Oliver remained in the Jew's room, picking the marks out\nof the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought\nhome,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described: which\nthe two boys and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length,\nhe began to languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of\nearnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work\nwith his two companions.\n\nOliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what\nhe had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman's character.\nWhenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed,\nhe would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy\nhabits; and would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by\nsending them supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went\nso far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was\ncarrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.\n\nAt length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so\neagerly sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two\nor three days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these\nwere reasons for the old gentleman's giving his assent; but, whether\nthey were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the\njoint guardianship of Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.\n\nThe three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up,\nand his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his\nhands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they\nwere going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in,\nfirst.\n\nThe pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,\nthat Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive\nthe old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a\nvicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small\nboys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some\nvery loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering\ndivers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and\nthrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that\nthey seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.\nThese things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring\nhis intention of seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when\nhis thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel, by a very\nmysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.\n\nThey were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open\nsquare in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion\nof terms, 'The Green': when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying\nhis finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the\ngreatest caution and circumspection.\n\n'What's the matter?' demanded Oliver.\n\n'Hush!' replied the Dodger. 'Do you see that old cove at the\nbook-stall?'\n\n'The old gentleman over the way?' said Oliver. 'Yes, I see him.'\n\n'He'll do,' said the Dodger.\n\n'A prime plant,' observed Master Charley Bates.\n\nOliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he\nwas not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked\nstealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman\ntowards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces\nafter them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood\nlooking on in silent amazement.\n\nThe old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a\npowdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green\ncoat with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a\nsmart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall,\nand there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his\nelbow-chair, in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied\nhimself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he\nsaw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short,\nanything but the book itself: which he was reading straight through:\nturning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at\nthe top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest\ninterest and eagerness.\n\nWhat was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking\non with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the\nDodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman's pocket, and draw from\nthence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and\nfinally to behold them, both running away round the corner at full\nspeed!\n\nIn an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches,\nand the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind.\n\nHe stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his\nveins from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then,\nconfused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he\ndid, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.\n\nThis was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver\nbegan to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and\nmissing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding\naway at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the\ndepredator; and shouting 'Stop thief!' with all his might, made off\nafter him, book in hand.\n\nBut the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the\nhue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public\nattention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the\nvery first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and\nsaw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they\nissued forth with great promptitude; and, shouting 'Stop thief!' too,\njoined in the pursuit like good citizens.\n\nAlthough Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not\ntheoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that\nself-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps\nhe would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it\nalarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old\ngentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.\n\n'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman\nleaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down\nhis tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy\nhis parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the\nchild his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter,\nslap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as\nthey turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls:\nand streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.\n\n'Stop thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and\nthe crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through\nthe mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run\nthe people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the\nvery thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the\nshout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, 'Stop thief! Stop thief!'\n\n'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FOR _hunting_ _something_\ndeeply implanted in the human breast.  One wretched breathless child,\npanting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large\ndrops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to\nmake head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain\nupon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy.\n'Stop thief!'  Ay, stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!\n\nStopped at last!  A clever blow.  He is down upon the pavement; and the\ncrowd eagerly gather round him:  each new comer, jostling and\nstruggling with the others to catch a glimpse.  'Stand aside!'  'Give\nhim a little air!'  'Nonsense! he don't deserve it.'  'Where's the\ngentleman?'  'Here his is, coming down the street.'  'Make room there\nfor the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy, sir!'  'Yes.'\n\nOliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,\nlooking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when\nthe old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by\nthe foremost of the pursuers.\n\n'Yes,' said the gentleman, 'I am afraid it is the boy.'\n\n'Afraid!' murmured the crowd.  'That's a good 'un!'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said the gentleman, 'he has hurt himself.'\n\n'_I_ did that, sir,' said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward;\n'and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth.  I stopped him, sir.'\n\nThe fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his\npains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of\ndislike, look anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away\nhimself:  which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and\nthus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is\ngenerally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made\nhis way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.\n\n'Come, get up,' said the man, roughly.\n\n'It wasn't me indeed, sir.  Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,'\nsaid Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round.  'They\nare here somewhere.'\n\n'Oh no, they ain't,' said the officer.  He meant this to be ironical,\nbut it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off\ndown the first convenient court they came to.\n\n'Come, get up!'\n\n'Don't hurt him,' said the old gentleman, compassionately.\n\n'Oh no, I won't hurt him,' replied the officer, tearing his jacket half\noff his back, in proof thereof.  'Come, I know you; it won't do.  Will\nyou stand upon your legs, you young devil?'\n\nOliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his\nfeet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at\na rapid pace.  The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side;\nand as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead,\nand stared back at Oliver from time to time.  The boys shouted in\ntriumph; and on they went.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\nTREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT\nSPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE\n\nThe offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the\nimmediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office.\nThe crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two\nor three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led\nbeneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of\nsummary justice, by the back way.  It was a small paved yard into which\nthey turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of\nwhiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.\n\n'What's the matter now?' said the man carelessly.\n\n'A young fogle-hunter,' replied the man who had Oliver in charge.\n\n'Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?' inquired the man with the\nkeys.\n\n'Yes, I am,' replied the old gentleman; 'but I am not sure that this\nboy actually took the handkerchief.  I--I would rather not press the\ncase.'\n\n'Must go before the magistrate now, sir,' replied the man. 'His worship\nwill be disengaged in half a minute.  Now, young gallows!'\n\nThis was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he\nunlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell.  Here he was\nsearched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.\n\nThis cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not\nso light.  It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning;\nand it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up,\nelsewhere, since Saturday night.  But this is little.  In our\nstation-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most\ntrivial charges--the word is worth noting--in dungeons, compared with\nwhich, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried,\nfound guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who\ndoubts this, compare the two.\n\nThe old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated\nin the lock.  He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the\ninnocent cause of all this disturbance.\n\n'There is something in that boy's face,' said the old gentleman to\nhimself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of\nthe book, in a thoughtful manner; 'something that touches and interests\nme.  _Can_ he be innocent?  He looked like--Bye the bye,' exclaimed the\nold gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky,\n'Bless my soul!--where have I seen something like that look before?'\n\nAfter musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same\nmeditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there,\nretiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast\namphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many\nyears.  'No,' said the old gentleman, shaking his head; 'it must be\nimagination.\n\nHe wandered over them again.  He had called them into view, and it was\nnot easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them.  There\nwere the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost\nstrangers peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of\nyoung and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that\nthe grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to\nits power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling\nback the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming\nof the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond\nthe tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be\nset up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to\nHeaven.\n\nBut the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's\nfeatures bore a trace.  So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he\nawakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman,\nburied them again in the pages of the musty book.\n\nHe was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man\nwith the keys to follow him into the office.  He closed his book\nhastily; and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the\nrenowned Mr. Fang.\n\nThe office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall.  Mr. Fang sat\nbehind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of\nwooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling\nvery much at the awfulness of the scene.\n\nMr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with\nno great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and\nsides of his head.  His face was stern, and much flushed.  If he were\nreally not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good\nfor him, he might have brought action against his countenance for\nlibel, and have recovered heavy damages.\n\nThe old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's\ndesk, said, suiting the action to the word, 'That is my name and\naddress, sir.'  He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another\npolite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.\n\nNow, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading\narticle in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent\ndecision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth\ntime, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State\nfor the Home Department.  He was out of temper; and he looked up with\nan angry scowl.\n\n'Who are you?' said Mr. Fang.\n\nThe old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.\n\n'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the\nnewspaper.  'Who is this fellow?'\n\n'My name, sir,' said the old gentleman, speaking _like_ a gentleman,\n'my name, sir, is Brownlow.  Permit me to inquire the name of the\nmagistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a\nrespectable person, under the protection of the bench.'  Saying this,\nMr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person\nwho would afford him the required information.\n\n'Officer!' said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, 'what's this\nfellow charged with?'\n\n'He's not charged at all, your worship,' replied the officer. 'He\nappears against this boy, your worship.'\n\nHis worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and\na safe one.\n\n'Appears against the boy, does he?' said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr.\nBrownlow contemptuously from head to foot.  'Swear him!'\n\n'Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,' said Mr. Brownlow;\n'and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could\nhave believed--'\n\n'Hold your tongue, sir!' said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.\n\n'I will not, sir!' replied the old gentleman.\n\n'Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the\noffice!' said Mr. Fang.  'You're an insolent impertinent fellow.  How\ndare you bully a magistrate!'\n\n'What!' exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.\n\n'Swear this person!' said Fang to the clerk.  'I'll not hear another\nword.  Swear him.'\n\nMr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps,\nthat he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed\nhis feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.\n\n'Now,' said Fang, 'what's the charge against this boy?  What have you\ngot to say, sir?'\n\n'I was standing at a bookstall--' Mr. Brownlow began.\n\n'Hold your tongue, sir,' said Mr. Fang.  'Policeman!  Where's the\npoliceman?  Here, swear this policeman.  Now, policeman, what is this?'\n\nThe policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the\ncharge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person;\nand how that was all he knew about it.\n\n'Are there any witnesses?' inquired Mr. Fang.\n\n'None, your worship,' replied the policeman.\n\nMr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the\nprosecutor, said in a towering passion.\n\n'Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or\ndo you not?  You have been sworn.  Now, if you stand there, refusing to\ngive evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will,\nby--'\n\nBy what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed\nvery loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy\nbook upon the floor, thus preventing the word from being\nheard--accidently, of course.\n\nWith many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived\nto state his case;  observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he\nhad run after the boy because he had saw him running away; and\nexpressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him,\nalthough not actually the thief, to be connected with the thieves, he\nwould deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.\n\n'He has been hurt already,' said the old gentleman in conclusion. 'And\nI fear,' he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, 'I\nreally fear that he is ill.'\n\n'Oh! yes, I dare say!' said Mr. Fang, with a sneer.  'Come, none of\nyour tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?'\n\nOliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him.  He was deadly pale;\nand the whole place seemed turning round and round.\n\n'What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?' demanded Mr. Fang.\n'Officer, what's his name?'\n\nThis was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who\nwas standing by the bar.  He bent over Oliver, and repeated the\ninquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the\nquestion; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the\nmagistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he\nhazarded a guess.\n\n'He says his name's Tom White, your worship,' said the kind-hearted\nthief-taker.\n\n'Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?' said Fang.  'Very well, very well.\nWhere does he live?'\n\n'Where he can, your worship,' replied the officer; again pretending to\nreceive Oliver's answer.\n\n'Has he any parents?' inquired Mr. Fang.\n\n'He says they died in his infancy, your worship,' replied the officer:\nhazarding the usual reply.\n\nAt this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking\nround with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of\nwater.\n\n'Stuff and nonsense!' said Mr. Fang:  'don't try to make a fool of me.'\n\n'I think he really is ill, your worship,' remonstrated the officer.\n\n'I know better,' said Mr. Fang.\n\n'Take care of him, officer,' said the old gentleman, raising his hands\ninstinctively; 'he'll fall down.'\n\n'Stand away, officer,' cried Fang;  'let him, if he likes.'\n\nOliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in\na fainting fit.  The men in the office looked at each other, but no one\ndared to stir.\n\n'I knew he was shamming,' said Fang, as if this were incontestable\nproof of the fact.  'Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that.'\n\n'How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?'  inquired the clerk in\na low voice.\n\n'Summarily,' replied Mr. Fang.  'He stands committed for three\nmonths--hard labour of course.  Clear the office.'\n\nThe door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were\npreparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man\nof decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed\nhastily into the office, and advanced towards the bench.\n\n'Stop, stop!  don't take him away!  For Heaven's sake stop a moment!'\ncried the new comer, breathless with haste.\n\nAlthough the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a\nsummary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the\ncharacter, almost the lives, of Her Majesty's subjects, expecially of\nthe poorer class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic\ntricks are daily played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are\nclosed to the public, save through the medium of the daily\npress.[Footnote:  Or were virtually, then.] Mr. Fang was consequently\nnot a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such\nirreverent disorder.\n\n'What is this?  Who is this?  Turn this man out.  Clear the office!'\ncried Mr. Fang.\n\n'I _will_ speak,' cried the man; 'I will not be turned out.  I saw it\nall.  I keep the book-stall.  I demand to be sworn. I will not be put\ndown.  Mr. Fang, you must hear me.  You must not refuse, sir.'\n\nThe man was right.  His manner was determined; and the matter was\ngrowing rather too serious to be hushed up.\n\n'Swear the man,' growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. 'Now, man,\nwhat have you got to say?'\n\n'This,' said the man:  'I saw three boys:  two others and the prisoner\nhere:  loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman\nwas reading.  The robbery was committed by another boy.  I saw it done;\nand I saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.'\nHaving by this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall\nkeeper proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact\ncircumstances of the robbery.\n\n'Why didn't you come here before?' said Fang, after a pause.\n\n'I hadn't a soul to mind the shop,' replied the man.  'Everybody who\ncould have helped me, had joined in the pursuit.  I could get nobody\ntill five minutes ago; and I've run here all the way.'\n\n'The prosecutor was reading, was he?' inquired Fang, after another\npause.\n\n'Yes,' replied the man.  'The very book he has in his hand.'\n\n'Oh, that book, eh?' said Fang.  'Is it paid for?'\n\n'No, it is not,' replied the man, with a smile.\n\n'Dear me, I forgot all about it!' exclaimed the absent old gentleman,\ninnocently.\n\n'A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!' said Fang, with\na comical effort to look humane.  'I consider, sir, that you have\nobtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and\ndisreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate\nthat the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a\nlesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet.  The boy is\ndischarged.  Clear the office!'\n\n'D--n me!' cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had\nkept down so long, 'd--n me!   I'll--'\n\n'Clear the office!' said the magistrate.  'Officers, do you hear? Clear\nthe office!'\n\nThe mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed\nout, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other:  in a\nperfect phrenzy of rage and defiance.  He reached the yard; and his\npassion vanished in a moment.  Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on\nthe pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with\nwater; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole\nframe.\n\n'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. 'Call a\ncoach, somebody, pray.  Directly!'\n\nA coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the\nseat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.\n\n'May I accompany you?' said the book-stall keeper, looking in.\n\n'Bless me, yes, my dear sir,' said Mr. Brownlow quickly.  'I forgot\nyou.  Dear, dear!  I have this unhappy book still! Jump in.  Poor\nfellow!  There's no time to lose.'\n\nThe book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\nIN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS BEFORE. AND IN\nWHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL\nFRIENDS.\n\nThe coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which\nOliver had traversed when he first entered London in company with the\nDodger; and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at\nIslington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady\nstreet near Pentonville.  Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of\ntime, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and\ncomfortably deposited; and here, he was tended with a kindness and\nsolicitude that knew no bounds.\n\nBut, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of\nhis new friends.  The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and\nmany times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy\nbed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever.  The\nworm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow\ncreeping fire upon the living frame.\n\nWeak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have\nbeen a long and troubled dream.  Feebly raising himself in the bed,\nwith his head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.\n\n'What room is this?  Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver. 'This\nis not the place I went to sleep in.'\n\nHe uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak;\nbut they were overheard at once.  The curtain at the bed's head was\nhastily drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely\ndressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which\nshe had been sitting at needle-work.\n\n'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly.  'You must be very quiet, or\nyou will be ill again; and you have been very bad,--as bad as bad could\nbe, pretty nigh.  Lie down again; there's a dear!'  With those words,\nthe old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and,\nsmoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving\nin his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in\nhers, and drawing it round his neck.\n\n'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes.  'What a grateful\nlittle dear it is.  Pretty creetur!  What would his mother feel if she\nhad sat by him as I have, and could see him now!'\n\n'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands\ntogether; 'perhaps she has sat by me.  I almost feel as if she had.'\n\n'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly.\n\n'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long way off;\nand they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor\nboy.  But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there;\nfor she was very ill herself before she died.  She can't know anything\nabout me though,' added Oliver after a moment's silence.  'If she had\nseen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always\nlooked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.'\n\nThe old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her\nspectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were\npart and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver\nto drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very\nquiet, or he would be ill again.\n\nSo, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the\nkind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he\nwas completely exhausted with what he had already said.  He soon fell\ninto a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a\ncandle:  which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with\na very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his\npulse, and said he was a great deal better.\n\n'You _are_ a great deal better, are you not, my dear?' said the\ngentleman.\n\n'Yes, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Yes,  I know you are,' said the gentleman:  'You're hungry too, an't\nyou?'\n\n'No, sir,' answered Oliver.\n\n'Hem!' said the gentleman.  'No, I know you're not.  He is not hungry,\nMrs. Bedwin,' said the gentleman:  looking very wise.\n\nThe old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to\nsay that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor\nappeared much of the same opinion himself.\n\n'You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?' said the doctor.\n\n'No, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'No,' said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. 'You're\nnot sleepy.  Nor thirsty.  Are you?'\n\n'Yes, sir, rather thirsty,' answered Oliver.\n\n'Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the doctor.  'It's very natural\nthat he should be thirsty.  You may give him a little tea, ma'am, and\nsome dry toast without any butter.  Don't keep him too warm, ma'am; but\nbe careful that you don't let him be too cold; will you have the\ngoodness?'\n\nThe old lady dropped a curtsey.  The doctor, after tasting the cool\nstuff, and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away:  his\nboots creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went\ndownstairs.\n\nOliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly\ntwelve o'clock.  The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly\nafterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just\ncome:  bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a\nlarge nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the\ntable, the old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up\nwith him, drew her chair close to the fire and went off into a series\nof short naps, chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings\nforward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse\neffect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep\nagain.\n\nAnd thus the night crept slowly on.  Oliver lay awake for some time,\ncounting the little circles of light which the reflection of the\nrushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid\neyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and\nthe deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into\nthe boy's mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many\ndays and nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his\nawful presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently\nprayed to Heaven.\n\nGradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent\nsuffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain\nto wake from.  Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all\nthe struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present;\nits anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of\nthe past!\n\nIt had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt\ncheerful and happy.  The crisis of the disease was safely past.  He\nbelonged to the world again.\n\nIn three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped\nup with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had\nhim carried downstairs into the little housekeeper's room, which\nbelonged to her.  Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old\nlady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable\ndelight at seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most\nviolently.\n\n'Never mind me, my dear,' said the old lady; 'I'm only having a regular\ngood cry.  There; it's all over now; and I'm quite comfortable.'\n\n'You're very, very kind to me, ma'am,' said Oliver.\n\n'Well, never you mind that, my dear,' said the old lady; 'that's got\nnothing to do with your broth; and it's full time you had it; for the\ndoctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we\nmust get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he'll\nbe pleased.'  And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming\nup, in a little saucepan, a basin full of broth:  strong enough, Oliver\nthought, to furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation\nstrength, for three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest\ncomputation.\n\n'Are you fond of pictures, dear?' inquired the old lady, seeing that\nOliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung\nagainst the wall; just opposite his chair.\n\n'I don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, without taking his eyes from\nthe canvas; 'I have seen so few that I hardly know.  What a beautiful,\nmild face that lady's is!'\n\n'Ah!' said the old lady, 'painters always make ladies out prettier than\nthey are, or they wouldn't get any custom, child. The man that invented\nthe machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never\nsucceed; it's a deal too honest.  A deal,' said the old lady, laughing\nvery heartily at her own acuteness.\n\n'Is--is that a likeness, ma'am?' said Oliver.\n\n'Yes,' said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;\n'that's a portrait.'\n\n'Whose, ma'am?' asked Oliver.\n\n'Why, really, my dear, I don't know,' answered the old lady in a\ngood-humoured manner.  'It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I\nknow, I expect.  It seems to strike your fancy, dear.'\n\n'It is so pretty,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Why, sure you're not afraid of it?' said the old lady: observing in\ngreat surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the\npainting.\n\n'Oh no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but the eyes look so sorrowful;\nand where I sit, they seem fixed upon me.  It makes my heart beat,'\nadded Oliver in a low voice, 'as if it was alive, and wanted to speak\nto me, but couldn't.'\n\n'Lord save us!' exclaimed the old lady, starting; 'don't talk in that\nway, child.  You're weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel\nyour chair round to the other side; and then you won't see it.  There!'\nsaid the old lady, suiting the action to the word; 'you don't see it\nnow, at all events.'\n\nOliver _did_ see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not\naltered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind\nold lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin,\nsatisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of\ntoasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a\npreparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition.  He\nhad scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at\nthe door.  'Come in,' said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.\n\nNow, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no\nsooner raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands\nbehind the skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at\nOliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety of odd\ncontortions.  Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and\nmade an ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his\nbenefactor, which terminated in his sinking back into the chair again;\nand the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart,\nbeing large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane\ndisposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic\nprocess which we are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a\ncondition to explain.\n\n'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. 'I'm\nrather hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin.  I'm afraid I have caught\ncold.'\n\n'I hope not, sir,' said Mrs. Bedwin.  'Everything you have had, has\nbeen well aired, sir.'\n\n'I don't know, Bedwin.  I don't know,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'I rather\nthink I had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind\nthat.  How do you feel, my dear?'\n\n'Very happy, sir,' replied Oliver.  'And very grateful indeed, sir, for\nyour goodness to me.'\n\n'Good by,' said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly.  'Have you given him any\nnourishment, Bedwin?  Any slops, eh?'\n\n'He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,' replied Mrs.\nBedwin:  drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the\nlast word:  to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded,\nthere existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.\n\n'Ugh!' said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; 'a couple of glasses\nof port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they,\nTom White, eh?'\n\n'My name is Oliver, sir,' replied the little invalid:  with a look of\ngreat astonishment.\n\n'Oliver,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'Oliver what?  Oliver White, eh?'\n\n'No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.'\n\n'Queer name!' said the old gentleman.  'What made you tell the\nmagistrate your name was White?'\n\n'I never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver in amazement.\n\nThis sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked\nsomewhat sternly in Oliver's face.  It was impossible to doubt him;\nthere was truth in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.\n\n'Some mistake,' said Mr. Brownlow.  But, although his motive for\nlooking steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the\nresemblance between his features and some familiar face came upon him\nso strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.\n\n'I hope you are not angry with me, sir?' said Oliver, raising his eyes\nbeseechingly.\n\n'No, no,' replied the old gentleman.  'Why! what's this?  Bedwin, look\nthere!'\n\nAs he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and\nthen to the boy's face.  There was its living copy. The eyes, the head,\nthe mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the\ninstant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with\nstartling accuracy!\n\nOliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being\nstrong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away.  A\nweakness on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of\nrelieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils\nof the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording--\n\nThat when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined\nin the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence\nof their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal\nproperty, as has been already described, they were actuated by a very\nlaudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the\nfreedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the\nfirst and proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need\nhardly beg the reader to observe, that this action should tend to exalt\nthem in the opinion of all public and patriotic men, in almost as great\na degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their own\npreservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code\nof laws which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid\ndown as the main-springs of all Nature's deeds and actions:  the said\nphilosophers very wisely reducing the good lady's proceedings to\nmatters of maxim and theory:  and, by a very neat and pretty compliment\nto her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight\nany considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For,\nthese are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by\nuniversal admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and\nweaknesses of her sex.\n\nIf I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of\nthe conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate\npredicament, I should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a\nforegoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when\nthe general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for\ntheir home by the shortest possible cut.  Although I do not mean to\nassert that it is usually the practice of renowned and learned sages,\nto shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course indeed being\nrather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocutions and\ndiscursive staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the\npressure of a too mighty flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I\ndo mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it is the invariable\npractice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories,\nto evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every\npossible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect\nthemselves.  Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and\nyou may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the\namount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the\ndistinction between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher\nconcerned, to be settled and determined by his clear, comprehensive,\nand impartial view of his own particular case.\n\nIt was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through\na most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured\nto halt beneath a low and dark archway.  Having remained silent here,\njust long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an\nexclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an\nuncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and\nrolled thereon in a transport of mirth.\n\n'What's the matter?' inquired the Dodger.\n\n'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Charley Bates.\n\n'Hold your noise,' remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round.\n'Do you want to be grabbed, stupid?'\n\n'I can't help it,' said Charley, 'I can't help it!  To see him\nsplitting away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and\nknocking up again' the posts, and starting on again as if he was made\nof iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out\narter him--oh, my eye!' The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented\nthe scene before him in too strong colours.  As he arrived at this\napostrophe, he again rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than\nbefore.\n\n'What'll Fagin say?' inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next\ninterval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the\nquestion.\n\n'What?' repeated Charley Bates.\n\n'Ah, what?' said the Dodger.\n\n'Why, what should he say?' inquired Charley:  stopping rather suddenly\nin his merriment; for the Dodger's manner was impressive.  'What should\nhe say?'\n\nMr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat,\nscratched his head, and nodded thrice.\n\n'What do you mean?' said Charley.\n\n'Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't, and high\ncockolorum,' said the Dodger:  with a slight sneer on his intellectual\ncountenance.\n\nThis was explanatory, but not satisfactory.  Master Bates felt it so;\nand again said, 'What do you mean?'\n\nThe Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering\nthe skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue\ninto his cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in\na familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down\nthe court.  Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.\n\nThe noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the\noccurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he\nsat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a\npocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet.  There was a\nrascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking\nsharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the\ndoor, and listened.\n\n'Why, how's this?' muttered the Jew:  changing countenance; 'only two\nof 'em?  Where's the third?  They can't have got into trouble.  Hark!'\n\nThe footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was\nslowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it\nbehind them.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\nSOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER,\nCONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED, APPERTAINING\nTO THIS HISTORY\n\n'Where's Oliver?' said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. 'Where's\nthe boy?'\n\nThe young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his\nviolence; and looked uneasily at each other.  But they made no reply.\n\n'What's become of the boy?' said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by\nthe collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations.  'Speak out,\nor I'll throttle you!'\n\nMr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who\ndeemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who\nconceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be\nthrottled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud,\nwell-sustained, and continuous roar--something between a mad bull and a\nspeaking trumpet.\n\n'Will you speak?' thundered the Jew:  shaking the Dodger so much that\nhis keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.\n\n'Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it,' said the\nDodger, sullenly.  'Come, let go o' me, will you!'  And, swinging\nhimself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the\nJew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass\nat the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect,\nwould have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily\nreplaced.\n\nThe Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could\nhave been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and,\nseizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head.  But\nCharley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly\nterrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full\nat that young gentleman.\n\n'Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!' growled a deep voice. 'Who\npitched that 'ere at me?  It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as\nhit me, or I'd have settled somebody.  I might have know'd, as nobody\nbut an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to\nthrow away any drink but water--and not that, unless he done the River\nCompany every quarter.  Wot's it all about, Fagin?  D--me, if my\nneck-handkercher an't lined with beer!  Come in, you sneaking warmint;\nwot are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master!\nCome in!'\n\nThe man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of\nabout five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab\nbreeches, lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed\na bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;--the kind of legs,\nwhich in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete\nstate without a set of fetters to garnish them.  He had a brown hat on\nhis head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck:  with the\nlong frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he\nspoke.  He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance\nwith a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which\ndisplayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently\ndamaged by a blow.\n\n'Come in, d'ye hear?' growled this engaging ruffian.\n\nA white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty\ndifferent places, skulked into the room.\n\n'Why didn't you come in afore?' said the man.  'You're getting too\nproud to own me afore company, are you?  Lie down!'\n\nThis command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the\nother end of the room.  He appeared well used to it, however; for he\ncoiled himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound,\nand winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute,\nappeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.\n\n'What are you up to?  Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious,\nin-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?' said the man, seating himself deliberately.\n'I wonder they don't murder you!  I would if I was them.  If I'd been\nyour 'prentice, I'd have done it long ago, and--no, I couldn't have\nsold you afterwards, for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a\ncuriousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow\nglass bottles large enough.'\n\n'Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,' said the Jew, trembling; 'don't speak so loud!'\n\n'None of your mistering,' replied the ruffian; 'you always mean\nmischief when you come that.  You know my name:  out with it!  I shan't\ndisgrace it when the time comes.'\n\n'Well, well, then--Bill Sikes,' said the Jew, with abject humility.\n'You seem out of humour, Bill.'\n\n'Perhaps I am,' replied Sikes; 'I should think you was rather out of\nsorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots\nabout, as you do when you blab and--'\n\n'Are you mad?' said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and\npointing towards the boys.\n\nMr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left\near, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb\nshow which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly.  He then, in cant\nterms, with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled,\nbut which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here,\ndemanded a glass of liquor.\n\n'And mind you don't poison it,' said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the\ntable.\n\nThis was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer\nwith which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard,\nhe might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish\n(at all events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far\nfrom the old gentleman's merry heart.\n\nAfter swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes\ncondescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious\nact led to a conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's\ncapture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and\nimprovements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable\nunder the circumstances.\n\n'I'm afraid,' said the Jew, 'that he may say something which will get\nus into trouble.'\n\n'That's very likely,' returned Sikes with a malicious grin. 'You're\nblowed upon, Fagin.'\n\n'And I'm afraid, you see,' added the Jew, speaking as if he had not\nnoticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did\nso,--'I'm afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with\na good many more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than\nit would for me, my dear.'\n\nThe man started, and turned round upon the Jew.  But the old\ngentleman's shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were\nvacantly staring on the opposite wall.\n\nThere was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie\nappeared plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by\na certain malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an\nattack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter\nin the streets when he went out.\n\n'Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office,' said Mr. Sikes\nin a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.\n\nThe Jew nodded assent.\n\n'If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes\nout again,' said Mr. Sikes, 'and then he must be taken care on.  You\nmust get hold of him somehow.'\n\nAgain the Jew nodded.\n\nThe prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but,\nunfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being\nadopted.  This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and\nMr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and\ndeeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or\npretext whatever.\n\nHow long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of\nuncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to\nguess.  It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject,\nhowever; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver\nhad seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.\n\n'The very thing!' said the Jew.  'Bet will go; won't you, my dear?'\n\n'Wheres?' inquired the young lady.\n\n'Only just up to the office, my dear,' said the Jew coaxingly.\n\nIt is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm\nthat she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and\nearnest desire to be 'blessed' if she would; a polite and delicate\nevasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have been\npossessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict\nupon a fellow-creature, the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.\n\nThe Jew's countenance fell.  He turned from this young lady, who was\ngaily, not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and\nyellow curl-papers, to the other female.\n\n'Nancy, my dear,' said the Jew in a soothing manner, 'what do YOU say?'\n\n'That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin,' replied Nancy.\n\n'What do you mean by that?' said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly\nmanner.\n\n'What I say, Bill,' replied the lady collectedly.\n\n'Why, you're just the very person for it,' reasoned Mr. Sikes: 'nobody\nabout here knows anything of you.'\n\n'And as I don't want 'em to, neither,' replied Nancy in the same\ncomposed manner, 'it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill.'\n\n'She'll go, Fagin,' said Sikes.\n\n'No, she won't, Fagin,' said Nancy.\n\n'Yes, she will, Fagin,' said Sikes.\n\nAnd Mr. Sikes was right.  By dint of alternate threats, promises, and\nbribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake\nthe commission.  She was not, indeed, withheld by the same\nconsiderations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed\ninto the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb\nof Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being\nrecognised by any of her numerous acquaintances.\n\nAccordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her\ncurl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,--both articles of dress\nbeing provided from the Jew's inexhaustible stock,--Miss Nancy prepared\nto issue forth on her errand.\n\n'Stop a minute, my dear,' said the Jew, producing, a little covered\nbasket.  'Carry that in one hand.  It looks more respectable, my dear.'\n\n'Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin,' said Sikes;\n'it looks real and genivine like.'\n\n'Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,' said the Jew, hanging a large\nstreet-door key on the forefinger of the young lady's right hand.\n\n'There; very good!  Very good indeed, my dear!' said the Jew, rubbing\nhis hands.\n\n'Oh, my brother!  My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!'\nexclaimed Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket\nand the street-door key in an agony of distress.  'What has become of\nhim!  Where have they taken him to!  Oh, do have pity, and tell me\nwhat's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you\nplease, gentlemen!'\n\nHaving uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone:\nto the immeasurable delight of her hearers:  Miss Nancy paused, winked\nto the company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.\n\n'Ah, she's a clever girl, my dears,' said the Jew, turning round to his\nyoung friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition\nto them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.\n\n'She's a honour to her sex,' said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and\nsmiting the table with his enormous fist.  'Here's her health, and\nwishing they was all like her!'\n\nWhile these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the\naccomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the\npolice-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity\nconsequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she\narrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.\n\nEntering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the\ncell-doors, and listened.  There was no sound within:  so she coughed\nand listened again.  Still there was no reply:  so she spoke.\n\n'Nolly, dear?' murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; 'Nolly?'\n\nThere was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been\ntaken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society\nhaving been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr.\nFang to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and\namusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be\nmore wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical\ninstrument.  He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the\nloss of the flute, which had been confiscated for the use of the\ncounty:  so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and knocked there.\n\n'Well!' cried a faint and feeble voice.\n\n'Is there a little boy here?' inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.\n\n'No,' replied the voice; 'God forbid.'\n\nThis was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for _not_\nplaying the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and\ndoing nothing for his livelihood.  In the next cell was another man,\nwho was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without\nlicense; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the\nStamp-office.\n\nBut, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or\nknew anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in\nthe striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and\nlamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of\nthe street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear\nbrother.\n\n'I haven't got him, my dear,' said the old man.\n\n'Where is he?' screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.\n\n'Why, the gentleman's got him,' replied the officer.\n\n'What gentleman!  Oh, gracious heavens!  What gentleman?' exclaimed\nNancy.\n\nIn reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the\ndeeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office,\nand discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to\nhave been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the\nprosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own\nresidence:  of and concerning which, all the informant knew was, that\nit was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in\nthe directions to the coachman.\n\nIn a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman\nstaggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a\nswift run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could\nthink of, to the domicile of the Jew.\n\nMr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered,\nthan he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat,\nexpeditiously departed:  without devoting any time to the formality of\nwishing the company good-morning.\n\n'We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,' said the Jew\ngreatly excited.  'Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring\nhome some news of him!  Nancy, my dear, I must have him found.  I trust\nto you, my dear,--to you and the Artful for everything!  Stay, stay,'\nadded the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; 'there's money,\nmy dears.  I shall shut up this shop to-night.  You'll know where to\nfind me!  Don't stop here a minute.  Not an instant, my dears!'\n\nWith these words, he pushed them from the room:  and carefully\ndouble-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of\nconcealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver.\nThen, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath\nhis clothing.\n\nA rap at the door startled him in this occupation.  'Who's there?' he\ncried in a shrill tone.\n\n'Me!' replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.\n\n'What now?' cried the Jew impatiently.\n\n'Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?' inquired the\nDodger.\n\n'Yes,' replied the Jew, 'wherever she lays hands on him.  Find him,\nfind him out, that's all.  I shall know what to do next; never fear.'\n\nThe boy murmured a reply of intelligence:  and hurried downstairs after\nhis companions.\n\n'He has not peached so far,' said the Jew as he pursued his occupation.\n'If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth\nyet.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\nCOMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR. BROWNLOW'S, WITH\nTHE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED CONCERNING HIM,\nWHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND\n\nOliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's\nabrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was\ncarefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the\nconversation that ensued:  which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's\nhistory or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse\nwithout exciting him.  He was still too weak to get up to breakfast;\nbut, when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first\nact was to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again\nlooking on the face of the beautiful lady.  His expectations were\ndisappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.\n\n'Ah!' said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes.\n'It is gone, you see.'\n\n'I see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver.  'Why have they taken it away?'\n\n'It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it\nseemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you\nknow,' rejoined the old lady.\n\n'Oh, no, indeed.  It didn't worry me, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'I liked to\nsee it.  I quite loved it.'\n\n'Well, well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well as fast\nas ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There!  I promise\nyou that!  Now, let us talk about something else.'\n\nThis was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at\nthat time.  As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he\nendeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened\nattentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and\nhandsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome\nman, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a\nmerchant in the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man,\nand wrote such dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought\nthe tears into her eyes to talk about them.  When the old lady had\nexpatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the\nmerits of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone,\npoor dear soul! just six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea.\nAfter tea she began to teach Oliver cribbage: which he learnt as\nquickly as she could teach:  and at which game they played, with great\ninterest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some\nwarm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily\nto bed.\n\nThey were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery.  Everything was so\nquiet, and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after\nthe noise and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it\nseemed like Heaven itself.  He was no sooner strong enough to put his\nclothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and\na new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him.  As Oliver\nwas told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave\nthem to a servant who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell\nthem to a Jew, and keep the money for herself.  This she very readily\ndid; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew\nroll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think\nthat they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger\nof his ever being able to wear them again.  They were sad rags, to tell\nthe truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit before.\n\nOne evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was\nsitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr.\nBrownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see\nhim in his study, and talk to him a little while.\n\n'Bless us, and save us!  Wash your hands, and let me part your hair\nnicely for you, child,' said Mrs. Bedwin.  'Dear heart alive!  If we\nhad known he would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean\ncollar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!'\n\nOliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented\ngrievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little\nfrill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and\nhandsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she went so\nfar as to say:  looking at him with great complacency from head to\nfoot, that she really didn't think it would have been possible, on the\nlongest notice, to have made much difference in him for the better.\n\nThus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door.  On Mr. Brownlow\ncalling to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room,\nquite full of books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little\ngardens.  There was a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr.\nBrownlow was seated reading.  When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book\naway from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down.\nOliver complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read\nsuch a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world\nwiser.  Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver\nTwist, every day of their lives.\n\n'There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?' said Mr.\nBrownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the\nshelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.\n\n'A great number, sir,' replied Oliver.  'I never saw so many.'\n\n'You shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old gentleman\nkindly; 'and you will like that, better than looking at the\noutsides,--that is, some cases; because there are books of which the\nbacks and covers are by far the best parts.'\n\n'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver, pointing to\nsome large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.\n\n'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head,\nand smiling as he did so; 'there are other equally heavy ones, though\nof a much smaller size.  How should you like to grow up a clever man,\nand write books, eh?'\n\n'I think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old gentleman.\n\nOliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it\nwould be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old\ngentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing.\nWhich Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it\nwas.\n\n'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features. 'Don't be\nafraid!  We won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade\nto be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.'\n\n'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver.  At the earnest manner of his reply, the\nold gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious\ninstinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention\nto.\n\n'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the\nsame time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him\nassume yet, 'I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am\ngoing to say.  I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am\nsure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would\nbe.'\n\n'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!' exclaimed\nOliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's\ncommencement!  'Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets\nagain.  Let me stay here, and be a servant.  Don't send me back to the\nwretched place I came from.  Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!'\n\n'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of\nOliver's sudden appeal; 'you need not be afraid of my deserting you,\nunless you give me cause.'\n\n'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver.\n\n'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman.  'I do not think you ever\nwill.  I have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have\nendeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you,\nnevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well\naccount for, even to myself.  The persons on whom I have bestowed my\ndearest love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and\ndelight of my life lie buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my\nheart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections.  Deep\naffliction has but strengthened and refined them.'\n\nAs the old gentleman said this in a low voice:  more to himself than to\nhis companion:  and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards:\nOliver sat quite still.\n\n'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful\ntone, 'I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing\nthat I have suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful,\nperhaps, not to wound me again.  You say you are an orphan, without a\nfriend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make,\nconfirm the statement.  Let me hear your story; where you come from;\nwho brought you up; and how you got into the company in which I found\nyou.  Speak the truth, and you shall not be friendless while I live.'\n\nOliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on\nthe point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the\nfarm, and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly\nimpatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door:  and the\nservant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.\n\n'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied the servant.  'He asked if there were any muffins\nin the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.'\n\nMr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was\nan old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in\nhis manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason\nto know.\n\n'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver.\n\n'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.'\n\nAt this moment, there walked into the room:  supporting himself by a\nthick stick:  a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was\ndressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and\ngaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with\ngreen.  A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat;\nand a very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end,\ndangled loosely below it.  The ends of his white neckerchief were\ntwisted into a ball about the size of an orange; the variety of shapes\ninto which his countenance was twisted, defy description.  He had a\nmanner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking\nout of the corners of his eyes at the same time:  which irresistibly\nreminded the beholder of a parrot.  In this attitude, he fixed himself,\nthe moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of\norange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, discontented\nvoice.\n\n'Look here! do you see this!  Isn't it a most wonderful and\nextraordinary thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a\npiece of this poor surgeon's friend on the staircase? I've been lamed\nwith orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I'll\nbe content to eat my own head, sir!'\n\nThis was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed\nnearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his\ncase, because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility\nof scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable\na gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed,\nMr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most\nsanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get\nthrough it at a sitting--to put entirely out of the question, a very\nthick coating of powder.\n\n'I'll eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon\nthe ground.  'Hallo! what's that!' looking at Oliver, and retreating a\npace or two.\n\n'This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,' said Mr.\nBrownlow.\n\nOliver bowed.\n\n'You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?' said\nMr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more.  'Wait a minute! Don't speak!\nStop--' continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever\nin his triumph at the discovery; 'that's the boy who had the orange!\nIf that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of\npeel upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too.'\n\n'No, no, he has not had one,' said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. 'Come!  Put\ndown your hat; and speak to my young friend.'\n\n'I feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irritable old\ngentleman, drawing off his gloves.  'There's always more or less\norange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I _know_ it's put there\nby the surgeon's boy at the corner.  A young woman stumbled over a bit\nlast night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I\nsaw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light.\n\"Don't go to him,\" I called out of the window, \"he's an assassin!  A\nman-trap!\"  So he is.  If he is not--'  Here the irascible old\ngentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was\nalways understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer,\nwhenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick\nin his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he\nwore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver:  who,\nseeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.\n\n'That's the boy, is it?' said Mr. Grimwig, at length.\n\n'That's the boy,' replied Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'How are you, boy?' said Mr. Grimwig.\n\n'A great deal better, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\nMr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about\nto say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell\nMrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the\nvisitor's manner, he was very happy to do.\n\n'He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'I don't know,' replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.\n\n'Don't know?'\n\n'No.  I don't know.  I never see any difference in boys.  I only knew\ntwo sort of boys.  Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.'\n\n'And which is Oliver?'\n\n'Mealy.  I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they\ncall him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid\nboy; with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams\nof his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a\nwolf.  I know him!  The wretch!'\n\n'Come,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'these are not the characteristics of young\nOliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath.'\n\n'They are not,' replied Mr. Grimwig.  'He may have worse.'\n\nHere, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr.\nGrimwig the most exquisite delight.\n\n'He may have worse, I say,' repeated Mr. Grimwig.  'Where does he come\nfrom!  Who is he?  What is he?  He has had a fever.  What of that?\nFevers are not peculiar to good people; are they?  Bad people have\nfevers sometimes; haven't they, eh?  I knew a man who was hung in\nJamaica for murdering his master.  He had had a fever six times; he\nwasn't recommended to mercy on that account.  Pooh! nonsense!'\n\nNow, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr.\nGrimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and\nmanner were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for\ncontradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the\norange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to\nhim whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the\nfirst, to oppose his friend.  When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one\npoint of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he\nhad postponed any investigation into Oliver's previous history until he\nthought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled\nmaliciously.  And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper\nwas in the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't\nfind a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would\nbe content to--and so forth.\n\nAll this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous\ngentleman:  knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good\nhumour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his\nentire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and\nOliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than\nhe had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence.\n\n'And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of\nthe life and adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr.\nBrownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as\nhe resumed his subject.\n\n'To-morrow morning,' replied Mr. Brownlow.  'I would rather he was\nalone with me at the time.  Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten\no'clock, my dear.'\n\n'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.  He answered with some hesitation, because\nhe was confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.\n\n'I'll tell you what,' whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; 'he\nwon't come up to you to-morrow morning.  I saw him hesitate. He is\ndeceiving you, my good friend.'\n\n'I'll swear he is not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.\n\n'If he is not,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'I'll--' and down went the stick.\n\n'I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!' said Mr. Brownlow,\nknocking the table.\n\n'And I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking\nthe table also.\n\n'We shall see,' said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.\n\n'We will,' replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile;  'we will.'\n\nAs fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment,\na small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased\nof the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this\nhistory; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room.\n\n'Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!' said Mr. Brownlow; 'there is something to\ngo back.'\n\n'He has gone, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin.\n\n'Call after him,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'it's particular.  He is a poor\nman, and they are not paid for.  There are some books to be taken back,\ntoo.'\n\nThe street-door was opened.  Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran\nanother; and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy;\nbut there was no boy in sight.  Oliver and the girl returned, in a\nbreathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him.\n\n'Dear me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; 'I\nparticularly wished those books to be returned to-night.'\n\n'Send Oliver with them,' said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; 'he\nwill be sure to deliver them safely, you know.'\n\n'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver. 'I'll run\nall the way, sir.'\n\nThe old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out\non any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined\nhim that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the\ncommission, he should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions:  on\nthis head at least:  at once.\n\n'You _shall_ go, my dear,' said the old gentleman.  'The books are on a\nchair by my table.  Fetch them down.'\n\nOliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in\na great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to\ntake.\n\n'You are to say,' said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; 'you\nare to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have\ncome to pay the four pound ten I owe him.  This is a five-pound note,\nso you will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.'\n\n'I won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, eagerly.  Having buttoned\nup the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully\nunder his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room.  Mrs.\nBedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions\nabout the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of\nthe street:  all of which Oliver said he clearly understood.  Having\nsuperadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the old lady\nat length permitted him to depart.\n\n'Bless his sweet face!' said the old lady, looking after him. 'I can't\nbear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.'\n\nAt this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned\nthe corner.  The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and,\nclosing the door, went back to her own room.\n\n'Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,' said Mr.\nBrownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table.  'It will\nbe dark by that time.'\n\n'Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?' inquired Mr. Grimwig.\n\n'Don't you?' asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.\n\nThe spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast, at the\nmoment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile.\n\n'No,' he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'I do not. The boy has\na new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his\narm, and a five-pound note in his pocket.  He'll join his old friends\nthe thieves, and laugh at you.  If ever that boy returns to this house,\nsir, I'll eat my head.'\n\nWith these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the\ntwo friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.\n\nIt is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our\nown judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and\nhasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a\nbad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see\nhis respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly\nand strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.\n\nIt grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely\ndiscernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in\nsilence, with the watch between them.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\nSHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY\nWERE\n\nIn the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of\nLittle Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light\nburnt all day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in\nthe summer:  there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a\nsmall glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a\nvelveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by\nthat dim light no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated\nto recognise as Mr. William Sikes.  At his feet, sat a white-coated,\nred-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his\nmaster with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh\ncut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some\nrecent conflict.\n\n'Keep quiet, you warmint!  Keep quiet!' said Mr. Sikes, suddenly\nbreaking silence.  Whether his meditations were so intense as to be\ndisturbed by the dog's winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought\nupon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable\nfrom kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for\nargument and consideration.  Whatever was the cause, the effect was a\nkick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.\n\nDogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by\ntheir masters; but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common\nwith his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a\npowerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth\nin one of the half-boots.  Having given in a hearty shake, he retired,\ngrowling, under a form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr.\nSikes levelled at his head.\n\n'You would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and\ndeliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew\nfrom his pocket.  'Come here, you born devil!  Come here!  D'ye hear?'\n\nThe dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest\nkey of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some\nunaccountable objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he\nwas, and growled more fiercely than before:  at the same time grasping\nthe end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild\nbeast.\n\nThis resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on\nhis knees, began to assail the animal most furiously.  The dog jumped\nfrom right to left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and\nbarking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the\nstruggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other; when, the\ndoor suddenly opening, the dog darted out:  leaving Bill Sikes with the\npoker and the clasp-knife in his hands.\n\nThere must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage.  Mr.\nSikes, being disappointed of the dog's participation, at once\ntransferred his share in the quarrel to the new comer.\n\n'What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?' said Sikes,\nwith a fierce gesture.\n\n'I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,' replied Fagin, humbly; for the\nJew was the new comer.\n\n'Didn't know, you white-livered thief!' growled Sikes. 'Couldn't you\nhear the noise?'\n\n'Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill,' replied the Jew.\n\n'Oh no!  You hear nothing, you don't,' retorted Sikes with a fierce\nsneer.  'Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go!  I\nwish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.'\n\n'Why?' inquired the Jew with a forced smile.\n\n'Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as\nhaven't half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,'\nreplied Sikes, shutting up the knife with a very expressive look;\n'that's why.'\n\nThe Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to\nlaugh at the pleasantry of his friend.  He was obviously very ill at\nease, however.\n\n'Grin away,' said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with\nsavage contempt; 'grin away.  You'll never have the laugh at me,\nthough, unless it's behind a nightcap.  I've got the upper hand over\nyou, Fagin; and, d--me, I'll keep it.  There!  If I go, you go; so take\ncare of me.'\n\n'Well, well, my dear,' said the Jew, 'I know all that; we--we--have a\nmutual interest, Bill,--a mutual interest.'\n\n'Humph,' said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on\nthe Jew's side than on his.  'Well, what have you got to say to me?'\n\n'It's all passed safe through the melting-pot,' replied Fagin, 'and\nthis is your share.  It's rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but\nas I know you'll do me a good turn another time, and--'\n\n'Stow that gammon,' interposed the robber, impatiently. 'Where is it?\nHand over!'\n\n'Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,' replied the Jew,\nsoothingly.  'Here it is!  All safe!'  As he spoke, he drew forth an\nold cotton handkerchief from his breast; and untying a large knot in\none corner, produced a small brown-paper packet.  Sikes, snatching it\nfrom him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it\ncontained.\n\n'This is all, is it?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'All,' replied the Jew.\n\n'You haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come\nalong, have you?' inquired Sikes, suspiciously. 'Don't put on an\ninjured look at the question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the\ntinkler.'\n\nThese words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell.\nIt was answered by another Jew:  younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile\nand repulsive in appearance.\n\nBill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure.  The Jew, perfectly\nunderstanding the hint, retired to fill it:  previously exchanging a\nremarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if\nin expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the\naction would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third\nperson.  It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie\nthe boot-lace which the dog had torn.  Possibly, if he had observed the\nbrief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no\ngood to him.\n\n'Is anybody here, Barney?' inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that\nSikes was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.\n\n'Dot a shoul,' replied Barney; whose words:  whether they came from the\nheart or not:  made their way through the nose.\n\n'Nobody?' inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise:  which perhaps might\nmean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.\n\n'Dobody but Biss Dadsy,' replied Barney.\n\n'Nancy!' exclaimed Sikes.  'Where?  Strike me blind, if I don't honour\nthat 'ere girl, for her native talents.'\n\n'She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,' replied Barney.\n\n'Send her here,' said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. 'Send her\nhere.'\n\nBarney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining\nsilent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and\npresently returned, ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the\nbonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.\n\n'You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?' inquired Sikes, proffering the\nglass.\n\n'Yes, I am, Bill,' replied the young lady, disposing of its contents;\n'and tired enough of it I am, too.  The young brat's been ill and\nconfined to the crib; and--'\n\n'Ah, Nancy, dear!' said Fagin, looking up.\n\nNow, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eye-brows, and a\nhalf closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was\ndisposed to be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance.\nThe fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is, that she\nsuddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr.\nSikes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes'\ntime, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy\npulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it was time to go.\nMr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself,\nexpressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together,\nfollowed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard\nas soon as his master was out of sight.\n\nThe Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it;\nlooked after him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched\nfist; muttered a deep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated\nhimself at the table; where he was soon deeply absorbed in the\ninteresting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.\n\nMeanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very\nshort a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the\nbook-stall.  When he got into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a\nby-street which was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his\nmistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in\nthe right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back; and\nso marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.\n\nHe was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to\nfeel; and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick,\nwho, starved and beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment;\nwhen he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud.  'Oh, my\ndear brother!'  And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter\nwas, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round\nhis neck.\n\n'Don't,' cried Oliver, struggling.  'Let go of me.  Who is it? What are\nyou stopping me for?'\n\nThe only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from\nthe young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a\nstreet-door key in her hand.\n\n'Oh my gracious!' said the young woman, 'I have found him!  Oh! Oliver!\nOliver!  Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your\naccount!  Come home, dear, come.  Oh, I've found him.  Thank gracious\ngoodness heavins, I've found him!'  With these incoherent exclamations,\nthe young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully\nhysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a\nbutcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was\nalso looking on, whether he didn't think he had better run for the\ndoctor.  To which, the butcher's boy:  who appeared of a lounging, not\nto say indolent disposition:  replied, that he thought not.\n\n'Oh, no, no, never mind,' said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand;\n'I'm better now.  Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!'\n\n'Oh, ma'am,' replied the young woman, 'he ran away, near a month ago,\nfrom his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went\nand joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his\nmother's heart.'\n\n'Young wretch!' said one woman.\n\n'Go home, do, you little brute,' said the other.\n\n'I am not,' replied Oliver, greatly alarmed.  'I don't know her. I\nhaven't any sister, or father and mother either.  I'm an orphan; I live\nat Pentonville.'\n\n'Only hear him, how he braves it out!' cried the young woman.\n\n'Why, it's Nancy!' exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first\ntime; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.\n\n'You see he knows me!' cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. 'He\ncan't help himself.  Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll\nkill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!'\n\n'What the devil's this?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with\na white dog at his heels; 'young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother,\nyou young dog!  Come home directly.'\n\n'I don't belong to them.  I don't know them.  Help! help!' cried\nOliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp.\n\n'Help!' repeated the man.  'Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal!\n\nWhat books are these?  You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em\nhere.'  With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and\nstruck him on the head.\n\n'That's right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. 'That's the\nonly way of bringing him to his senses!'\n\n'To be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look\nat the garret-window.\n\n'It'll do him good!' said the two women.\n\n'And he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man, administering another\nblow, and seizing Oliver by the collar.  'Come on, you young villain!\nHere, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy!  Mind him!'\n\nWeak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of\nthe attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the\nbrutality of the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders\nthat he really was the hardened little wretch he was described to be;\nwhat could one poor child do!  Darkness had set in; it was a low\nneighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless.  In another\nmoment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was\nforced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he dared to\ngive utterance to, unintelligible.  It was of little moment, indeed,\nwhether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for\nthem, had they been ever so plain.\n\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\nThe gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the\nopen door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if\nthere were any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat,\nperseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\nRELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN CLAIMED BY NANCY\n\nThe narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open\nspace; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other\nindications of a cattle-market.  Sikes slackened his pace when they\nreached this spot:  the girl being quite unable to support any longer,\nthe rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked.  Turning to Oliver,\nhe roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand.\n\n'Do you hear?' growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.\n\nThey were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.\n\nOliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail.  He\nheld out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.\n\n'Give me the other,' said Sikes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand.\n'Here, Bull's-Eye!'\n\nThe dog looked up, and growled.\n\n'See here, boy!' said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat;\n'if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him!  D'ye mind!'\n\nThe dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were\nanxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.\n\n'He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!' said\nSikes, regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval.\n'Now, you know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick\nas you like; the dog will soon stop that game.  Get on, young'un!'\n\nBull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually\nendearing form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl\nfor the benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.\n\nIt was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been\nGrosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night\nwas dark and foggy.  The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle\nthrough the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the\nstreets and houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger\nin Oliver's eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and\ndepressing.\n\nThey had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the\nhour.  With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned\ntheir heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded.\n\n'Eight o' clock, Bill,' said Nancy, when the bell ceased.\n\n'What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!' replied\nSikes.\n\n'I wonder whether THEY can hear it,' said Nancy.\n\n'Of course they can,' replied Sikes.  'It was Bartlemy time when I was\nshopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't\nhear the squeaking on.  Arter I was locked up for the night, the row\nand din outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could\nalmost have beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door.'\n\n'Poor fellow!' said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the\nquarter in which the bell had sounded.  'Oh, Bill, such fine young\nchaps as them!'\n\n'Yes; that's all you women think of,' answered Sikes.  'Fine young\nchaps!  Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't much matter.'\n\nWith this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency\nto jealousy, and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step\nout again.\n\n'Wait a minute!' said the girl:  'I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you\nthat was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck,\nBill.  I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow\nwas on the ground, and I hadn't a shawl to cover me.'\n\n'And what good would that do?' inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes.\n'Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout\nrope, you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at\nall, for all the good it would do me.  Come on, and don't stand\npreaching there.'\n\nThe girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and\nthey walked away.  But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in\nher face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly\nwhite.\n\nThey walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full\nhalf-hour:  meeting very few people, and those appearing from their\nlooks to hold much the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself.\nAt length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of\nold-clothes shops; the dog running forward, as if conscious that there\nwas no further occasion for his keeping on guard, stopped before the\ndoor of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted; the house was\nin a ruinous condition, and on the door was nailed a board, intimating\nthat it was to let:  which looked as if it had hung there for many\nyears.\n\n'All right,' cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.\n\nNancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell.\nThey crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few\nmoments under a lamp.  A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised,\nwas heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened.  Mr. Sikes then\nseized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and\nall three were quickly inside the house.\n\nThe passage was perfectly dark.  They waited, while the person who had\nlet them in, chained and barred the door.\n\n'Anybody here?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'No,' replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.\n\n'Is the old 'un here?' asked the robber.\n\n'Yes,' replied the voice, 'and precious down in the mouth he has been.\nWon't he be glad to see you?  Oh, no!'\n\nThe style of this reply, as well as the voice which delivered it,\nseemed familiar to Oliver's ears:  but it was impossible to distinguish\neven the form of the speaker in the darkness.\n\n'Let's have a glim,' said Sikes, 'or we shall go breaking our necks, or\ntreading on the dog.  Look after your legs if you do!'\n\n'Stand still a moment, and I'll get you one,' replied the voice. The\nreceding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute,\nthe form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared.\nHe bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft\nstick.\n\nThe young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of\nrecognition upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away,\nbeckoned the visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They\ncrossed an empty kitchen; and, opening the door of a low\nearthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been built in a small\nback-yard, were received with a shout of laughter.\n\n'Oh, my wig, my wig!' cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the\nlaughter had proceeded:  'here he is! oh, cry, here he is!  Oh, Fagin,\nlook at him!  Fagin, do look at him! I can't bear it; it is such a\njolly game, I cant' bear it.  Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.'\n\nWith this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself\nflat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an\nectasy of facetious joy.  Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the\ncleft stick from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round\nand round; while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number\nof low bows to the bewildered boy.  The Artful, meantime, who was of a\nrather saturnine disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it\ninterfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity.\n\n'Look at his togs, Fagin!' said Charley, putting the light so close to\nhis new jacket as nearly to set him on fire.  'Look at his togs!\nSuperfine cloth, and the heavy swell cut!  Oh, my eye, what a game!\nAnd his books, too!  Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!'\n\n'Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,' said the Jew, bowing\nwith mock humility.  'The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear,\nfor fear you should spoil that Sunday one.  Why didn't you write, my\ndear, and say you were coming?  We'd have got something warm for\nsupper.'\n\nAt his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed,\nand even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound\nnote at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery\nawakened his merriment.\n\n'Hallo, what's that?' inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew\nseized the note.  'That's mine, Fagin.'\n\n'No, no, my dear,' said the Jew.  'Mine, Bill, mine.  You shall have\nthe books.'\n\n'If that ain't mine!' said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a\ndetermined air; 'mine and Nancy's that is; I'll take the boy back\nagain.'\n\nThe Jew started.  Oliver started too, though from a very different\ncause; for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being\ntaken back.\n\n'Come!  Hand over, will you?' said Sikes.\n\n'This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?' inquired the\nJew.\n\n'Fair, or not fair,' retorted Sikes, 'hand over, I tell you! Do you\nthink Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time\nbut to spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as\ngets grabbed through you?  Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton,\ngive it here!'\n\nWith this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between\nthe Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face,\nfolded it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.\n\n'That's for our share of the trouble,' said Sikes; 'and not half\nenough, neither.  You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading.\nIf you ain't, sell 'em.'\n\n'They're very pretty,' said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces,\nhad been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; 'beautiful\nwriting, isn't is, Oliver?'  At sight of the dismayed look with which\nOliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a\nlively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more\nboisterous than the first.\n\n'They belong to the old gentleman,' said Oliver, wringing his hands;\n'to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had\nme nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back;\nsend him back the books and money.  Keep me here all my life long; but\npray, pray send them back.  He'll think I stole them; the old lady:\nall of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them.  Oh, do\nhave mercy upon me, and send them back!'\n\nWith these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate\ngrief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet; and beat his hands\ntogether, in perfect desperation.\n\n'The boy's right,' remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting\nhis shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot.  'You're right, Oliver, you're\nright; they WILL think you have stolen 'em.  Ha! ha!' chuckled the Jew,\nrubbing his hands, 'it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen\nour time!'\n\n'Of course it couldn't,' replied Sikes; 'I know'd that, directly I see\nhim coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm.  It's all\nright enough.  They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't\nhave taken him in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear\nthey should be obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged.  He's safe\nenough.'\n\nOliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being\nspoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what\npassed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet,\nand tore wildly from the room:  uttering shrieks for help, which made\nthe bare old house echo to the roof.\n\n'Keep back the dog, Bill!' cried Nancy, springing before the door, and\nclosing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit.  'Keep\nback the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces.'\n\n'Serve him right!' cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from\nthe girl's grasp.  'Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against\nthe wall.'\n\n'I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that,' screamed the\ngirl, struggling violently with the man, 'the child shan't be torn down\nby the dog, unless you kill me first.'\n\n'Shan't he!' said Sikes, setting his teeth.  'I'll soon do that, if you\ndon't keep off.'\n\nThe housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the\nroom, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among\nthem.\n\n'What's the matter here!' said Fagin, looking round.\n\n'The girl's gone mad, I think,' replied Sikes, savagely.\n\n'No, she hasn't,' said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle;\n'no, she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it.'\n\n'Then keep quiet, will you?' said the Jew, with a threatening look.\n\n'No, I won't do that, neither,' replied Nancy, speaking very loud.\n'Come!  What do you think of that?'\n\nMr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs\nof that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel\ntolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any\nconversation with her, at present.  With the view of diverting the\nattention of the company, he turned to Oliver.\n\n'So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?' said the Jew, taking up\na jagged and knotted club which law in a corner of the fireplace; 'eh?'\n\nOliver made no reply.  But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed\nquickly.\n\n'Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?' sneered the\nJew, catching the boy by the arm.  'We'll cure you of that, my young\nmaster.'\n\nThe Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and\nwas raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it\nfrom his hand.  She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought\nsome of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.\n\n'I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin,' cried the girl. 'You've got\nthe boy, and what more would you have?--Let him be--let him be--or I\nshall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows\nbefore my time.'\n\nThe girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this\nthreat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked\nalternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless\nfrom the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.\n\n'Why, Nancy!' said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during\nwhich he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted\nmanner; 'you,--you're more clever than ever to-night.  Ha! ha! my dear,\nyou are acting beautifully.'\n\n'Am I!' said the girl.  'Take care I don't overdo it.  You will be the\nworse for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep\nclear of me.'\n\nThere is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all\nher other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and\ndespair; which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be\nhopeless to affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss\nNancy's rage; and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a\nglance, half imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that\nhe was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue.\n\nMr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal\npride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy\nto reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and\nthreats, the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the\nfertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the\nobject against whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more\ntangible arguments.\n\n'What do you mean by this?' said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very\ncommon imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features:\nwhich, if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand\ntimes that it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a\ndisorder as measles: 'what do you mean by it?  Burn my body!  Do you\nknow who you are, and what you are?'\n\n'Oh, yes, I know all about it,' replied the girl, laughing\nhysterically; and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor\nassumption of indifference.\n\n'Well, then, keep quiet,' rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was\naccustomed to use when addressing his dog, 'or I'll quiet you for a\ngood long time to come.'\n\nThe girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting\na hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the\nblood came.\n\n'You're a nice one,' added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a\ncontemptuous air, 'to take up the humane and gen--teel side!  A pretty\nsubject for the child, as you call him, to make a friend of!'\n\n'God Almighty help me, I am!' cried the girl passionately; 'and I wish\nI had been struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them\nwe passed so near to-night, before I had lent a hand in bringing him\nhere.  He's a thief, a liar, a devil, all that's bad, from this night\nforth.  Isn't that enough for the old wretch, without blows?'\n\n'Come, come, Sikes,' said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory\ntone, and motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all\nthat passed; 'we must have civil words; civil words, Bill.'\n\n'Civil words!' cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see.\n'Civil words, you villain!  Yes, you deserve 'em from me. I thieved for\nyou when I was a child not half as old as this!' pointing to Oliver.\n'I have been in the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve\nyears since.  Don't you know it?  Speak out!  Don't you know it?'\n\n'Well, well,' replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; 'and,\nif you have, it's your living!'\n\n'Aye, it is!' returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the\nwords in one continuous and vehement scream.  'It is my living; and the\ncold, wet, dirty streets are my home; and you're the wretch that drove\nme to them long ago, and that'll keep me there, day and night, day and\nnight, till I die!'\n\n'I shall do you a mischief!' interposed the Jew, goaded by these\nreproaches; 'a mischief worse than that, if you say much more!'\n\nThe girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a\ntransport of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably\nhave left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been\nseized by Sikes at the right moment; upon which, she made a few\nineffectual struggles, and fainted.\n\n'She's all right now,' said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. 'She's\nuncommon strong in the arms, when she's up in this way.'\n\nThe Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have\nthe disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the\nboys, seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurance\nincidental to business.\n\n'It's the worst of having to do with women,' said the Jew, replacing\nhis club; 'but they're clever, and we can't get on, in our line,\nwithout 'em.  Charley, show Oliver to bed.'\n\n'I suppose he'd better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had\nhe?' inquired Charley Bates.\n\n'Certainly not,' replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which\nCharley put the question.\n\nMaster Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the\ncleft stick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were\ntwo or three of the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with\nmany uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical old\nsuit of clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon\nleaving off at Mr. Brownlow's; and the accidental display of which, to\nFagin, by the Jew who purchased them, had been the very first clue\nreceived, of his whereabout.\n\n'Put off the smart ones,' said Charley, 'and I'll give 'em to Fagin to\ntake care of.  What fun it is!'\n\nPoor Oliver unwillingly complied.  Master Bates rolling up the new\nclothes under his arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the\ndark, and locking the door behind him.\n\nThe noise of Charley's laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who\nopportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other\nfeminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept\nmany people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which\nOliver was placed.  But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound\nasleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\nOLIVER'S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A GREAT MAN TO LONDON\nTO INJURE HIS REPUTATION\n\nIt is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to\npresent the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as\nthe layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon.  The hero sinks\nupon his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the\nnext scene, his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience\nwith a comic song.  We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in\nthe grasp of a proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike\nin danger, drawing forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of\nthe other; and just as our expectations are wrought up to the highest\npitch, a whistle is heard, and we are straightway transported to the\ngreat hall of the castle; where a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny\nchorus with a funnier body of vassals, who are free of all sorts of\nplaces, from church vaults to palaces, and roam about in company,\ncarolling perpetually.\n\nSuch changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would\nseem at first sight.  The transitions in real life from well-spread\nboards to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are\nnot a whit less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of\npassive lookers-on, which makes a vast difference.  The actors in the\nmimic life of the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt\nimpulses of passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of\nmere spectators, are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.\n\nAs sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place,\nare not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many\nconsidered as the great art of authorship: an author's skill in his\ncraft being, by such critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the\ndilemmas in which he leaves his characters at the end of every chapter:\nthis brief introduction to the present one may perhaps be deemed\nunnecessary.  If so, let it be considered a delicate intimation on the\npart of the historian that he is going back to the town in which Oliver\nTwist was born; the reader taking it for granted that there are good\nand substantial reasons for making the journey, or he would not be\ninvited to proceed upon such an expedition.\n\nMr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked\nwith portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street.  He was\nin the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were\ndazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous\ntenacity of health and power.  Mr. Bumble always carried his head high;\nbut this morning it was higher than usual.  There was an abstraction in\nhis eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant\nstranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too great for\nutterance.\n\nMr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shopkeepers and\nothers who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along.  He merely\nreturned their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in\nhis dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended\nthe infant paupers with parochial care.\n\n'Drat that beadle!' said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at\nthe garden-gate.  'If it isn't him at this time in the morning!  Lauk,\nMr. Bumble, only think of its being you!  Well, dear me, it IS a\npleasure, this is!  Come into the parlour, sir, please.'\n\nThe first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of\ndelight were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the\ngarden-gate: and showed him, with great attention and respect, into the\nhouse.\n\n'Mrs. Mann,' said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself\ninto a seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself\ngradually and slowly down into a chair; 'Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good\nmorning.'\n\n'Well, and good morning to _you_, sir,' replied Mrs. Mann, with many\nsmiles; 'and hoping you find yourself well, sir!'\n\n'So-so, Mrs. Mann,' replied the beadle.  'A porochial life is not a bed\nof roses, Mrs. Mann.'\n\n'Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble,' rejoined the lady. And all the\ninfant paupers might have chorussed the rejoinder with great propriety,\nif they had heard it.\n\n'A porochial life, ma'am,' continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table\nwith his cane, 'is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but\nall public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.'\n\nMrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her\nhands with a look of sympathy, and sighed.\n\n'Ah!  You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!' said the beadle.\n\nFinding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again:  evidently to the\nsatisfaction of the public character:  who, repressing a complacent\nsmile by looking sternly at his cocked hat, said,\n\n'Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.'\n\n'Lauk, Mr. Bumble!' cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.\n\n'To London, ma'am,' resumed the inflexible beadle, 'by coach.  I and\ntwo paupers, Mrs. Mann!  A legal action is a coming on, about a\nsettlement; and the board has appointed me--me, Mrs. Mann--to dispose\nto the matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell.\n\nAnd I very much question,' added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up,\n'whether the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong\nbox before they have done with me.'\n\n'Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir,' said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.\n\n'The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am,'\nreplied Mr. Bumble; 'and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they\ncome off rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have\nonly themselves to thank.'\n\nThere was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing\nmanner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs.\nMann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,\n\n'You're going by coach, sir?  I thought it was always usual to send\nthem paupers in carts.'\n\n'That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann,' said the beadle.  'We put the\nsick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their\ntaking cold.'\n\n'Oh!' said Mrs. Mann.\n\n'The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,'\nsaid Mr. Bumble.  'They are both in a very low state, and we find it\nwould come two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em--that is, if\nwe can throw 'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to\ndo, if they don't die upon the road to spite us.  Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nWhen Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered\nthe cocked hat; and he became grave.\n\n'We are forgetting business, ma'am,' said the beadle; 'here is your\nporochial stipend for the month.'\n\nMr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his\npocket-book; and requested a receipt:  which Mrs. Mann wrote.\n\n'It's very much blotted, sir,' said the farmer of infants; 'but it's\nformal enough, I dare say.  Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much\nobliged to you, I'm sure.'\n\nMr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann's curtsey;\nand inquired how the children were.\n\n'Bless their dear little hearts!' said Mrs. Mann with emotion, 'they're\nas well as can be, the dears!  Of course, except the two that died last\nweek.  And little Dick.'\n\n'Isn't that boy no better?' inquired Mr. Bumble.\n\nMrs. Mann shook her head.\n\n'He's a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,'\nsaid Mr. Bumble angrily.  'Where is he?'\n\n'I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir,' replied Mrs. Mann. 'Here,\nyou Dick!'\n\nAfter some calling, Dick was discovered.  Having had his face put under\nthe pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful\npresence of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.\n\nThe child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large\nand bright.  The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung\nloosely on his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like\nthose of an old man.\n\nSuch was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's\nglance; not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even\nto hear the beadle's voice.\n\n'Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?' said Mrs. Mann.\n\nThe child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.\n\n'What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?' inquired Mr. Bumble, with\nwell-timed jocularity.\n\n'Nothing, sir,' replied the child faintly.\n\n'I should think not,' said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very\nmuch at Mr. Bumble's humour.\n\n'You want for nothing, I'm sure.'\n\n'I should like--' faltered the child.\n\n'Hey-day!' interposed Mr. Mann, 'I suppose you're going to say that you\nDO want for something, now?  Why, you little wretch--'\n\n'Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!' said the beadle, raising his hand with a show\nof authority.  'Like what, sir, eh?'\n\n'I should like,' faltered the child, 'if somebody that can write, would\nput a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and\nseal it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.'\n\n'Why, what does the boy mean?' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the\nearnest manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression:\naccustomed as he was to such things.  'What do you mean, sir?'\n\n'I should like,' said the child, 'to leave my dear love to poor Oliver\nTwist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to\nthink of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help\nhim.  And I should like to tell him,' said the child pressing his small\nhands together, and speaking with great fervour, 'that I was glad to\ndie when I was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man,\nand had grown old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me,\nor be unlike me; and it would be so much happier if we were both\nchildren there together.'\n\nMr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with\nindescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said,\n'They're all in one story, Mrs. Mann.  That out-dacious Oliver had\ndemogalized them all!'\n\n'I couldn't have believed it, sir' said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands,\nand looking malignantly at Dick.  'I never see such a hardened little\nwretch!'\n\n'Take him away, ma'am!' said Mr. Bumble imperiously.  'This must be\nstated to the board, Mrs. Mann.\n\n'I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?'\nsaid Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.\n\n'They shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the\ntrue state of the case,' said Mr. Bumble.  'There; take him away, I\ncan't bear the sight on him.'\n\nDick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar.  Mr.\nBumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.\n\nAt six o'clock next morning, Mr. Bumble:  having exchanged his cocked\nhat for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a\ncape to it:  took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by\nthe criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course\nof time, he arrived in London.\n\nHe experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated\nin the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in\nshivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble\ndeclared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel\nquite uncomfortable; although he had a great-coat on.\n\nHaving disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble\nsat himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a\ntemperate dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass\nof hot gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the\nfire; and, with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of\ndiscontent and complaining, composed himself to read the paper.\n\nThe very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble's eye rested, was the\nfollowing advertisement.\n\n                 'FIVE GUINEAS REWARD\n\n'Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on\nThursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since\nbeen heard of.  The above reward will be paid to any person who will\ngive such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver\nTwist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which\nthe advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly interested.'\n\nAnd then followed a full description of Oliver's dress, person,\nappearance, and disappearance:  with the name and address of Mr.\nBrownlow at full length.\n\nMr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and\ncarefully, three several times; and in something more than five minutes\nwas on his way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left\nthe glass of hot gin-and-water, untasted.\n\n'Is Mr. Brownlow at home?' inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened\nthe door.\n\nTo this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive\nreply of 'I don't know; where do you come from?'\n\nMr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his\nerrand, than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door,\nhastened into the passage in a breathless state.\n\n'Come in, come in,' said the old lady: 'I knew we should hear of him.\nPoor dear!  I knew we should!  I was certain of it.  Bless his heart!\nI said so all along.'\n\nHaving heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour\nagain; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who\nwas not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now\nreturned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately:\nwhich he did.\n\nHe was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his\nfriend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them.  The latter\ngentleman at once burst into the exclamation:\n\n'A beadle.  A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head.'\n\n'Pray don't interrupt just now,' said Mr. Brownlow.  'Take a seat, will\nyou?'\n\nMr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr.\nGrimwig's manner.  Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an\nuninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little\nimpatience,\n\n'Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?'\n\n'Yes, sir,' said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'And you ARE a beadle, are you not?' inquired Mr. Grimwig.\n\n'I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,' rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.\n\n'Of course,' observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, 'I knew he was.\nA beadle all over!'\n\nMr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and\nresumed:\n\n'Do you know where this poor boy is now?'\n\n'No more than nobody,' replied Mr. Bumble.\n\n'Well, what DO you know of him?' inquired the old gentleman. 'Speak\nout, my friend, if you have anything to say.  What DO you know of him?'\n\n'You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?' said Mr. Grimwig,\ncaustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features.\n\nMr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with\nportentous solemnity.\n\n'You see?' said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.\n\nMr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up\ncountenance; and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding\nOliver, in as few words as possible.\n\nMr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms;\ninclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments'\nreflection, commenced his story.\n\nIt would be tedious if given in the beadle's words:  occupying, as it\ndid, some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of\nit was, that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents.\nThat he had, from his birth, displayed no better qualities than\ntreachery, ingratitude, and malice.  That he had terminated his brief\ncareer in the place of his birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly\nattack on an unoffending lad, and running away in the night-time from\nhis master's house.  In proof of his really being the person he\nrepresented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had\nbrought to town. Folding his arms again, he then awaited Mr. Brownlow's\nobservations.\n\n'I fear it is all too true,' said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after\nlooking over the papers.  'This is not much for your intelligence; but\nI would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been\nfavourable to the boy.'\n\nIt is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this\ninformation at an earlier period of the interview, he might have\nimparted a very different colouring to his little history. It was too\nlate to do it now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and,\npocketing the five guineas, withdrew.\n\nMr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so\nmuch disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to\nvex him further.\n\nAt length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.\n\n'Mrs. Bedwin,' said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; 'that\nboy, Oliver, is an imposter.'\n\n'It can't be, sir.  It cannot be,' said the old lady energetically.\n\n'I tell you he is,' retorted the old gentleman.  'What do you mean by\ncan't be?  We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and\nhe has been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.'\n\n'I never will believe it, sir,' replied the old lady, firmly. 'Never!'\n\n'You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying\nstory-books,' growled Mr. Grimwig.  'I knew it all along. Why didn't\nyou take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn't had a\nfever, I suppose, eh?  He was interesting, wasn't he?  Interesting!\nBah!'  And Mr. Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.\n\n'He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,' retorted Mrs. Bedwin,\nindignantly.  'I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty\nyears; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about\nthem.  That's my opinion!'\n\nThis was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor.  As it extorted\nnothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head,\nand smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was\nstopped by Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'Silence!' said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from\nfeeling.  'Never let me hear the boy's name again.  I rang to tell you\nthat.  Never.  Never, on any pretence, mind!  You may leave the room,\nMrs. Bedwin.  Remember!  I am in earnest.'\n\nThere were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night.\n\nOliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it\nwas well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it\nmight have broken outright.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\nHOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY OF HIS REPUTABLE\nFRIENDS\n\nAbout noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to\npursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of\nreading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of\nwhich he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary\nextent, in wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious\nfriends; and, still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so\nmuch trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin\nlaid great stress on the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and\ncherished him, when, without his timely aid, he might have perished\nwith hunger; and he related the dismal and affecting history of a young\nlad whom, in his philanthropy, he had succoured under parallel\ncircumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence and evincing\na desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be\nhanged at the Old Bailey one morning.  Mr. Fagin did not seek to\nconceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his\neyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young\nperson in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become the\nvictim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not\nprecisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr.\nFagin) and a few select friends.  Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a\nrather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with\ngreat friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious\nhopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that\nunpleasant operation.\n\nLittle Oliver's blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew's words, and\nimperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them.  That it\nwas possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the\nguilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and\nthat deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or\nover-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by\nthe Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely,\nwhen he recollected the general nature of the altercations between that\ngentleman and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some\nforegone conspiracy of the kind.  As he glanced timidly up, and met the\nJew's searching look, he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs\nwere neither unnoticed nor unrelished by that wary old gentleman.\n\nThe Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that\nif he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they\nwould be very good friends yet.  Then, taking his hat, and covering\nhimself with an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the\nroom-door behind him.\n\nAnd so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many\nsubsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and\nleft during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts.  Which,\nnever failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must\nlong ago have formed of him, were sad indeed.\n\nAfter the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked;\nand he was at liberty to wander about the house.\n\nIt was a very dirty place.  The rooms upstairs had great high wooden\nchimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the\nceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were\nornamented in various ways.  From all of these tokens Oliver concluded\nthat a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to\nbetter people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome:  dismal and\ndreary as it looked now.\n\nSpiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings;\nand sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would\nscamper across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes.  With\nthese exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living\nthing; and often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from\nroom to room, he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the\nstreet-door, to be as near living people as he could; and would remain\nthere, listening and counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys\nreturned.\n\nIn all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed:  the bars\nwhich held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which\nwas admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which\nmade the rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows.\nThere was a back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no\nshutter; and out of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for\nhours together; but nothing was to be descried from it but a confused\nand crowded mass of housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends.\nSometimes, indeed, a grizzly head might be seen, peering over the\nparapet-wall of a distant house; but it was quickly withdrawn again;\nand as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down, and dimmed\nwith the rain and smoke of years, it was as much as he could do to make\nout the forms of the different objects beyond, without making any\nattempt to be seen or heard,--which he had as much chance of being, as\nif he had lived inside the ball of St. Paul's Cathedral.\n\nOne afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that\nevening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to\nevince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him\njustice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with\nthis end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in\nhis toilet, straightway.\n\nOliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some\nfaces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those\nabout him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the\nway of this proposal.  So he at once expressed his readiness; and,\nkneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he\ncould take his foot in his laps, he applied himself to a process which\nMr. Dawkins designated as 'japanning his trotter-cases.'  The phrase,\nrendered into plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.\n\nWhether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational\nanimal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy\nattitude smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and\nhaving his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of\nhaving taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to\ndisturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco\nthat soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer\nthat mollified his thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce,\nwith a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature.\nHe looked down on Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief\nspace; and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said,\nhalf in abstraction, and half to Master Bates:\n\n'What a pity it is he isn't a prig!'\n\n'Ah!' said Master Charles Bates; 'he don't know what's good for him.'\n\nThe Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates.\nThey both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.\n\n'I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?' said the Dodger\nmournfully.\n\n'I think I know that,' replied Oliver, looking up.  'It's a the--;\nyou're one, are you not?' inquired Oliver, checking himself.\n\n'I am,' replied the Dodger.  'I'd scorn to be anything else.'  Mr.\nDawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment,\nand looked at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged\nby his saying anything to the contrary.\n\n'I am,' repeated the Dodger.  'So's Charley.  So's Fagin. So's Sikes.\nSo's Nancy.  So's Bet.  So we all are, down to the dog. And he's the\ndowniest one of the lot!'\n\n'And the least given to peaching,' added Charley Bates.\n\n'He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing\nhimself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without\nwittles for a fortnight,' said the Dodger.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' observed Charley.\n\n'He's a rum dog.  Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs\nor sings when he's in company!' pursued the Dodger. 'Won't he growl at\nall, when he hears a fiddle playing!  And don't he hate other dogs as\nain't of his breed!  Oh, no!'\n\n'He's an out-and-out Christian,' said Charley.\n\nThis was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it\nwas an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only\nknown it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to\nbe out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes' dog, there\nexist strong and singular points of resemblance.\n\n'Well, well,' said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they\nhad strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced\nall his proceedings.  'This hasn't go anything to do with young Green\nhere.'\n\n'No more it has,' said Charley.  'Why don't you put yourself under\nFagin, Oliver?'\n\n'And make your fortun' out of hand?' added the Dodger, with a grin.\n\n'And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I\nmean to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the\nforty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,' said Charley Bates.\n\n'I don't like it,' rejoined Oliver, timidly; 'I wish they would let me\ngo.  I--I--would rather go.'\n\n'And Fagin would RATHER not!' rejoined Charley.\n\nOliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to\nexpress his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his\nboot-cleaning.\n\n'Go!' exclaimed the Dodger.  'Why, where's your spirit?' Don't you take\nany pride out of yourself?  Would you go and be dependent on your\nfriends?'\n\n'Oh, blow that!' said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk\nhandkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard,\n'that's too mean; that is.'\n\n'_I_ couldn't do it,' said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.\n\n'You can leave your friends, though,' said Oliver with a half smile;\n'and let them be punished for what you did.'\n\n'That,' rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, 'That was all out\nof consideration for Fagin, 'cause the traps know that we work\ntogether, and he might have got into trouble if we hadn't made our\nlucky; that was the move, wasn't it, Charley?'\n\nMaster Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection\nof Oliver's flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was\ninhaling got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and\ndown into his throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping,\nabout five minutes long.\n\n'Look here!' said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and\nhalfpence. 'Here's a jolly life!  What's the odds where it comes from?\nHere, catch hold; there's plenty more where they were took from.  You\nwon't, won't you?  Oh, you precious flat!'\n\n'It's naughty, ain't it, Oliver?' inquired Charley Bates. 'He'll come\nto be scragged, won't he?'\n\n'I don't know what that means,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Something in this way, old feller,' said Charly.  As he said it,\nMaster Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect\nin the air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious\nsound through his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic\nrepresentation, that scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.\n\n'That's what it means,' said Charley.  'Look how he stares, Jack!\n\nI never did see such prime company as that 'ere boy; he'll be the death\nof me, I know he will.'  Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily\nagain, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.\n\n'You've been brought up bad,' said the Dodger, surveying his boots with\nmuch satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. 'Fagin will make\nsomething of you, though, or you'll be the first he ever had that\nturned out unprofitable.  You'd better begin at once; for you'll come\nto the trade long before you think of it; and you're only losing time,\nOliver.'\n\nMaster Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his\nown:  which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched\ninto a glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the\nlife they led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the\nbest thing he could do, would be to secure Fagin's favour without more\ndelay, by the means which they themselves had employed to gain it.\n\n'And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,' said the Dodger, as the Jew\nwas heard unlocking the door above, 'if you don't take fogels and\ntickers--'\n\n'What's the good of talking in that way?' interposed Master Bates; 'he\ndon't know what you mean.'\n\n'If you don't take pocket-handkechers and watches,' said the Dodger,\nreducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, 'some\nother cove will; so that the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse,\nand you'll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the\nbetter, except the chaps wot gets them--and you've just as good a right\nto them as they have.'\n\n'To be sure, to be sure!' said the Jew, who had entered unseen by\nOliver.  'It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the\nDodger's word for it.  Ha! ha! ha!  He understands the catechism of his\ntrade.'\n\nThe old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the\nDodger's reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his\npupil's proficiency.\n\nThe conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had\nreturned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver\nhad never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom\nChitling; and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few\ngallantries with the lady, now made his appearance.\n\nMr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps\nnumbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his\ndeportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that\nhe felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius\nand professional aquirements.  He had small twinkling eyes, and a\npock-marked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy\nfustian trousers, and an apron.  His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out\nof repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his\n'time' was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having\nworn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow\nany attention on his private clothes.  Mr. Chitling added, with strong\nmarks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder\nwas infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there\nwas no remedy against the County.  The same remark he considered to\napply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be\ndecidedly unlawful.  Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating\nthat he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral long\nhard-working days; and that he 'wished he might be busted if he warn't\nas dry as a lime-basket.'\n\n'Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?' inquired the\nJew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the\ntable.\n\n'I--I--don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Who's that?' inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at\nOliver.\n\n'A young friend of mine, my dear,' replied the Jew.\n\n'He's in luck, then,' said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin.\n'Never mind where I came from, young 'un; you'll find your way there,\nsoon enough, I'll bet a crown!'\n\nAt this sally, the boys laughed.  After some more jokes on the same\nsubject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.\n\nAfter some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew\ntheir chairs towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and\nsit by him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to\ninterest his hearers.  These were, the great advantages of the trade,\nthe proficiency of the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the\nliberality of the Jew himself.  At length these subjects displayed\nsigns of being thoroughly exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same:\nfor the house of correction becomes fatiguing after a week or two.\nMiss Betsy accordingly withdrew; and left the party to their repose.\n\nFrom this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost\nconstant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with\nthe Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver's, Mr.\nFagin best knew.  At other times the old man would tell them stories of\nrobberies he had committed in his younger days:  mixed up with so much\nthat was droll and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing\nheartily, and showing that he was amused in spite of all his better\nfeelings.\n\nIn short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils.  Having prepared\nhis mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the\ncompanionship of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was\nnow slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would\nblacken it, and change its hue for ever.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\nIN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON\n\nIt was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his\ngreat-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up\nover his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face:\nemerged from his den.  He paused on the step as the door was locked and\nchained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure,\nand until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down\nthe street as quickly as he could.\n\nThe house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of\nWhitechapel.  The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the\nstreet; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck\noff in the direction of the Spitalfields.\n\nThe mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the\nstreets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and\nclammy to the touch.  It seemed just the night when it befitted such a\nbeing as the Jew to be abroad.  As he glided stealthily along, creeping\nbeneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man\nseemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and\ndarkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of\nsome rich offal for a meal.\n\nHe kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he\nreached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon\nbecame involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in\nthat close and densely-populated quarter.\n\nThe Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be\nat all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the\nintricacies of the way.  He hurried through several alleys and streets,\nand at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the\nfarther end.  At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having\nexchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked\nupstairs.\n\nA dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man's\nvoice demanded who was there.\n\n'Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,' said the Jew looking in.\n\n'Bring in your body then,' said Sikes.  'Lie down, you stupid brute!\nDon't you know the devil when he's got a great-coat on?'\n\nApparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin's outer\ngarment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a\nchair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen:  wagging his\ntail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his\nnature to be.\n\n'Well!' said Sikes.\n\n'Well, my dear,' replied the Jew.--'Ah! Nancy.'\n\nThe latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to\nimply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had\nnot met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver.  All doubts upon\nthe subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's\nbehaviour.  She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair,\nand bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it:  for it was a\ncold night, and no mistake.\n\n'It is cold, Nancy dear,' said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands\nover the fire.  'It seems to go right through one,' added the old man,\ntouching his side.\n\n'It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,' said\nMr. Sikes.  'Give him something to drink, Nancy.  Burn my body, make\nhaste!  It's enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase\nshivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.'\n\nNancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were\nmany:  which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were\nfilled with several kinds of liquids.  Sikes pouring out a glass of\nbrandy, bade the Jew drink it off.\n\n'Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,' replied the Jew, putting down the\nglass after just setting his lips to it.\n\n'What!  You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?'\ninquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew.  'Ugh!'\n\nWith a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw\nthe remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony\nto filling it again for himself:  which he did at once.\n\nThe Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second\nglassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a\nrestless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly\nfurnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to\ninduce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and\nwith no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three\nheavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a 'life-preserver' that\nhung over the chimney-piece.\n\n'There,' said Sikes, smacking his lips. 'Now I'm ready.'\n\n'For business?' inquired the Jew.\n\n'For business,' replied Sikes; 'so say what you've got to say.'\n\n'About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?' said the Jew, drawing his chair\nforward, and speaking in a very low voice.\n\n'Yes.  Wot about it?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,' said the Jew.  'He knows what I\nmean, Nancy; don't he?'\n\n'No, he don't,' sneered Mr. Sikes.  'Or he won't, and that's the same\nthing.  Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit\nthere, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you\nwarn't the very first that thought about the robbery.  Wot d'ye mean?'\n\n'Hush, Bill, hush!' said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop\nthis burst of indignation; 'somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody\nwill hear us.'\n\n'Let 'em hear!' said Sikes; 'I don't care.'  But as Mr. Sikes DID care,\non reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew\ncalmer.\n\n'There, there,' said the Jew, coaxingly.  'It was only my caution,\nnothing more.  Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to\nbe done, Bill, eh?  When is it to be done?  Such plate, my dear, such\nplate!' said the Jew:  rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in\na rapture of anticipation.\n\n'Not at all,' replied Sikes coldly.\n\n'Not to be done at all!' echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.\n\n'No, not at all,' rejoined Sikes.  'At least it can't be a put-up job,\nas we expected.'\n\n'Then it hasn't been properly gone about,' said the Jew, turning pale\nwith anger.  'Don't tell me!'\n\n'But I will tell you,' retorted Sikes.  'Who are you that's not to be\ntold?  I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place\nfor a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line.'\n\n'Do you mean to tell me, Bill,' said the Jew: softening as the other\ngrew heated:  'that neither of the two men in the house can be got\nover?'\n\n'Yes, I do mean to tell you so,' replied Sikes.  'The old lady has had\n'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound,\nthey wouldn't be in it.'\n\n'But do you mean to say, my dear,' remonstrated the Jew, 'that the\nwomen can't be got over?'\n\n'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes.\n\n'Not by flash Toby Crackit?' said the Jew incredulously. 'Think what\nwomen are, Bill,'\n\n'No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,' replied Sikes.  'He says he's\nworn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's\nbeen loitering down there, and it's all of no use.'\n\n'He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my\ndear,' said the Jew.\n\n'So he did,' rejoined Sikes, 'and they warn't of no more use than the\nother plant.'\n\nThe Jew looked blank at this information.  After ruminating for some\nminutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said,\nwith a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared\nthe game was up.\n\n'And yet,' said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, 'it's a\nsad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.'\n\n'So it is,' said Mr. Sikes.  'Worse luck!'\n\nA long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep\nthought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy\nperfectly demoniacal.  Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time.\nNancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her\neyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.\n\n'Fagin,' said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed;\n'is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?'\n\n'Yes,' said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.\n\n'Is it a bargain?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'Yes, my dear, yes,' rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every\nmuscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had\nawakened.\n\n'Then,' said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain,\n'let it come off as soon as you like.  Toby and me were over the\ngarden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and\nshutters.  The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one\npart we can crack, safe and softly.'\n\n'Which is that, Bill?' asked the Jew eagerly.\n\n'Why,' whispered Sikes, 'as you cross the lawn--'\n\n'Yes?' said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost\nstarting out of it.\n\n'Umph!' cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her\nhead, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's\nface.  'Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I\nknow; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.'\n\n'As you like, my dear, as you like' replied the Jew.  'Is there no help\nwanted, but yours and Toby's?'\n\n'None,' said Sikes.  'Cept a centre-bit and a boy.  The first we've\nboth got; the second you must find us.'\n\n'A boy!' exclaimed the Jew.  'Oh! then it's a panel, eh?'\n\n'Never mind wot it is!' replied Sikes.  'I want a boy, and he musn't be\na big 'un.  Lord!' said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, 'if I'd only got that\nyoung boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's!  He kept him small on\npurpose, and let him out by the job.  But the father gets lagged; and\nthen the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from\na trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and\nin time makes a 'prentice of him.  And so they go on,' said Mr. Sikes,\nhis wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, 'so they go on;\nand, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,)\nwe shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year\nor two.'\n\n'No more we should,' acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering\nduring this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. 'Bill!'\n\n'What now?' inquired Sikes.\n\nThe Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the\nfire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave\nthe room.  Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought\nthe precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting\nMiss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.\n\n'You don't want any beer,' said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining\nher seat very composedly.\n\n'I tell you I do!' replied Sikes.\n\n'Nonsense,' rejoined the girl coolly, 'Go on, Fagin.  I know what he's\ngoing to say, Bill; he needn't mind me.'\n\nThe Jew still hesitated.  Sikes looked from one to the other in some\nsurprise.\n\n'Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?' he asked at length.\n'You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it.  She\nain't one to blab.  Are you Nancy?'\n\n'_I_ should think not!' replied the young lady:  drawing her chair up\nto the table, and putting her elbows upon it.\n\n'No, no, my dear, I know you're not,' said the Jew; 'but--' and again\nthe old man paused.\n\n'But wot?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know,\nmy dear, as she was the other night,' replied the Jew.\n\nAt this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing\na glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst\ninto sundry exclamations of 'Keep the game a-going!'  'Never say die!'\nand the like.  These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both\ngentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and\nresumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.\n\n'Now, Fagin,' said Nancy with a laugh.  'Tell Bill at once, about\nOliver!'\n\n'Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!' said\nthe Jew, patting her on the neck.  'It WAS about Oliver I was going to\nspeak, sure enough.  Ha! ha! ha!'\n\n'What about him?' demanded Sikes.\n\n'He's the boy for you, my dear,' replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper;\nlaying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.\n\n'He!' exclaimed. Sikes.\n\n'Have him, Bill!' said Nancy.  'I would, if I was in your place. He\nmayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you\nwant, if he's only to open a door for you.  Depend upon it he's a safe\none, Bill.'\n\n'I know he is,' rejoined Fagin.  'He's been in good training these last\nfew weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread.  Besides, the\nothers are all too big.'\n\n'Well, he is just the size I want,' said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.\n\n'And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,' interposed the Jew;\n'he can't help himself.  That is, if you frighten him enough.'\n\n'Frighten him!' echoed Sikes.  'It'll be no sham frightening, mind you.\nIf there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in\nfor a penny, in for a pound.  You won't see him alive again, Fagin.\nThink of that, before you send him.  Mark my words!' said the robber,\npoising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.\n\n'I've thought of it all,' said the Jew with energy. 'I've--I've had my\neye upon him, my dears, close--close. Once let him feel that he is one\nof us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and\nhe's ours!  Ours for his life.  Oho!  It couldn't have come about\nbetter!  The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his\nhead and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.\n\n'Ours!' said Sikes.  'Yours, you mean.'\n\n'Perhaps I do, my dear,' said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. 'Mine, if\nyou like, Bill.'\n\n'And wot,' said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, 'wot\nmakes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know\nthere are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you\nmight pick and choose from?'\n\n'Because they're of no use to me, my dear,' replied the Jew, with some\nconfusion, 'not worth the taking.  Their looks convict 'em when they\nget into trouble, and I lose 'em all.  With this boy, properly managed,\nmy dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them.  Besides,'\nsaid the Jew, recovering his self-possession, 'he has us now if he\ncould only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with\nus.  Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over\nhim that he was in a robbery; that's all I want.  Now, how much better\nthis is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the\nway--which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.'\n\n'When is it to be done?' asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent\nexclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with\nwhich he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.\n\n'Ah, to be sure,' said the Jew; 'when is it to be done, Bill?'\n\n'I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,' rejoined Sikes in a\nsurly voice, 'if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.'\n\n'Good,' said the Jew; 'there's no moon.'\n\n'No,' rejoined Sikes.\n\n'It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?' asked the Jew.\n\nSikes nodded.\n\n'And about--'\n\n'Oh, ah, it's all planned,' rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. 'Never\nmind particulars.  You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night.  I\nshall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak.  Then you hold your\ntongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to\ndo.'\n\nAfter some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was\ndecided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the\nnight had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily\nobserving, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would\nbe more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in\nhis behalf, than anybody else.  It was also solemnly arranged that poor\nOliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be\nunreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes;\nand further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought\nfit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or\nevil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to\nrender the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by\nMr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and\ncorroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash\nToby Crackit.\n\nThese preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a\nfurious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner;\nyelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song,\nmingled with wild execrations.  At length, in a fit of professional\nenthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools:\nwhich he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of\nexplaining the nature and properties of the various implements it\ncontained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he\nfell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.\n\n'Good-night, Nancy,' said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.\n\n'Good-night.'\n\nTheir eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly.  There was no\nflinching about the girl.  She was as true and earnest in the matter as\nToby Crackit himself could be.\n\nThe Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the\nprostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped\ndownstairs.\n\n'Always the way!' muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward.\n'The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call\nup some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never\nlasts.  Ha! ha!  The man against the child, for a bag of gold!'\n\nBeguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended\nhis way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode:  where the Dodger\nwas sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.\n\n'Is Oliver a-bed?  I want to speak to him,' was his first remark as\nthey descended the stairs.\n\n'Hours ago,' replied the Dodger, throwing open a door.  'Here he is!'\n\nThe boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale\nwith anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he\nlooked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in\nthe guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle\nspirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the\nworld has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.\n\n'Not now,' said the Jew, turning softly away.  'To-morrow. To-morrow.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\nWHEREIN OLIVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES\n\nWhen Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find\nthat a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at\nhis bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was\npleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of\nhis release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting\ndown to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and\nmanner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the\nresidence of Bill Sikes that night.\n\n'To--to--stop there, sir?' asked Oliver, anxiously.\n\n'No, no, my dear.  Not to stop there,' replied the Jew.  'We shouldn't\nlike to lose you.  Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us\nagain.  Ha! ha! ha!  We won't be so cruel as to send you away, my dear.\nOh no, no!'\n\nThe old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread,\nlooked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show\nthat he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could.\n\n'I suppose,' said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, 'you want to know\nwhat you're going to Bill's for---eh, my dear?'\n\nOliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been\nreading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.\n\n'Why, do you think?' inquired Fagin, parrying the question.\n\n'Indeed I don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Bah!' said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from\na close perusal of the boy's face.  'Wait till Bill tells you, then.'\n\nThe Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater\ncuriosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt\nvery anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of\nFagin's looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries\njust then.  He had no other opportunity:  for the Jew remained very\nsurly and silent till night:  when he prepared to go abroad.\n\n'You may burn a candle,' said the Jew, putting one upon the table.\n'And here's a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you.\nGood-night!'\n\n'Good-night!' replied Oliver, softly.\n\nThe Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he\nwent.  Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.\n\nOliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to\nlight it.  He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table,\nsaw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and\ncontracted brows, from the dark end of the room.\n\n'Take heed, Oliver! take heed!' said the old man, shaking his right\nhand before him in a warning manner.  'He's a rough man, and thinks\nnothing of blood when his own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing;\nand do what he bids you.  Mind!'  Placing a strong emphasis on the last\nword, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a\nghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room.\n\nOliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and\npondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard.  The\nmore he thought of the Jew's admonition, the more he was at a loss to\ndivine its real purpose and meaning.\n\nHe could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes,\nwhich would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin;\nand after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been\nselected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker,\nuntil another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged.  He\nwas too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where\nhe was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely.  He remained\nlost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed\nthe candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him,\nbegan to read.\n\nHe turned over the leaves.  Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a\npassage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the\nvolume.  It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals;\nand the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of\ndreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that\nhad been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye\nof man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as\nthey were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so\nmaddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had\nconfessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony.\nHere, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night,\nhad been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts,\nto such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs\nquail, to think of.  The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid,\nthat the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon\nthem, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow\nmurmurs, by the spirits of the dead.\n\nIn a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him.\nThen, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such\ndeeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved\nfor crimes, so fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm,\nand besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from\nhis present dangers; and that if any aid were to be raised up for a\npoor outcast boy who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it\nmight come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in\nthe midst of wickedness and guilt.\n\nHe had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in\nhis hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.\n\n'What's that!' he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure\nstanding by the door.  'Who's there?'\n\n'Me.  Only me,' replied a tremulous voice.\n\nOliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door.\nIt was Nancy.\n\n'Put down the light,' said the girl, turning away her head. 'It hurts\nmy eyes.'\n\nOliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill.\nThe girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him:  and\nwrung her hands; but made no reply.\n\n'God forgive me!' she cried after a while, 'I never thought of this.'\n\n'Has anything happened?' asked Oliver.  'Can I help you?  I will if I\ncan.  I will, indeed.'\n\nShe rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a\ngurgling sound, gasped for breath.\n\n'Nancy!' cried Oliver, 'What is it?'\n\nThe girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground;\nand, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered\nwith cold.\n\nOliver stirred the fire.  Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there,\nfor a little time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head,\nand looked round.\n\n'I don't know what comes over me sometimes,' said she, affecting to\nbusy herself in arranging her dress; 'it's this damp dirty room, I\nthink.  Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?'\n\n'Am I to go with you?' asked Oliver.\n\n'Yes.  I have come from Bill,' replied the girl.  'You are to go with\nme.'\n\n'What for?' asked Oliver, recoiling.\n\n'What for?' echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again,\nthe moment they encountered the boy's face.  'Oh!  For no harm.'\n\n'I don't believe it,' said Oliver:  who had watched her closely.\n\n'Have it your own way,' rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. 'For no\ngood, then.'\n\nOliver could see that he had some power over the girl's better\nfeelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion\nfor his helpless state.  But, then, the thought darted across his mind\nthat it was barely eleven o'clock; and that many people were still in\nthe streets:  of whom surely some might be found to give credence to\nhis tale.  As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward:  and\nsaid, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.\n\nNeither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his\ncompanion.  She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a\nlook of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what\nhad been passing in his thoughts.\n\n'Hush!' said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as\nshe looked cautiously round.  'You can't help yourself. I have tried\nhard for you, but all to no purpose.  You are hedged round and round.\nIf ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time.'\n\nStruck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with\ngreat surprise.  She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was\nwhite and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.\n\n'I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do\nnow,' continued the girl aloud; 'for those who would have fetched you,\nif I had not, would have been far more rough than me.  I have promised\nfor your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm\nto yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death.  See here!  I have\nborne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.'\n\nShe pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and\ncontinued, with great rapidity:\n\n'Remember this!  And don't let me suffer more for you, just now. If I\ncould help you, I would; but I have not the power.  They don't mean to\nharm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours.  Hush!\nEvery word from you is a blow for me.  Give me your hand.  Make haste!\nYour hand!'\n\nShe caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and,\nblowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was\nopened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as\nquickly closed, when they had passed out.  A hackney-cabriolet was in\nwaiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing\nOliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close.\nThe driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed,\nwithout the delay of an instant.\n\nThe girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into\nhis ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted.  All was\nso quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he\nwas, or how he came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to\nwhich the Jew's steps had been directed on the previous evening.\n\nFor one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty\nstreet, and a cry for help hung upon his lips.  But the girl's voice\nwas in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her,\nthat he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the\nopportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was\nshut.\n\n'This way,' said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time.\n'Bill!'\n\n'Hallo!' replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a\ncandle.  'Oh!  That's the time of day.  Come on!'\n\nThis was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty\nwelcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes' temperament.  Nancy, appearing\nmuch gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.\n\n'Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom,' observed Sikes, as he lighted them\nup.  'He'd have been in the way.'\n\n'That's right,' rejoined Nancy.\n\n'So you've got the kid,' said Sikes when they had all reached the room:\nclosing the door as he spoke.\n\n'Yes, here he is,' replied Nancy.\n\n'Did he come quiet?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'Like a lamb,' rejoined Nancy.\n\n'I'm glad to hear it,' said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; 'for the\nsake of his young carcase:  as would otherways have suffered for it.\nCome here, young 'un; and let me read you a lectur', which is as well\ngot over at once.'\n\nThus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and\nthrew it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat\nhimself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him.\n\n'Now, first:  do you know wot this is?' inquired Sikes, taking up a\npocket-pistol which lay on the table.\n\nOliver replied in the affirmative.\n\n'Well, then, look here,' continued Sikes.  'This is powder; that 'ere's\na bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'.'\n\nOliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to;\nand Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and\ndeliberation.\n\n'Now it's loaded,' said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.\n\n'Yes, I see it is, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'Well,' said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the\nbarrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the\nboy could not repress a start; 'if you speak a word when you're out\no'doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in\nyour head without notice.  So, if you _do_ make up your mind to speak\nwithout leave, say your prayers first.'\n\nHaving bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase\nits effect, Mr. Sikes continued.\n\n'As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very\npartickler arter you, if you _was_ disposed of; so I needn't take this\ndevil-and-all of trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for\nyour own good.  D'ye hear me?'\n\n'The short and the long of what you mean,' said Nancy:  speaking very\nemphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his\nserious attention to her words:  'is, that if you're crossed by him in\nthis job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales\nafterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance\nof swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way\nof business, every month of your life.'\n\n'That's it!' observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; 'women can always put\nthings in fewest words.--Except when it's blowing up; and then they\nlengthens it out.  And now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have\nsome supper, and get a snooze before starting.'\n\nIn pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth;\ndisappearing for a few minutes, she presently returned with a pot of\nporter and a dish of sheep's heads: which gave occasion to several\npleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular\ncoincidence of 'jemmies' being a can name, common to them, and also to\nan ingenious implement much used in his profession.  Indeed, the worthy\ngentleman, stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on\nactive service, was in great spirits and good humour; in proof whereof,\nit may be here remarked, that he humourously drank all the beer at a\ndraught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation, more than\nfour-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal.\n\nSupper being ended--it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great\nappetite for it--Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits\nand water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many\nimprecations in case of failure, to call him at five precisely.  Oliver\nstretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on\na mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before\nit, in readiness to rouse them at the appointed time.\n\nFor a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy\nmight seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the\ngirl sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to\ntrim the light.  Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell\nasleep.\n\nWhen he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was\nthrusting various articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which\nhung over the back of a chair.  Nancy was busily engaged in preparing\nbreakfast.  It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning,\nand it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against\nthe window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.\n\n'Now, then!' growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; 'half-past five!\nLook sharp, or you'll get no breakfast; for it's late as it is.'\n\nOliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast,\nhe replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite\nready.\n\nNancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie\nround his throat; Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his\nshoulders.  Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely\npausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same\npistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his,\nand, exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.\n\nOliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope\nof meeting a look from the girl.  But she had resumed her old seat in\nfront of the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless before it.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\nTHE EXPEDITION\n\nIt was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and\nraining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy.  The night had\nbeen very wet: large pools of water had collected in the road: and the\nkennels were overflowing.  There was a faint glimmering of the coming\nday in the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the\nscene:  the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street\nlamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the\nwet house-tops, and dreary streets.  There appeared to be nobody\nstirring in that quarter of the town; the windows of the houses were\nall closely shut; and the streets through which they passed, were\nnoiseless and empty.\n\nBy the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had\nfairly begun to break.  Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a\nfew country waggons were slowly toiling on, towards London; now and\nthen, a stage-coach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by: the driver\nbestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy waggoner\nwho, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered his\narriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time.  The\npublic-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open.  By\ndegrees, other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people\nwere met with.  Then, came straggling groups of labourers going to\ntheir work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads;\ndonkey-carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock\nor whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken\nconcourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the eastern\nsuburbs of the town.  As they approached the City, the noise and\ntraffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between\nShoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and\nbustle.  It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on\nagain, and the busy morning of half the London population had begun.\n\nTurning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square,\nMr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into\nLong Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place arose a\ntumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.\n\nIt was market-morning.  The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with\nfilth and mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking\nbodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest\nupon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above.  All the pens in the centre\nof the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into\nthe vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the\ngutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep.\nCountrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and\nvagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a mass; the\nwhistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and plunging of\nthe oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs,\nthe cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides;\nthe ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from every\npublic-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and\nyelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every\ncorner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty\nfigures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the\nthrong; rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite\nconfounded the senses.\n\nMr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the\nthickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the\nnumerous sights and sounds, which so astonished the boy.  He nodded,\ntwice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as many\ninvitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they\nwere clear of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane\ninto Holborn.\n\n'Now, young 'un!' said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew's\nChurch, 'hard upon seven! you must step out.  Come, don't lag behind\nalready, Lazy-legs!'\n\nMr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion's\nwrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast\nwalk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the house-breaker as\nwell as he could.\n\nThey held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park\ncorner, and were on their way to Kensington:  when Sikes relaxed his\npace, until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind,\ncame up.  Seeing 'Hounslow' written on it, he asked the driver with as\nmuch civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far\nas Isleworth.\n\n'Jump up,' said the man.  'Is that your boy?'\n\n'Yes; he's my boy,' replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting\nhis hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.\n\n'Your father walks rather too quick for you, don't he, my man?'\ninquired the driver: seeing that Oliver was out of breath.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes, interposing.  'He's used to it.\n\nHere, take hold of my hand, Ned.  In with you!'\n\nThus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver,\npointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest\nhimself.\n\nAs they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and\nmore, where his companion meant to take him.  Kensington, Hammersmith,\nChiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on\nas steadily as if they had only just begun their journey.  At length,\nthey came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses; a little way\nbeyond which, another road appeared to run off.  And here, the cart\nstopped.\n\nSikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand\nall the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look\nupon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant\nmanner.\n\n'Good-bye, boy,' said the man.\n\n'He's sulky,' replied Sikes, giving him a shake; 'he's sulky.  A young\ndog!  Don't mind him.'\n\n'Not I!' rejoined the other, getting into his cart.  'It's a fine day,\nafter all.'  And he drove away.\n\nSikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he\nmight look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his\njourney.\n\nThey turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and\nthen, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many\nlarge gardens and gentlemen's houses on both sides of the way, and\nstopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town.\nHere against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large\nletters, 'Hampton.'  They lingered about, in the fields, for some\nhours.  At length they came back into the town; and, turning into an\nold public-house with a defaced sign-board, ordered some dinner by the\nkitchen fire.\n\nThe kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the\nmiddle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the\nfire; on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking\nand smoking.  They took no notice of Oliver; and very little of Sikes;\nand, as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade\nsat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their\ncompany.\n\nThey had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr.\nSikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to\nfeel quite certain they were not going any further.  Being much tired\nwith the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first;\nthen, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell\nasleep.\n\nIt was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing\nhimself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy\nin close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint\nof ale.\n\n'So, you're going on to Lower Halliford, are you?' inquired Sikes.\n\n'Yes, I am,' replied the man, who seemed a little the worse--or better,\nas the case might be--for drinking; 'and not slow about it neither.  My\nhorse hasn't got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in\nthe mornin'; and he won't be long a-doing of it.  Here's luck to him.\nEcod! he's a good 'un!'\n\n'Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?' demanded Sikes,\npushing the ale towards his new friend.\n\n'If you're going directly, I can,' replied the man, looking out of the\npot.  'Are you going to Halliford?'\n\n'Going on to Shepperton,' replied Sikes.\n\n'I'm your man, as far as I go,' replied the other.  'Is all paid,\nBecky?'\n\n'Yes, the other gentleman's paid,' replied the girl.\n\n'I say!' said the man, with tipsy gravity; 'that won't do, you know.'\n\n'Why not?' rejoined Sikes.  'You're a-going to accommodate us, and\nwot's to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?'\n\nThe stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face;\nhaving done so, he seized Sikes by the hand:  and declared he was a\nreal good fellow.  To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he\nhad been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.\n\nAfter the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company\ngood-night, and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as\nthey did so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see\nthe party start.\n\nThe horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing\noutside:  ready harnessed to the cart.  Oliver and Sikes got in without\nany further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered\nfor a minute or two 'to bear him up,' and to defy the hostler and the\nworld to produce his equal, mounted also.  Then, the hostler was told\nto give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a\nvery unpleasant use of it:  tossing it into the air with great disdain,\nand running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing\nthose feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs,\nhe started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right\ngallantly.\n\nThe night was very dark.  A damp mist rose from the river, and the\nmarshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields.  It was\npiercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken;\nfor the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him\ninto conversation.  Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the\ncart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange\nobjects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as\nif in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.\n\nAs they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven.  There was a\nlight in the ferry-house window opposite:  which streamed across the\nroad, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves\nbeneath it.  There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and\nthe leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind.  It seemed\nlike quiet music for the repose of the dead.\n\nSunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road.\nTwo or three miles more, and the cart stopped.  Sikes alighted, took\nOliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.\n\nThey turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected;\nbut still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes\nand over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights\nof a town at no great distance.  On looking intently forward, Oliver\nsaw that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to\nthe foot of a bridge.\n\nSikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then\nturned suddenly down a bank upon the left.\n\n'The water!' thought Oliver, turning sick with fear.  'He has brought\nme to this lonely place to murder me!'\n\nHe was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for\nhis young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house:\nall ruinous and decayed.  There was a window on each side of the\ndilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible.\nThe house was dark, dismantled: and the all appearance, uninhabited.\n\nSikes, with Oliver's hand still in his, softly approached the low\nporch, and raised the latch.  The door yielded to the pressure, and\nthey passed in together.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXII\n\nTHE BURGLARY\n\n'Hallo!' cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the\npassage.\n\n'Don't make such a row,' said Sikes, bolting the door.  'Show a glim,\nToby.'\n\n'Aha! my pal!' cried the same voice.  'A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the\ngentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.'\n\nThe speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the\nperson he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers:  for the noise of\na wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct\nmuttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.\n\n'Do you hear?' cried the same voice.  'There's Bill Sikes in the\npassage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as\nif you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger.  Are you\nany fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you\nthoroughly?'\n\nA pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the\nroom, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on\nthe right hand; first, a feeble candle:  and next, the form of the same\nindividual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the\ninfirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at\nthe public-house on Saffron Hill.\n\n'Bister Sikes!' exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; 'cub\nid, sir; cub id.'\n\n'Here! you get on first,' said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him.\n'Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.'\n\nMuttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him;\nand they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken\nchairs, a table, and a very old couch:  on which, with his legs much\nhigher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long\nclay pipe.  He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with\nlarge brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring,\nshawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches.  Mr. Crackit (for he it\nwas) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face;\nbut what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew\ncurls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,\nornamented with large common rings.  He was a trifle above the middle\nsize, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by\nno means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he\ncontemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.\n\n'Bill, my boy!' said this figure, turning his head towards the door,\n'I'm glad to see you.  I was almost afraid you'd given it up:  in which\ncase I should have made a personal wentur.  Hallo!'\n\nUttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes\nrested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting\nposture, and demanded who that was.\n\n'The boy.  Only the boy!' replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the\nfire.\n\n'Wud of Bister Fagid's lads,' exclaimed Barney, with a grin.\n\n'Fagin's, eh!' exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver.  'Wot an inwalable\nboy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels!  His mug is a\nfortin' to him.'\n\n'There--there's enough of that,' interposed Sikes, impatiently; and\nstooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his\near:  at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with\na long stare of astonishment.\n\n'Now,' said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, 'if you'll give us something\nto eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or\nin me, at all events.  Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest\nyourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not\nvery far off.'\n\nOliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool\nto the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing\nwhere he was, or what was passing around him.\n\n'Here,' said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and\na bottle upon the table,  'Success to the crack!'  He rose to honour\nthe toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner,\nadvanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its\ncontents.  Mr. Sikes did the same.\n\n'A drain for the boy,' said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. 'Down with\nit, innocence.'\n\n'Indeed,' said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face;\n'indeed, I--'\n\n'Down with it!' echoed Toby.  'Do you think I don't know what's good\nfor you?  Tell him to drink it, Bill.'\n\n'He had better!' said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. 'Burn my\nbody, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers.  Drink\nit, you perwerse imp; drink it!'\n\nFrightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily\nswallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a\nviolent fit of coughing:  which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and\neven drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.\n\nThis done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat\nnothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the\ntwo men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap.  Oliver\nretained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched\nhimself on the floor:  close outside the fender.\n\nThey slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but\nBarney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell\ninto a heavy doze:  imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes,\nor wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other\nof the scenes of the past day:  when he was roused by Toby Crackit\njumping up and declaring it was half-past one.\n\nIn an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively\nengaged in busy preparation.  Sikes and his companion enveloped their\nnecks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats;\nBarney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he\nhastily crammed into the pockets.\n\n'Barkers for me, Barney,' said Toby Crackit.\n\n'Here they are,' replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. 'You\nloaded them yourself.'\n\n'All right!' replied Toby, stowing them away.  'The persuaders?'\n\n'I've got 'em,' replied Sikes.\n\n'Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies--nothing forgotten?' inquired Toby:\nfastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.\n\n'All right,' rejoined his companion.  'Bring them bits of timber,\nBarney.  That's the time of day.'\n\nWith these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who,\nhaving delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on\nOliver's cape.\n\n'Now then!' said Sikes, holding out his hand.\n\nOliver:  who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the\nair, and the drink which had been forced upon him:  put his hand\nmechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.\n\n'Take his other hand, Toby,' said Sikes.  'Look out, Barney.'\n\nThe man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet.\nThe two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having\nmade all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.\n\nIt was now intensely dark.  The fog was much heavier than it had been\nin the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that,\nalthough no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes\nafter leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture\nthat was floating about.  They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards\nthe lights which he had seen before.  They were at no great distance\noff; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.\n\n'Slap through the town,' whispered Sikes; 'there'll be nobody in the\nway, to-night, to see us.'\n\nToby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little\ntown, which at that late hour was wholly deserted.  A dim light shone\nat intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs\noccasionally broke the silence of the night.  But there was nobody\nabroad.  They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.\n\nQuickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After\nwalking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house\nsurrounded by a wall:  to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely\npausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.\n\n'The boy next,' said Toby.  'Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him.'\n\nBefore Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the\narms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass\non the other side.  Sikes followed directly.  And they stole cautiously\ntowards the house.\n\nAnd now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and\nterror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the\nobjects of the expedition.  He clasped his hands together, and\ninvoluntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror.  A mist came\nbefore his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs\nfailed him; and he sank upon his knees.\n\n'Get up!' murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol\nfrom his pocket; 'Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass.'\n\n'Oh! for God's sake let me go!' cried Oliver; 'let me run away and die\nin the fields.  I will never come near London; never, never!  Oh! pray\nhave mercy on me, and do not make me steal.  For the love of all the\nbright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!'\n\nThe man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had\ncocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his\nhand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house.\n\n'Hush!' cried the man; 'it won't answer here.  Say another word, and\nI'll do your business myself with a crack on the head.  That makes no\nnoise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel.  Here, Bill, wrench\nthe shutter open.  He's game enough now, I'll engage.  I've seen older\nhands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold\nnight.'\n\nSikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending\nOliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little\nnoise.  After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to\nwhich he had referred, swung open on its hinges.\n\nIt was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the\nground, at the back of the house:  which belonged to a scullery, or\nsmall brewing-place, at the end of the passage.  The aperture was so\nsmall, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to\ndefend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of\nOliver's size, nevertheless.  A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art,\nsufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood\nwide open also.\n\n'Now listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern\nfrom his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; 'I'm a\ngoing to put you through there.  Take this light; go softly up the\nsteps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street\ndoor; unfasten it, and let us in.'\n\n'There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach,' interposed\nToby. 'Stand upon one of the hall chairs.  There are three there, Bill,\nwith a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em:  which is\nthe old lady's arms.'\n\n'Keep quiet, can't you?' replied Sikes, with a threatening look. 'The\nroom-door is open, is it?'\n\n'Wide,' replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. 'The game of\nthat is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog,\nwho's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels\nwakeful.  Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night.  So neat!'\n\nAlthough Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed\nwithout noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get\nto work.  Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it\non the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against\nthe wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to\nmake a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting\nupon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first;\nand, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the\nfloor inside.\n\n'Take this lantern,' said Sikes, looking into the room.  'You see the\nstairs afore you?'\n\nOliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, 'Yes.'  Sikes, pointing to\nthe street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take\nnotice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he\nwould fall dead that instant.\n\n'It's done in a minute,' said Sikes, in the same low whisper. 'Directly\nI leave go of you, do your work.  Hark!'\n\n'What's that?' whispered the other man.\n\nThey listened intently.\n\n'Nothing,' said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver.  'Now!'\n\nIn the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly\nresolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one\neffort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family.  Filled\nwith this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.\n\n'Come back!' suddenly cried Sikes aloud.  'Back! back!'\n\nScared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and\nby a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew\nnot whether to advance or fly.\n\nThe cry was repeated--a light appeared--a vision of two terrified\nhalf-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes--a\nflash--a loud noise--a smoke--a crash somewhere, but where he knew\nnot,--and he staggered back.\n\nSikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him\nby the collar before the smoke had cleared away.  He fired his own\npistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy\nup.\n\n'Clasp your arm tighter,' said Sikes, as he drew him through the\nwindow.  'Give me a shawl here.  They've hit him.  Quick!  How the boy\nbleeds!'\n\nThen came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of\nfire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried\nover uneven ground at a rapid pace.  And then, the noises grew confused\nin the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart;\nand he saw or heard no more.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIII\n\nWHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR.\nBUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON\nSOME POINTS\n\nThe night was bitter cold.  The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a\nhard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways\nand corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad:  which,\nas if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it\nsavagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,\nscattered it in air.  Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night\nfor the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God\nthey were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him\ndown and die.  Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare\nstreets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,\ncan hardly open them in a more bitter world.\n\nSuch was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the\nmatron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already\nintroduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a\ncheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree\nof complacency, at a small round table:  on which stood a tray of\ncorresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most\ngrateful meal that matrons enjoy.  In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to\nsolace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the\nfireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a\nsmall song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently\nincreased,--so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.\n\n'Well!' said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking\nreflectively at the fire; 'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to\nbe grateful for!  A great deal, if we did but know it.  Ah!'\n\nMrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental\nblindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver\nspoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin\ntea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.\n\nHow slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds!  The\nblack teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.\nCorney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's\nhand.\n\n'Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on\nthe hob; 'a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups!\nWhat use is it of, to anybody!  Except,' said Mrs. Corney, pausing,\n'except to a poor desolate creature like me.  Oh dear!'\n\nWith these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more\nresting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate.  The\nsmall teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad\nrecollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than\nfive-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.\n\n'I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; 'I shall\nnever get another--like him.'\n\nWhether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is\nuncertain.  It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it\nas she spoke; and took it up afterwards.  She had just tasted her first\ncup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.\n\n'Oh, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney, sharply.  'Some of the old\nwomen dying, I suppose.  They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand\nthere, letting the cold air in, don't.  What's amiss now, eh?'\n\n'Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice.\n\n'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, 'is that Mr.\nBumble?'\n\n'At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping\noutside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and\nwho now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a\nbundle in the other.  'Shall I shut the door, ma'am?'\n\nThe lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any\nimpropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors.\nMr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold\nhimself, shut it without permission.\n\n'Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.\n\n'Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle.  'Anti-porochial weather\nthis, ma'am.  We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a\nmatter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very\nblessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.'\n\n'Of course not.  When would they be, Mr. Bumble?' said the matron,\nsipping her tea.\n\n'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble.  'Why here's one man that,\nin consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and\na good pound of cheese, full weight.  Is he grateful, ma'am?  Is he\ngrateful?  Not a copper farthing's worth of it!  What does he do,\nma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief\nfull, he says!  Coals! What would he do with coals?  Toast his cheese\nwith 'em and then come back for more.  That's the way with these\npeople, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come\nback for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.'\n\nThe matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible\nsimile; and the beadle went on.\n\n'I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to.\nThe day afore yesterday, a man--you have been a married woman, ma'am,\nand I may mention it to you--a man, with hardly a rag upon his back\n(here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door\nwhen he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be\nrelieved, Mrs. Corney.  As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company\nvery much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a\npint of oatmeal.  \"My heart!\" says the ungrateful villain, \"what's the\nuse of _this_ to me?  You might as well give me a pair of iron\nspectacles!\"  \"Very good,\" says our overseer, taking 'em away again,\n\"you won't get anything else here.\"  \"Then I'll die in the streets!\"\nsays the vagrant.  \"Oh no, you won't,\" says our overseer.'\n\n'Ha! ha!  That was very good!  So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?'\ninterposed the matron.  'Well, Mr. Bumble?'\n\n'Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away; and he _did_ die in\nthe streets.  There's a obstinate pauper for you!'\n\n'It beats anything I could have believed,' observed the matron\nemphatically.  'But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad\nthing, any way, Mr. Bumble?  You're a gentleman of experience, and\nought to know.  Come.'\n\n'Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious\nof superior information, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed:\nproperly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard.  The great\nprinciple of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what\nthey don't want; and then they get tired of coming.'\n\n'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney.  'Well, that is a good one, too!'\n\n'Yes.  Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr. Bumble, 'that's the\ngreat principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases\nthat get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that\nsick families have been relieved with slices of cheese.  That's the\nrule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,' said the\nbeadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, 'these are official secrets,\nma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial\nofficers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the\nboard ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only\nout of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!'\n\nHaving held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to\ntest its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of\ndrawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it\ncarefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.\n\n'You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.\n\n'It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar,\n'enough to cut one's ears off.'\n\nThe matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was\nmoving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to\nbidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether--whether he wouldn't\ntake a cup of tea?\n\nMr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat\nand stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table.  As he\nslowly seated himself, he looked at the lady.  She fixed her eyes upon\nthe little teapot.  Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.\n\nMrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she\nsat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;\nshe coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea.  Again\nMr. Bumble coughed--louder this time than he had coughed yet.\n\n'Sweet?  Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.\n\n'Very sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble.  He fixed his eyes on\nMrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.\nBumble was that beadle at that moment.\n\nThe tea was made, and handed in silence.  Mr. Bumble, having spread a\nhandkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the\nsplendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these\namusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had\nno injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather\nseemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.\n\n'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who,\nin the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; 'and kittens\ntoo, I declare!'\n\n'I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think,' replied the\nmatron.  'They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that\nthey are quite companions for me.'\n\n'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 'so very\ndomestic.'\n\n'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home\ntoo, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure.'\n\n'Mrs. Corney, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time\nwith his teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten,\nthat could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be\na ass, ma'am.'\n\n'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney.\n\n'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly\nflourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him\ndoubly impressive; 'I would drown it myself, with pleasure.'\n\n'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out\nher hand for the beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.'\n\n'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble.  'Hard?'  Mr. Bumble resigned\nhis cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as\nshe took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced\nwaistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little\nmorsel farther from the fire.\n\nIt was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been\nsitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and\nfronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from\nthe fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance\nbetween himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers\nwill doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great\nheroism on Mr. Bumble's part:  he being in some sort tempted by time,\nplace, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings,\nwhich however well they may become the lips of the light and\nthoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the\nland, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other\ngreat public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the\nstateliness and gravity of a beadle:  who (as is well known) should be\nthe sternest and most inflexible among them all.\n\nWhatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were\nof the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before\nremarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble,\nmoving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the\ndistance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel\nround the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close\nto that in which the matron was seated.\n\nIndeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble\nstopped.\n\nNow, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have\nbeen scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen\ninto Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt\nforeseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was,\nand handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.\n\n'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and\nlooking up into the matron's face; 'are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs.\nCorney?'\n\n'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, 'what a very curious question from a\nsingle man.  What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?'\n\nThe beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;\nwhisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately\nkissed the matron.\n\n'Mr. Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was\nso great, that she had quite lost her voice, 'Mr. Bumble, I shall\nscream!'  Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner,\nput his arm round the matron's waist.\n\nAs the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would\nhave screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was\nrendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door:  which was no\nsooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine\nbottles, and began dusting them with great violence:  while the matron\nsharply demanded who was there.\n\nIt is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy\nof a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that\nher voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.\n\n'If you please, mistress,' said a withered old female pauper, hideously\nugly:  putting her head in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.'\n\n'Well, what's that to me?' angrily demanded the matron.  'I can't keep\nher alive, can I?'\n\n'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far\nbeyond the reach of help.  I've seen a many people die; little babes\nand great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough.\nBut she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,--and\nthat's not often, for she is dying very hard,--she says she has got\nsomething to tell, which you must hear.  She'll never die quiet till\nyou come, mistress.'\n\nAt this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of\ninvectives against old women who couldn't even die without purposely\nannoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which\nshe hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she\ncame back, lest anything particular should occur.  Bidding the\nmessenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she\nfollowed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.\n\nMr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable.\nHe opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,\nclosely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the\ngenuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put\non his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four\ndistinct times round the table.\n\nHaving gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off\nthe cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his\nback towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact\ninventory of the furniture.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIV\n\nTREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT.  BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE FOUND OF\nIMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY\n\nIt was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the\nmatron's room.  Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with\npalsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the\ngrotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand.\n\nAlas!  How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with\ntheir beauty!  The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world,\nchange them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions\nsleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass\noff, and leave Heaven's surface clear.  It is a common thing for the\ncountenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to\nsubside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and\nsettle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they\ngrow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by\nthe coffin's side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.\n\nThe old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering\nsome indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at\nlength compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand,\nand remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble\nsuperior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.\n\nIt was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end.\nThere was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish\napothecary's apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick\nout of a quill.\n\n'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron\nentered.\n\n'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil\ntones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.\n\n'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the\napothecary's deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the\nrusty poker; 'these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.'\n\n'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least\nthey could do, would be to keep us pretty warm:  for our places are\nhard enough.'\n\nThe conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.\n\n'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he\nhad previously quite forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs.\nCorney.'\n\n'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron.\n\n'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,' said the\napothecary's apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a\nbreak-up of the system altogether.  Is she dozing, old lady?'\n\nThe attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the\naffirmative.\n\n'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said\nthe young man.  'Put the light on the floor.  She won't see it there.'\n\nThe attendant did as she was told:  shaking her head meanwhile, to\nintimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she\nresumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time\nreturned.  The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped\nherself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.\n\nThe apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the\ntoothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it\nfor ten minutes or so:  when apparently growing rather dull, he wished\nMrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.\n\nWhen they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from\nthe bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to\ncatch the heat.  The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled\nfaces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,\nthey began to converse in a low voice.\n\n'Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?' inquired the\nmessenger.\n\n'Not a word,' replied the other.  'She plucked and tore at her arms for\na little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off.  She\nhasn't much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet.  I ain't so\nweak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!'\n\n'Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?' demanded\nthe first.\n\n'I tried to get it down,' rejoined the other.  'But her teeth were\ntight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I\ncould do to get it back again.  So I drank it; and it did me good!'\n\nLooking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard,\nthe two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.\n\n'I mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'when she would have done\nthe same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.'\n\n'Ay, that she would,' rejoined the other; 'she had a merry heart. 'A\nmany, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as\nwaxwork.  My old eyes have seen them--ay, and those old hands touched\nthem too; for I have helped her, scores of times.'\n\nStretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature\nshook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket,\nbrought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook\na few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few\nmore into her own.  While they were thus employed, the matron, who had\nbeen impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her\nstupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to\nwait?\n\n'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her\nface.  'We have none of us long to wait for Death.  Patience, patience!\nHe'll be here soon enough for us all.'\n\n'Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!' said the matron sternly. 'You,\nMartha, tell me; has she been in this way before?'\n\n'Often,' answered the first woman.\n\n'But will never be again,' added the second one; 'that is, she'll never\nwake again but once--and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!'\n\n'Long or short,' said the matron, snappishly, 'she won't find me here\nwhen she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for\nnothing.  It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house\ndie, and I won't--that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans.\nIf you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!'\n\nShe was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned\ntowards the bed, caused her to look round.  The patient had raised\nherself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.\n\n'Who's that?' she cried, in a hollow voice.\n\n'Hush, hush!' said one of the women, stooping over her.  'Lie down, lie\ndown!'\n\n'I'll never lie down again alive!' said the woman, struggling. 'I\n_will_ tell her!  Come here!  Nearer!  Let me whisper in your ear.'\n\nShe clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the\nbedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of\nthe two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.\n\n'Turn them away,' said the woman, drowsily; 'make haste! make haste!'\n\nThe two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous\nlamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best\nfriends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never\nleave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the\ndoor, and returned to the bedside.  On being excluded, the old ladies\nchanged their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was\ndrunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a\nmoderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring\nunder the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been\nprivily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy\nold ladies themselves.\n\n'Now listen to me,' said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great\neffort to revive one latent spark of energy.  'In this very room--in\nthis very bed--I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought\ninto the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all\nsoiled with dust and blood.  She gave birth to a boy, and died.  Let me\nthink--what was the year again!'\n\n'Never mind the year,' said the impatient auditor; 'what about her?'\n\n'Ay,' murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state,\n'what about her?--what about--I know!' she cried, jumping fiercely up:\nher face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head--'I robbed her,\nso I did!  She wasn't cold--I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole\nit!'\n\n'Stole what, for God's sake?' cried the matron, with a gesture as if\nshe would call for help.\n\n'_It_!' replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. 'The\nonly thing she had.  She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to\neat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom.  It was gold, I\ntell you!  Rich gold, that might have saved her life!'\n\n'Gold!' echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell\nback.  'Go on, go on--yes--what of it?  Who was the mother? When was\nit?'\n\n'She charge me to keep it safe,' replied the woman with a groan, 'and\ntrusted me as the only woman about her.  I stole it in my heart when\nshe first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death,\nperhaps, is on me besides!  They would have treated him better, if they\nhad known it all!'\n\n'Known what?' asked the other.  'Speak!'\n\n'The boy grew so like his mother,' said the woman, rambling on, and not\nheeding the question, 'that I could never forget it when I saw his\nface.  Poor girl! poor girl!  She was so young, too! Such a gentle\nlamb!  Wait; there's more to tell.  I have not told you all, have I?'\n\n'No, no,' replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as\nthey came more faintly from the dying woman.  'Be quick, or it may be\ntoo late!'\n\n'The mother,' said the woman, making a more violent effort than before;\n'the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in\nmy ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come\nwhen it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother\nnamed. \"And oh, kind Heaven!\" she said, folding her thin hands\ntogether, \"whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in\nthis troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child,\nabandoned to its mercy!\"'\n\n'The boy's name?' demanded the matron.\n\n'They _called_ him Oliver,' replied the woman, feebly.  'The gold I\nstole was--'\n\n'Yes, yes--what?' cried the other.\n\nShe was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew\nback, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a\nsitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered\nsome indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\n'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the\ndoor was opened.\n\n'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking\ncarelessly away.\n\nThe two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the\npreparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left\nalone, hovering about the body.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXV\n\nWHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY\n\nWhile these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat\nin the old den--the same from which Oliver had been removed by the\ngirl--brooding over a dull, smoky fire.  He held a pair of bellows upon\nhis knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it\ninto more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and\nwith his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed\nhis eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.\n\nAt a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and\nMr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy\nagainst Master Bates and Mr. Chitling.  The countenance of the\nfirst-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired\ngreat additional interest from his close observance of the game, and\nhis attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to\ntime, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances:\nwisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon\nhis neighbour's cards.  It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat,\nas, indeed, was often his custom within doors.  He also sustained a\nclay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space\nwhen he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot\nupon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the\naccommodation of the company.\n\nMaster Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more\nexcitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that\nhe more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover\nindulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a\nscientific rubber.  Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close\nattachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his\ncompanion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master\nBates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to\nbe 'blowed,' or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some\nother neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application\nof which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling.\nIt was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably\nlost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates,\nappeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed\nmost uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had\nnever seen such a jolly game in all his born days.\n\n'That's two doubles and the rub,' said Mr. Chitling, with a very long\nface, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket.  'I never see\nsuch a feller as you, Jack; you win everything.  Even when we've good\ncards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em.'\n\nEither the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very\nruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of\nlaughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire\nwhat was the matter.\n\n'Matter, Fagin!' cried Charley.  'I wish you had watched the play.\nTommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against\nthe Artfull and dumb.'\n\n'Ay, ay!' said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated\nthat he was at no loss to understand the reason. 'Try 'em again, Tom;\ntry 'em again.'\n\n'No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling; 'I've\nhad enough.  That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no\nstanding again' him.'\n\n'Ha! ha! my dear,' replied the Jew, 'you must get up very early in the\nmorning, to win against the Dodger.'\n\n'Morning!' said Charley Bates; 'you must put your boots on over-night,\nand have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your\nshoulders, if you want to come over him.'\n\nMr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy,\nand offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first\npicture-card, at a shilling at a time.  Nobody accepting the challenge,\nand his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse\nhimself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the\npiece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling,\nmeantime, with peculiar shrillness.\n\n'How precious dull you are, Tommy!' said the Dodger, stopping short\nwhen there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling.  'What\ndo you think he's thinking of, Fagin?'\n\n'How should I know, my dear?' replied the Jew, looking round as he\nplied the bellows.  'About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement\nin the country that he's just left, eh?  Ha! ha!  Is that it, my dear?'\n\n'Not a bit of it,' replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of\ndiscourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply.  'What do _you_ say,\nCharley?'\n\n'_I_ should say,' replied Master Bates, with a grin, 'that he was\nuncommon sweet upon Betsy.  See how he's a-blushing!  Oh, my eye!\nhere's a merry-go-rounder!  Tommy Chitling's in love!  Oh, Fagin,\nFagin! what a spree!'\n\nThoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim\nof the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair\nwith such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the\nfloor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at\nfull length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former\nposition, and began another laugh.\n\n'Never mind him, my dear,' said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and\ngiving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows.\n'Betsy's a fine girl.  Stick up to her, Tom.  Stick up to her.'\n\n'What I mean to say, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the\nface, 'is, that that isn't anything to anybody here.'\n\n'No more it is,' replied the Jew; 'Charley will talk.  Don't mind him,\nmy dear; don't mind him.  Betsy's a fine girl.  Do as she bids you,\nTom, and you will make your fortune.'\n\n'So I _do_ do as she bids me,' replied Mr. Chitling; 'I shouldn't have\nbeen milled, if it hadn't been for her advice.  But it turned out a\ngood job for you; didn't it, Fagin!  And what's six weeks of it?  It\nmust come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when\nyou don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?'\n\n'Ah, to be sure, my dear,' replied the Jew.\n\n'You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you,' asked the Dodger, winking\nupon Charley and the Jew, 'if Bet was all right?'\n\n'I mean to say that I shouldn't,' replied Tom, angrily. 'There, now.\nAh!  Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?'\n\n'Nobody, my dear,' replied the Jew; 'not a soul, Tom.  I don't know one\nof 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear.'\n\n'I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?'\nangrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe.  'A word from me would have\ndone it; wouldn't it, Fagin?'\n\n'To be sure it would, my dear,' replied the Jew.\n\n'But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?' demanded Tom, pouring question\nupon question with great volubility.\n\n'No, no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you were too stout-hearted for\nthat.  A deal too stout, my dear!'\n\n'Perhaps I was,' rejoined Tom, looking round; 'and if I was, what's to\nlaugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?'\n\nThe Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened\nto assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the\ncompany, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender.  But,\nunfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never\nmore serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a\nviolent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary\nceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender;\nwho, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose\nhis time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old\ngentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood\npanting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.\n\n'Hark!' cried the Dodger at this moment, 'I heard the tinkler.'\nCatching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.\n\nThe bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in\ndarkness.  After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered\nFagin mysteriously.\n\n'What!' cried the Jew, 'alone?'\n\nThe Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the\ncandle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb\nshow, that he had better not be funny just then.  Having performed this\nfriendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his\ndirections.\n\nThe old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his\nface working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and\nfeared to know the worst.  At length he raised his head.\n\n'Where is he?' he asked.\n\nThe Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to\nleave the room.\n\n'Yes,' said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; 'bring him down. Hush!\nQuiet, Charley!  Gently, Tom!  Scarce, scarce!'\n\nThis brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was\nsoftly and immediately obeyed.  There was no sound of their whereabout,\nwhen the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand,\nand followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a\nhurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had\nconcealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard,\nunwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.\n\n'How are you, Faguey?' said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. 'Pop that\nshawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it\nwhen I cut; that's the time of day!  You'll be a fine young cracksman\nafore the old file now.'\n\nWith these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round\nhis middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.\n\n'See there, Faguey,' he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots;\n'not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of\nblacking, by Jove!   But don't look at me in that way, man.  All in\ngood time.  I can't talk about business till I've eat and drank; so\nproduce the sustainance, and let's have a quiet fill-out for the first\ntime these three days!'\n\nThe Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon\nthe table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his\nleisure.\n\nTo judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the\nconversation.  At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently\nwatching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue\nto the intelligence he brought; but in vain.\n\nHe looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon\nhis features that they always wore:  and through dirt, and beard, and\nwhisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of\nflash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched\nevery morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room,\nmeanwhile, in irrepressible excitement.  It was all of no use.  Toby\ncontinued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could\neat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a\nglass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.\n\n'First and foremost, Faguey,' said Toby.\n\n'Yes, yes!' interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.\n\nMr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to\ndeclare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the\nlow mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his\neye, he quietly resumed.\n\n'First and foremost, Faguey,' said the housebreaker, 'how's Bill?'\n\n'What!' screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.\n\n'Why, you don't mean to say--' began Toby, turning pale.\n\n'Mean!' cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. 'Where are\nthey?  Sikes and the boy!  Where are they?  Where have they been?\nWhere are they hiding?  Why have they not been here?'\n\n'The crack failed,' said Toby faintly.\n\n'I know it,' replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and\npointing to it.  'What more?'\n\n'They fired and hit the boy.  We cut over the fields at the back, with\nhim between us--straight as the crow flies--through hedge and ditch.\nThey gave chase.  Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon\nus.'\n\n'The boy!'\n\n'Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind.  We stopped to\ntake him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were\nclose upon our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows!\nWe parted company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch.  Alive or\ndead, that's all I know about him.'\n\nThe Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining\nhis hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVI\n\nIN WHICH A MYSTERIOUS CHARACTER APPEARS UPON THE SCENE; AND MANY\nTHINGS, INSEPARABLE FROM THIS HISTORY, ARE DONE AND PERFORMED\n\nThe old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover\nthe effect of Toby Crackit's intelligence.  He had relaxed nothing of\nhis unusual speed; but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and\ndisordered manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage: and a\nboisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his danger:  drove him\nback upon the pavement.  Avoiding, as much as was possible, all the\nmain streets, and skulking only through the by-ways and alleys, he at\nlength emerged on Snow Hill.  Here he walked even faster than before;\nnor did he linger until he had again turned into a court; when, as if\nconscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into his usual\nshuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.\n\nNear to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon\nthe right hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley,\nleading to Saffron Hill.  In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge\nbunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns;\nfor here reside the traders who purchase them from pick-pockets.\nHundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the\nwindows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the shelves, within, are\npiled with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its\nbarber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse.\nIt is a commercial colony of itself:  the emporium of petty larceny:\nvisited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants,\nwho traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they\ncome.  Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant,\ndisplay their goods, as sign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of\nold iron and bones, and heaps of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and\nlinen, rust and rot in the grimy cellars.\n\nIt was into this place that the Jew turned.  He was well known to the\nsallow denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out\nto buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to\ntheir salutations in the same way; but bestowed no closer recognition\nuntil he reached the further end of the alley; when he stopped, to\naddress a salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as much of his\nperson into a child's chair as the chair would hold, and was smoking a\npipe at his warehouse door.\n\n'Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!' said this\nrespectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew's inquiry after his\nhealth.\n\n'The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,' said Fagin, elevating\nhis eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.\n\n'Well, I've heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,' replied\nthe trader; 'but it soon cools down again; don't you find it so?'\n\nFagin nodded in the affirmative.  Pointing in the direction of Saffron\nHill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder to-night.\n\n'At the Cripples?' inquired the man.\n\nThe Jew nodded.\n\n'Let me see,' pursued the merchant, reflecting.\n\n'Yes, there's some half-dozen of 'em gone in, that I knows. I don't\nthink your friend's there.'\n\n'Sikes is not, I suppose?' inquired the Jew, with a disappointed\ncountenance.\n\n'_Non istwentus_, as the lawyers say,' replied the little man, shaking\nhis head, and looking amazingly sly.  'Have you got anything in my line\nto-night?'\n\n'Nothing to-night,' said the Jew, turning away.\n\n'Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?' cried the little man,\ncalling after him.  'Stop!  I don't mind if I have a drop there with\nyou!'\n\nBut as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he\npreferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very\neasily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was,\nfor a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively's presence.  By the\ntime he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively,\nafter ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight\nof him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a\nshake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and\nmistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.\n\nThe Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which\nthe establishment was familiarly known to its patrons:  was the\npublic-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured.\nMerely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight\nupstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating\nhimself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with\nhis hand, as if in search of some particular person.\n\nThe room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was\nprevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded\nred, from being visible outside.  The ceiling was blackened, to prevent\nits colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the\nplace was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely\npossible to discern anything more.  By degrees, however, as some of it\ncleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused\nas the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye\ngrew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware\nof the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a\nlong table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of\noffice in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose,\nand his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a\njingling piano in a remote corner.\n\nAs Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over\nthe keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a\nsong; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the\ncompany with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the\naccompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could.  When\nthis was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the\nprofessional gentleman on the chairman's right and left volunteered a\nduet, and sang it, with great applause.\n\nIt was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from\namong the group.  There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the\nhouse,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were\nproceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give\nhimself up to joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and\nan ear for everything that was said--and sharp ones, too.  Near him\nwere the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the\ncompliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a\ndozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more\nboisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every\nvice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by\ntheir very repulsiveness.  Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its\nstages, were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the\nlast lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you\nlooked:  others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten\nout, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime;\nsome mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of\nlife; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture.\n\nFagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face\nwhile these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without\nmeeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in\ncatching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him\nslightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it.\n\n'What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?' inquired the man, as he followed\nhim out to the landing.  'Won't you join us?  They'll be delighted,\nevery one of 'em.'\n\nThe Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, 'Is _he_\nhere?'\n\n'No,' replied the man.\n\n'And no news of Barney?' inquired Fagin.\n\n'None,' replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. 'He won't\nstir till it's all safe.  Depend on it, they're on the scent down\nthere; and that if he moved, he'd blow upon the thing at once.  He's\nall right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him.  I'll\npound it, that Barney's managing properly. Let him alone for that.'\n\n'Will _he_ be here to-night?' asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis\non the pronoun as before.\n\n'Monks, do you mean?' inquired the landlord, hesitating.\n\n'Hush!' said the Jew.  'Yes.'\n\n'Certain,' replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; 'I\nexpected him here before now.  If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be--'\n\n'No, no,' said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might\nbe to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his\nabsence.  'Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me\nto-night.  No, say to-morrow.  As he is not here, to-morrow will be\ntime enough.'\n\n'Good!' said the man.  'Nothing more?'\n\n'Not a word now,' said the Jew, descending the stairs.\n\n'I say,' said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a\nhoarse whisper; 'what a time this would be for a sell!  I've got Phil\nBarker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!'\n\n'Ah!  But it's not Phil Barker's time,' said the Jew, looking up.\n\n'Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him;\nso go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry\nlives--_while they last_.  Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nThe landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh; and returned to his\nguests.  The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its\nformer expression of anxiety and thought.  After a brief reflection, he\ncalled a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green.\nHe dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's\nresidence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot.\n\n'Now,' muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, 'if there is any\ndeep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you\nare.'\n\nShe was in her room, the woman said.  Fagin crept softly upstairs, and\nentered it without any previous ceremony.  The girl was alone; lying\nwith her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it.\n\n'She has been drinking,' thought the Jew, cooly, 'or perhaps she is\nonly miserable.'\n\nThe old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the\nnoise thus occasioned, roused the girl.  She eyed his crafty face\nnarrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story.  When\nit was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a\nword.  She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she\nfeverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but\nthis was all.\n\nDuring the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to\nassure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly\nreturned.  Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice\nor thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the\ngirl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone.  At length\nhe made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his\nmost conciliatory tone,\n\n'And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?'\n\nThe girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not\ntell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be\ncrying.\n\n'And the boy, too,' said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse\nof her face.  'Poor leetle child!  Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!'\n\n'The child,' said the girl, suddenly looking up, 'is better where he\nis, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies\ndead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there.'\n\n'What!' cried the Jew, in amazement.\n\n'Ay, I do,' returned the girl, meeting his gaze.  'I shall be glad to\nhave him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over.  I\ncan't bear to have him about me.  The sight of him turns me against\nmyself, and all of you.'\n\n'Pooh!' said the Jew, scornfully.  'You're drunk.'\n\n'Am I?' cried the girl bitterly.  'It's no fault of yours, if I am not!\nYou'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except\nnow;--the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?'\n\n'No!' rejoined the Jew, furiously.  'It does not.'\n\n'Change it, then!' responded the girl, with a laugh.\n\n'Change it!' exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his\ncompanion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, 'I\n_will_ change it!  Listen to me, you drab.  Listen to me, who with six\nwords, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat\nbetween my fingers now.  If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind\nhim; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to\nme; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch.  And\ndo it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too\nlate!'\n\n'What is all this?' cried the girl involuntarily.\n\n'What is it?' pursued Fagin, mad with rage.  'When the boy's worth\nhundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way\nof getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could\nwhistle away the lives of!  And me bound, too, to a born devil that\nonly wants the will, and has the power to, to--'\n\nPanting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that\ninstant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole\ndemeanour.  A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air;\nhis eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now,\nhe shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the\napprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy.  After a\nshort silence, he ventured to look round at his companion.  He appeared\nsomewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from\nwhich he had first roused her.\n\n'Nancy, dear!' croaked the Jew, in his usual voice.  'Did you mind me,\ndear?'\n\n'Don't worry me now, Fagin!' replied the girl, raising her head\nlanguidly.  'If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has\ndone many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and\nwhen he can't he won't; so no more about that.'\n\n'Regarding this boy, my dear?' said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his\nhands nervously together.\n\n'The boy must take his chance with the rest,' interrupted Nancy,\nhastily; 'and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way,\nand out of yours,--that is, if Bill comes to no harm.  And if Toby got\nclear off, Bill's pretty sure to be safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby\nany time.'\n\n'And about what I was saying, my dear?' observed the Jew, keeping his\nglistening eye steadily upon her.\n\n'Your must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do,'\nrejoined Nancy; 'and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow.  You\nput me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again.'\n\nFagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of\nascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but,\nshe answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his\nsearching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a\ntrifle in liquor, was confirmed.  Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a\nfailing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils; and in\nwhich, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than\nchecked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva\nwhich pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of\nthe justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the\ntemporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into\ndullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the\ninfluence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave\nutterance to various exclamations of 'Never say die!' and divers\ncalculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a\nlady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable\nexperience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction,\nthat she was very far gone indeed.\n\nHaving eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his\ntwofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard,\nand of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned,\nMr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend\nasleep, with her head upon the table.\n\nIt was within an hour of midnight.  The weather being dark, and\npiercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter.  The sharp wind\nthat scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as\nof dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all\nappearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the\nJew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering,\nas every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.\n\nHe had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling\nin his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a\nprojecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road,\nglided up to him unperceived.\n\n'Fagin!' whispered a voice close to his ear.\n\n'Ah!' said the Jew, turning quickly round, 'is that--'\n\n'Yes!' interrupted the stranger.  'I have been lingering here these two\nhours.  Where the devil have you been?'\n\n'On your business, my dear,' replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his\ncompanion, and slackening his pace as he spoke.  'On your business all\nnight.'\n\n'Oh, of course!' said the stranger, with a sneer.  'Well; and what's\ncome of it?'\n\n'Nothing good,' said the Jew.\n\n'Nothing bad, I hope?' said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a\nstartled look on his companion.\n\nThe Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger,\ninterrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this\ntime arrived:  remarking, that he had better say what he had got to\nsay, under cover:  for his blood was chilled with standing about so\nlong, and the wind blew through him.\n\nFagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking\nhome a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered\nsomething about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request\nin a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to\nclose it softly, while he got a light.\n\n'It's as dark as the grave,' said the man, groping forward a few steps.\n'Make haste!'\n\n'Shut the door,' whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he\nspoke, it closed with a loud noise.\n\n'That wasn't my doing,' said the other man, feeling his way. 'The wind\nblew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp\nwith the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in\nthis confounded hole.'\n\nFagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs.  After a short absence,\nhe returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby\nCrackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in\nthe front one.  Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way\nupstairs.\n\n'We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear,' said the\nJew, throwing open a door on the first floor; 'and as there are holes\nin the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set\nthe candle on the stairs.  There!'\n\nWith those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper\nflight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door.  This done, he led\nthe way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a\nbroken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which\nstood behind the door.  Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat\nhimself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the\narm-chair opposite, they sat face to face.  It was not quite dark; the\ndoor was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble\nreflection on the opposite wall.\n\nThey conversed for some time in whispers.  Though nothing of the\nconversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and\nthere, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be\ndefending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the\nlatter was in a state of considerable irritation.  They might have been\ntalking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks--by which\nname the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course\nof their colloquy--said, raising his voice a little,\n\n'I tell you again, it was badly planned.  Why not have kept him here\namong the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at\nonce?'\n\n'Only hear him!' exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.\n\n'Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?'\ndemanded Monks, sternly.  'Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores\nof times?  If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't\nyou have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps\nfor life?'\n\n'Whose turn would that have served, my dear?' inquired the Jew humbly.\n\n'Mine,' replied Monks.\n\n'But not mine,' said the Jew, submissively.  'He might have become of\nuse to me.  When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only\nreasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my\ngood friend?'\n\n'What then?' demanded Monks.\n\n'I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,' replied the Jew;\n'he was not like other boys in the same circumstances.'\n\n'Curse him, no!' muttered the man, 'or he would have been a thief, long\nago.'\n\n'I had no hold upon him to make him worse,' pursued the Jew, anxiously\nwatching the countenance of his companion.  'His hand was not in.  I\nhad nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the\nbeginning, or we labour in vain.  What could I do?  Send him out with\nthe Dodger and Charley?  We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I\ntrembled for us all.'\n\n'_That_ was not my doing,' observed Monks.\n\n'No, no, my dear!' renewed the Jew.  'And I don't quarrel with it now;\nbecause, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on\nthe boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you\nwere looking for.  Well!  I got him back for you by means of the girl;\nand then _she_ begins to favour him.'\n\n'Throttle the girl!' said Monks, impatiently.\n\n'Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear,' replied the Jew,\nsmiling; 'and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one\nof these days, I might be glad to have it done.  I know what these\ngirls are, Monks, well.  As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll\ncare no more for him, than for a block of wood.  You want him made a\nthief.  If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and,\nif--if--' said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,--'it's not likely,\nmind,--but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead--'\n\n'It's no fault of mine if he is!' interposed the other man, with a look\nof terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands.  'Mind\nthat.  Fagin!  I had no hand in it.  Anything but his death, I told you\nfrom the first.  I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts\na man besides.  If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear\nme?  Fire this infernal den!  What's that?'\n\n'What!' cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both\narms, as he sprung to his feet.  'Where?'\n\n'Yonder! replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall.  'The shadow!\nI saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the\nwainscot like a breath!'\n\nThe Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room.\nThe candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been\nplaced.  It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white\nfaces.  They listened intently:  a profound silence reigned throughout\nthe house.\n\n'It's your fancy,' said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his\ncompanion.\n\n'I'll swear I saw it!' replied Monks, trembling.  'It was bending\nforward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.'\n\nThe Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and,\ntelling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs.  They\nlooked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty.  They\ndescended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below.  The\ngreen damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug\nglistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.\n\n'What do you think now?' said the Jew, when they had regained the\npassage.  'Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house\nexcept Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!'\n\nAs a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket;\nand explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them\nin, to prevent any intrusion on the conference.\n\nThis accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His\nprotestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they\nproceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he\ngave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have\nbeen his excited imagination.  He declined any renewal of the\nconversation, however, for that night:  suddenly remembering that it\nwas past one o'clock.  And so the amiable couple parted.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVII\n\nATONES FOR THE UNPOLITENESS OF A FORMER CHAPTER; WHICH DESERTED A LADY,\nMOST UNCEREMONIOUSLY\n\nAs it would be, by no means, seemly in a humble author to keep so\nmighty a personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and\nthe skirts of his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as\nit might suit his pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less\nbecome his station, or his gallantry to involve in the same neglect a\nlady on whom that beadle had looked with an eye of tenderness and\naffection, and in whose ear he had whispered sweet words, which, coming\nfrom such a quarter, might well thrill the bosom of maid or matron of\nwhatsoever degree; the historian whose pen traces these words--trusting\nthat he knows his place, and that he entertains a becoming reverence\nfor those upon earth to whom high and important authority is\ndelegated--hastens to pay them that respect which their position\ndemands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony which their\nexalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively claim at\nhis hands.  Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, in\nthis place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and\nelucidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong:  which\ncould not fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the\nright-minded reader but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of\ntime and space, to postpone to some more convenient and fitting\nopportunity; on the arrival of which, he will be prepared to show, that\na beadle properly constituted:  that is to say, a parochial beadle,\nattached to a parochial workhouse, and attending in his official\ncapacity the parochial church:  is, in right and virtue of his office,\npossessed of all the excellences and best qualities of humanity; and\nthat to none of those excellences, can mere companies' beadles, or\ncourt-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the last,\nand they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest\nsustainable claim.\n\nMr. Bumble had re-counted the teaspoons, re-weighed the sugar-tongs,\nmade a closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety\nthe exact condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats\nof the chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times;\nbefore he began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return.\nThinking begets thinking; as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney's\napproach, it occured to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and\nvirtuous way of spending the time, if he were further to allay his\ncuriousity by a cursory glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney's chest\nof drawers.\n\nHaving listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was\napproaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble, beginning at the bottom, proceeded\nto make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers:\nwhich, being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture,\ncarefully preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with\ndried lavender: seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction.  Arriving,\nin course of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was the\nkey), and beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken,\ngave forth a pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble\nreturned with a stately walk to the fireplace; and, resuming his old\nattitude, said, with a grave and determined air, 'I'll do it!' He\nfollowed up this remarkable declaration, by shaking his head in a\nwaggish manner for ten minutes, as though he were remonstrating with\nhimself for being such a pleasant dog; and then, he took a view of his\nlegs in profile, with much seeming pleasure and interest.\n\nHe was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney,\nhurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a\nchair by the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the\nother over her heart, and gasped for breath.\n\n'Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, 'what is\nthis, ma'am?  Has anything happened, ma'am?  Pray answer me: I'm\non--on--' Mr. Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the\nword 'tenterhooks,' so he said 'broken bottles.'\n\n'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' cried the lady, 'I have been so dreadfully put out!'\n\n'Put out, ma'am!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble; 'who has dared to--?  I know!'\nsaid Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, 'this is them\nwicious paupers!'\n\n'It's dreadful to think of!' said the lady, shuddering.\n\n'Then _don't_ think of it, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.\n\n'I can't help it,' whimpered the lady.\n\n'Then take something, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble soothingly.  'A little of\nthe wine?'\n\n'Not for the world!' replied Mrs. Corney.  'I couldn't,--oh!  The top\nshelf in the right-hand corner--oh!'  Uttering these words, the good\nlady pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion\nfrom internal spasms.  Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching\na pint green-glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated,\nfilled a tea-cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips.\n\n'I'm better now,' said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half\nof it.\n\nMr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and,\nbringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.\n\n'Peppermint,' exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently\non the beadle as she spoke.  'Try it!  There's a little--a little\nsomething else in it.'\n\nMr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips;\ntook another taste; and put the cup down empty.\n\n'It's very comforting,' said Mrs. Corney.\n\n'Very much so indeed, ma'am,' said the beadle.  As he spoke, he drew a\nchair beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to\ndistress her.\n\n'Nothing,' replied Mrs. Corney.  'I am a foolish, excitable, weak\ncreetur.'\n\n'Not weak, ma'am,' retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little\ncloser.  'Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?'\n\n'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general\nprinciple.\n\n'So we are,' said the beadle.\n\nNothing was said on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the\nexpiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by\nremoving his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it\nhad previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron-string, round which it\ngradually became entwined.\n\n'We are all weak creeturs,' said Mr. Bumble.\n\nMrs. Corney sighed.\n\n'Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney,' said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'I can't help it,' said Mrs. Corney.  And she sighed again.\n\n'This is a very comfortable room, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble looking\nround.  'Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing.'\n\n'It would be too much for one,' murmured the lady.\n\n'But not for two, ma'am,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. 'Eh,\nMrs. Corney?'\n\nMrs. Corney drooped her head, when the beadle said this; the beadle\ndrooped his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face.  Mrs. Corney, with\ngreat propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at\nher pocket-handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr.\nBumble.\n\n'The board allows you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?' inquired the\nbeadle, affectionately pressing her hand.\n\n'And candles,' replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.\n\n'Coals, candles, and house-rent free,' said Mr. Bumble.  'Oh, Mrs.\nCorney, what an Angel you are!'\n\nThe lady was not proof against this burst of feeling.  She sank into\nMr. Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a\npassionate kiss upon her chaste nose.\n\n'Such porochial perfection!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, rapturously. 'You\nknow that Mr. Slout is worse to-night, my fascinator?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Mrs. Corney, bashfully.\n\n'He can't live a week, the doctor says,' pursued Mr. Bumble. 'He is the\nmaster of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that\nwacancy must be filled up.  Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this\nopens!  What a opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!'\n\nMrs. Corney sobbed.\n\n'The little word?' said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty.\n'The one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?'\n\n'Ye--ye--yes!' sighed out the matron.\n\n'One more,' pursued the beadle; 'compose your darling feelings for only\none more.  When is it to come off?'\n\nMrs. Corney twice essayed to speak:  and twice failed.  At length\nsummoning up courage, she threw her arms around Mr. Bumble's neck, and\nsaid, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that he was 'a\nirresistible duck.'\n\nMatters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract\nwas solemnly ratified in another teacupful of the peppermint mixture;\nwhich was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of\nthe lady's spirits.  While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr.\nBumble with the old woman's decease.\n\n'Very good,' said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; 'I'll call at\nSowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send to-morrow morning.  Was\nit that as frightened you, love?'\n\n'It wasn't anything particular, dear,' said the lady evasively.\n\n'It must have been something, love,' urged Mr. Bumble. 'Won't you tell\nyour own B.?'\n\n'Not now,' rejoined the lady; 'one of these days.  After we're married,\ndear.'\n\n'After we're married!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble.  'It wasn't any impudence\nfrom any of them male paupers as--'\n\n'No, no, love!' interposed the lady, hastily.\n\n'If I thought it was,' continued Mr. Bumble; 'if I thought as any one\nof 'em had dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance--'\n\n'They wouldn't have dared to do it, love,' responded the lady.\n\n'They had better not!' said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. 'Let me see\nany man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I\ncan tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!'\n\nUnembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed\nno very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble\naccompanied the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched\nwith this proof of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration,\nthat he was indeed a dove.\n\nThe dove then turned up his coat-collar, and put on his cocked hat;\nand, having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future\npartner, once again braved the cold wind of the night: merely pausing,\nfor a few minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little,\nwith the view of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of\nworkhouse-master with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications,\nMr. Bumble left the building with a light heart, and bright visions of\nhis future promotion:  which served to occupy his mind until he reached\nthe shop of the undertaker.\n\nNow, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper: and\nNoah Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a\ngreater amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient\nperformance of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was\nnot closed, although it was past the usual hour of shutting-up.  Mr.\nBumble tapped with his cane on the counter several times; but,\nattracting no attention, and beholding a light shining through the\nglass-window of the little parlour at the back of the shop, he made\nbold to peep in and see what was going forward; and when he saw what\nwas going forward, he was not a little surprised.\n\nThe cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread and\nbutter, plates and glasses; a porter-pot and a wine-bottle. At the\nupper end of the table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an\neasy-chair, with his legs thrown over one of the arms: an open\nclasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of buttered bread in the other.\nClose beside him stood Charlotte, opening oysters from a barrel: which\nMr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with remarkable avidity.  A more\nthan ordinary redness in the region of the young gentleman's nose, and\na kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was in a slight\ndegree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the intense relish\nwith which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a strong\nappreciation of their cooling properties, in cases of internal fever,\ncould have sufficiently accounted.\n\n'Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!' said Charlotte; 'try him, do;\nonly this one.'\n\n'What a delicious thing is a oyster!' remarked Mr. Claypole, after he\nhad swallowed it.  'What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make\nyou feel uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?'\n\n'It's quite a cruelty,' said Charlotte.\n\n'So it is,' acquiesced Mr. Claypole. 'An't yer fond of oysters?'\n\n'Not overmuch,' replied Charlotte.  'I like to see you eat 'em, Noah\ndear, better than eating 'em myself.'\n\n'Lor!' said Noah, reflectively; 'how queer!'\n\n'Have another,' said Charlotte.  'Here's one with such a beautiful,\ndelicate beard!'\n\n'I can't manage any more,' said Noah.  'I'm very sorry.  Come here,\nCharlotte, and I'll kiss yer.'\n\n'What!' said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room.  'Say that again, sir.'\n\nCharlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron.  Mr.\nClaypole, without making any further change in his position than\nsuffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken\nterror.\n\n'Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!' said Mr. Bumble. 'How dare\nyou mention such a thing, sir?  And how dare you encourage him, you\ninsolent minx?  Kiss her!' exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation.\n'Faugh!'\n\n'I didn't mean to do it!' said Noah, blubbering.  'She's always\na-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.'\n\n'Oh, Noah,' cried Charlotte, reproachfully.\n\n'Yer are; yer know yer are!' retorted Noah.  'She's always a-doin' of\nit, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and\nmakes all manner of love!'\n\n'Silence!' cried Mr. Bumble, sternly.  'Take yourself downstairs,\nma'am.  Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master\ncomes home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that\nMr. Bumble said he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast\nto-morrow morning.  Do you hear sir?  Kissing!' cried Mr. Bumble,\nholding up his hands.  'The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in\nthis porochial district is frightful!  If Parliament don't take their\nabominable courses under consideration, this country's ruined, and the\ncharacter of the peasantry gone for ever!'  With these words, the\nbeadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker's\npremises.\n\nAnd now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have\nmade all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set\non foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether\nhe be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXVIII\n\nLOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES\n\n'Wolves tear your throats!' muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. 'I wish\nI was among some of you; you'd howl the hoarser for it.'\n\nAs Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate\nferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body\nof the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an\ninstant, to look back at his pursuers.\n\nThere was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud\nshouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the\nneighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in\nevery direction.\n\n'Stop, you white-livered hound!' cried the robber, shouting after Toby\nCrackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead.\n'Stop!'\n\nThe repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he\nwas not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot;\nand Sikes was in no mood to be played with.\n\n'Bear a hand with the boy,' cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his\nconfederate.  'Come back!'\n\nToby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for\nwant of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly\nalong.\n\n'Quicker!' cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and\ndrawing a pistol from his pocket.  'Don't play booty with me.'\n\nAt this moment the noise grew louder.  Sikes, again looking round,\ncould discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing\nthe gate of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were\nsome paces in advance of them.\n\n'It's all up, Bill!' cried Toby; 'drop the kid, and show 'em your\nheels.'  With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance\nof being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his\nenemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed.  Sikes\nclenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form\nof Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along\nthe front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those\nbehind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before\nanother hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol\nhigh into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.\n\n'Ho, ho, there!' cried a tremulous voice in the rear. 'Pincher!\nNeptune!  Come here, come here!'\n\nThe dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no\nparticular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily\nanswered to the command.  Three men, who had by this time advanced some\ndistance into the field, stopped to take counsel together.\n\n'My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my _orders_, is,' said the\nfattest man of the party, 'that we 'mediately go home again.'\n\n'I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,' said a\nshorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very\npale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.\n\n'I shouldn't wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,' said the third,\nwho had called the dogs back, 'Mr. Giles ought to know.'\n\n'Certainly,' replied the shorter man; 'and whatever Mr. Giles says, it\nisn't our place to contradict him.  No, no, I know my sitiwation!\nThank my stars, I know my sitiwation.'  To tell the truth, the little\nman _did_ seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that\nit was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head\nas he spoke.\n\n'You are afraid, Brittles,' said Mr. Giles.\n\n'I an't,' said Brittles.\n\n'You are,' said Giles.\n\n'You're a falsehood, Mr. Giles,' said Brittles.\n\n'You're a lie, Brittles,' said Mr. Giles.\n\nNow, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles's taunt; and Mr. Giles's\ntaunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of\ngoing home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment.\nThe third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.\n\n'I'll tell you what it is, gentlemen,' said he, 'we're all afraid.'\n\n'Speak for yourself, sir,' said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the\nparty.\n\n'So I do,' replied the man.  'It's natural and proper to be afraid,\nunder such circumstances.  I am.'\n\n'So am I,' said Brittles; 'only there's no call to tell a man he is, so\nbounceably.'\n\nThese frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that _he_\nwas afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again\nwith the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest\nwind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely\ninsisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.\n\n'But it's wonderful,' said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, 'what a\nman will do, when his blood is up.  I should have committed murder--I\nknow I should--if we'd caught one of them rascals.'\n\nAs the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as\ntheir blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued\nupon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.\n\n'I know what it was,' said Mr. Giles; 'it was the gate.'\n\n'I shouldn't wonder if it was,' exclaimed Brittles, catching at the\nidea.\n\n'You may depend upon it,' said Giles, 'that that gate stopped the flow\nof the excitement.  I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was\nclimbing over it.'\n\nBy a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the\nsame unpleasant sensation at that precise moment.  It was quite\nobvious, therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no\ndoubt regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because\nall three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the\ninstant of its occurance.\n\nThis dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the\nburglars, and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse,\nand who had been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in\nthe pursuit.  Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and\nsteward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work:\nwho, having entered her service a mere child, was treated as a\npromising young boy still, though he was something past thirty.\n\nEncouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very\nclose together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round,\nwhenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried\nback to a tree, behind which they had left their lantern, lest its\nlight should inform the thieves in what direction to fire.  Catching up\nthe light, they made the best of their way home, at a good round trot;\nand long after their dusky forms had ceased to be discernible, the\nlight might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the distance, like\nsome exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was\nswiftly borne.\n\nThe air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along\nthe ground like a dense cloud of smoke.  The grass was wet; the\npathways, and low places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of\nan unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning.  Still,\nOliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left\nhim.\n\nMorning drew on apace.  The air become more sharp and piercing, as its\nfirst dull hue--the death of night, rather than the birth of\nday--glimmered faintly in the sky.  The objects which had looked dim\nand terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually\nresolved into their familiar shapes.  The rain came down, thick and\nfast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes.  But, Oliver felt\nit not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched, helpless\nand unconscious, on his bed of clay.\n\nAt length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and\nuttering it, the boy awoke.  His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl,\nhung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with\nblood.  He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a\nsitting posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for help,\nand groaned with pain.  Trembling in every joint, from cold and\nexhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from\nhead to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.\n\nAfter a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long\nplunged, Oliver:  urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which\nseemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die:  got upon\nhis feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to\nand fro like a drunken man.  But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with\nhis head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he\nknew not whither.\n\nAnd now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his\nmind.  He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who\nwere angrily disputing--for the very words they said, sounded in his\nears; and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by making some\nviolent effort to save himself from falling, he found that he was\ntalking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the\nprevious day; and as shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber's\ngrasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of\nfirearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lights\ngleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand\nbore him hurriedly away.  Through all these rapid visions, there ran an\nundefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented\nhim incessantly.\n\nThus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars\nof gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he\nreached a road.  Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused\nhim.\n\nHe looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house,\nwhich perhaps he could reach.  Pitying his condition, they might have\ncompassion on him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought,\nto die near human beings, than in the lonely open fields.  He summoned\nup all his strength for one last trial, and bent his faltering steps\ntowards it.\n\nAs he drew nearer to this house, a feeling come over him that he had\nseen it before.  He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape\nand aspect of the building seemed familiar to him.\n\nThat garden wall!  On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last\nnight, and prayed the two men's mercy.  It was the very house they had\nattempted to rob.\n\nOliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that,\nfor the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of\nflight.  Flight!  He could scarcely stand:  and if he were in full\npossession of all the best powers of his slight and youthful frame,\nwhither could he fly?  He pushed against the garden-gate; it was\nunlocked, and swung open on its hinges.  He tottered across the lawn;\nclimbed the steps; knocked faintly at the door; and, his whole strength\nfailing him, sunk down against one of the pillars of the little portico.\n\nIt happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker,\nwere recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the\nnight, with tea and sundries, in the kitchen.  Not that it was Mr.\nGiles's habit to admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants:\ntowards whom it was rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty\naffability, which, while it gratified, could not fail to remind them of\nhis superior position in society.  But, death, fires, and burglary,\nmake all men equals; so Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out\nbefore the kitchen fender, leaning his left arm on the table, while,\nwith his right, he illustrated a circumstantial and minute account of\nthe robbery, to which his bearers (but especially the cook and\nhousemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless interest.\n\n'It was about half-past two,' said Mr. Giles, 'or I wouldn't swear that\nit mightn't have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and,\nturning round in my bed, as it might be so, (here Mr. Giles turned\nround in his chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him\nto imitate bed-clothes,) I fancied I heerd a noise.'\n\nAt this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the\nhousemaid to shut the door: who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker,\nwho pretended not to hear.\n\n'--Heerd a noise,' continued Mr. Giles.  'I says, at first, \"This is\nillusion\"; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the\nnoise again, distinct.'\n\n'What sort of a noise?' asked the cook.\n\n'A kind of a busting noise,' replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.\n\n'More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater,'\nsuggested Brittles.\n\n'It was, when _you_ heerd it, sir,' rejoined Mr. Giles; 'but, at this\ntime, it had a busting sound.  I turned down the clothes'; continued\nGiles, rolling back the table-cloth, 'sat up in bed; and listened.'\n\nThe cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated 'Lor!' and drew their\nchairs closer together.\n\n'I heerd it now, quite apparent,' resumed Mr. Giles. '\"Somebody,\" I\nsays, \"is forcing of a door, or window; what's to be done? I'll call up\nthat poor lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed;\nor his throat,\" I says, \"may be cut from his right ear to his left,\nwithout his ever knowing it.\"'\n\nHere, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the\nspeaker, and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face\nexpressive of the most unmitigated horror.\n\n'I tossed off the clothes,' said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth,\nand looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, 'got softly out of\nbed; drew on a pair of--'\n\n'Ladies present, Mr. Giles,' murmured the tinker.\n\n'--Of _shoes_, sir,' said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great\nemphasis on the word; 'seized the loaded pistol that always goes\nupstairs with the plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room.\n\"Brittles,\" I says, when I had woke him, \"don't be frightened!\"'\n\n'So you did,' observed Brittles, in a low voice.\n\n'\"We're dead men, I think, Brittles,\" I says,' continued Giles; '\"but\ndon't be frightened.\"'\n\n'_Was_ he frightened?' asked the cook.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' replied Mr. Giles.  'He was as firm--ah! pretty near\nas firm as I was.'\n\n'I should have died at once, I'm sure, if it had been me,' observed the\nhousemaid.\n\n'You're a woman,' retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.\n\n'Brittles is right,' said Mr. Giles, nodding his head, approvingly;\n'from a woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a\ndark lantern that was standing on Brittle's hob, and groped our way\ndownstairs in the pitch dark,--as it might be so.'\n\nMr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes\nshut, to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he\nstarted violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried\nback to his chair.  The cook and housemaid screamed.\n\n'It was a knock,' said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. 'Open the\ndoor, somebody.'\n\nNobody moved.\n\n'It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in\nthe morning,' said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded\nhim, and looking very blank himself; 'but the door must be opened.  Do\nyou hear, somebody?'\n\nMr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being\nnaturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that\nthe inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he\ntendered no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the\ntinker; but he had suddenly fallen asleep.  The women were out of the\nquestion.\n\n'If Brittles would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses,'\nsaid Mr. Giles, after a short silence, 'I am ready to make one.'\n\n'So am I,' said the tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen\nasleep.\n\nBrittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat\nre-assured by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that\nit was now broad day, took their way upstairs; with the dogs in front.\nThe two women, who were afraid to stay below, brought up the rear.  By\nthe advice of Mr. Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any\nevil-disposed person outside, that they were strong in numbers; and by\na master-stoke of policy, originating in the brain of the same\ningenious gentleman, the dogs' tails were well pinched, in the hall, to\nmake them bark savagely.\n\nThese precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the\ntinker's arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and\ngave the word of command to open the door.  Brittles obeyed; the group,\npeeping timorously over each other's shoulders, beheld no more\nformidable object than poor little Oliver Twist, speechless and\nexhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, and mutely solicited their\ncompassion.\n\n'A boy!' exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly, pushing the tinker into the\nbackground.  'What's the matter with the--eh?--Why--Brittles--look\nhere--don't you know?'\n\nBrittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver,\nthan he uttered a loud cry.  Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and\none arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the\nhall, and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.\n\n'Here he is!' bawled Giles, calling in a state of great excitement, up\nthe staircase; 'here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss!\nWounded, miss!  I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light.'\n\n'--In a lantern, miss,' cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side\nof his mouth, so that his voice might travel the better.\n\nThe two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr.\nGiles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in\nendeavouring to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be\nhanged.  In the midst of all this noise and commotion, there was heard\na sweet female voice, which quelled it in an instant.\n\n'Giles!' whispered the voice from the stair-head.\n\n'I'm here, miss,' replied Mr. Giles.  'Don't be frightened, miss; I\nain't much injured.  He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss!\nI was soon too many for him.'\n\n'Hush!' replied the young lady; 'you frighten my aunt as much as the\nthieves did.  Is the poor creature much hurt?'\n\n'Wounded desperate, miss,' replied Giles, with indescribable\ncomplacency.\n\n'He looks as if he was a-going, miss,' bawled Brittles, in the same\nmanner as before.  'Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in\ncase he should?'\n\n'Hush, pray; there's a good man!' rejoined the lady.  'Wait quietly\nonly one instant, while I speak to aunt.'\n\nWith a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped\naway.  She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person\nwas to be carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles's room; and that\nBrittles was to saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to\nChertsey:  from which place, he was to despatch, with all speed, a\nconstable and doctor.\n\n'But won't you take one look at him, first, miss?' asked Mr. Giles,\nwith as much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he\nhad skilfully brought down.  'Not one little peep, miss?'\n\n'Not now, for the world,' replied the young lady.  'Poor fellow! Oh!\ntreat him kindly, Giles for my sake!'\n\nThe old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a\nglance as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child.  Then,\nbending over Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and\nsolicitude of a woman.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXIX\n\nHAS AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF THE INMATES OF THE HOUSE, TO WHICH\nOLIVER RESORTED\n\nIn a handsome room:  though its furniture had rather the air of\nold-fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance:  there sat two ladies\nat a well-spread breakfast-table.  Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous\ncare in a full suit of black, was in attendance upon them.  He had\ntaken his station some half-way between the side-board and the\nbreakfast-table; and, with his body drawn up to its full height, his\nhead thrown back, and inclined the merest trifle on one side, his left\nleg advanced, and his right hand thrust into his waist-coat, while his\nleft hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, looked like one who\nlaboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits and importance.\n\nOf the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed\noaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she.  Dressed\nwith the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of by-gone\ncostume, with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which\nrather served to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its\neffect, she sat, in a stately manner, with her hands folded on the\ntable before her.  Her eyes (and age had dimmed but little of their\nbrightness) were attentively upon her young companion.\n\nThe younger lady was in the lovely bloom and spring-time of womanhood;\nat that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned\nin mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in\nsuch as hers.\n\nShe was not past seventeen.  Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould;\nso mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her\nelement, nor its rough creatures her fit companions.  The very\nintelligence that shone in her deep blue eye, and was stamped upon her\nnoble head, seemed scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the\nchanging expression of sweetness and good humour, the thousand lights\nthat played about the face, and left no shadow there; above all, the\nsmile, the cheerful, happy smile, were made for Home, and fireside\npeace and happiness.\n\nShe was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to\nraise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put\nback her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into\nher beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless\nloveliness, that blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.\n\n'And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?' asked the old\nlady, after a pause.\n\n'An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am,' replied Mr. Giles, referring to a\nsilver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.\n\n'He is always slow,' remarked the old lady.\n\n'Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am,' replied the attendant. And\nseeing, by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of\nthirty years, there appeared no great probability of his ever being a\nfast one.\n\n'He gets worse instead of better, I think,' said the elder lady.\n\n'It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other\nboys,' said the young lady, smiling.\n\nMr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a\nrespectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden-gate: out\nof which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door:\nand who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process,\nburst into the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the\nbreakfast-table together.\n\n'I never heard of such a thing!' exclaimed the fat gentleman. 'My dear\nMrs. Maylie--bless my soul--in the silence of the night, too--I _never_\nheard of such a thing!'\n\nWith these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands\nwith both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found\nthemselves.\n\n'You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright,' said the fat\ngentleman.  'Why didn't you send?  Bless me, my man should have come in\na minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted;\nor anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances.  Dear, dear!  So\nunexpected!  In the silence of the night, too!'\n\nThe doctor seemed expecially troubled by the fact of the robbery having\nbeen unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the\nestablished custom of gentlemen in the housebreaking way to transact\nbusiness at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two\nprevious.\n\n'And you, Miss Rose,' said the doctor, turning to the young lady, 'I--'\n\n'Oh! very much so, indeed,' said Rose, interrupting him; 'but there is\na poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see.'\n\n'Ah! to be sure,' replied the doctor, 'so there is.  That was your\nhandiwork, Giles, I understand.'\n\nMr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights,\nblushed very red, and said that he had had that honour.\n\n'Honour, eh?' said the doctor; 'well, I don't know; perhaps it's as\nhonourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at\ntwelve paces.  Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a\nduel, Giles.'\n\nMr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust\nattempt at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully, that it was\nnot for the like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it\nwas no joke to the opposite party.\n\n'Gad, that's true!' said the doctor.  'Where is he?  Show me the way.\nI'll look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie.  That's the little\nwindow that he got in at, eh?  Well, I couldn't have believed it!'\n\nTalking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is\ngoing upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a\nsurgeon in the neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles\nround as 'the doctor,' had grown fat, more from good-humour than from\ngood living:  and was as kind and hearty, and withal as eccentric an\nold bachelor, as will be found in five times that space, by any\nexplorer alive.\n\nThe doctor was absent, much longer than either he or the ladies had\nanticipated.  A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a\nbedroom bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and down\nstairs perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that\nsomething important was going on above.  At length he returned; and in\nreply to an anxious inquiry after his patient; looked very mysterious,\nand closed the door, carefully.\n\n'This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie,' said the doctor,\nstanding with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.\n\n'He is not in danger, I hope?' said the old lady.\n\n'Why, that would _not_ be an extraordinary thing, under the\ncircumstances,' replied the doctor; 'though I don't think he is. Have\nyou seen the thief?'\n\n'No,' rejoined the old lady.\n\n'Nor heard anything about him?'\n\n'No.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, ma'am, interposed Mr. Giles; 'but I was going to\ntell you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.'\n\nThe fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his\nmind to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy.  Such commendations\nhad been bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of\nhim, help postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes;\nduring which he had flourished, in the very zenith of a brief\nreputation for undaunted courage.\n\n'Rose wished to see the man,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'but I wouldn't hear of\nit.'\n\n'Humph!' rejoined the doctor.  'There is nothing very alarming in his\nappearance.  Have you any objection to see him in my presence?'\n\n'If it be necessary,' replied the old lady, 'certainly not.'\n\n'Then I think it is necessary,' said the doctor; 'at all events, I am\nquite sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you\npostponed it.  He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow\nme--Miss Rose, will you permit me?  Not the slightest fear, I pledge\nyou my honour!'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXX\n\nRELATES WHAT OLIVER'S NEW VISITORS THOUGHT OF HIM\n\nWith many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised\nin the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady's arm\nthrough one of his; and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie,\nled them, with much ceremony and stateliness, upstairs.\n\n'Now,' said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of\na bedroom-door, 'let us hear what you think of him.  He has not been\nshaved very recently, but he don't look at all ferocious\nnotwithstanding.  Stop, though!  Let me first see that he is in\nvisiting order.'\n\nStepping before them, he looked into the room.  Motioning them to\nadvance, he closed the door when they had entered; and gently drew back\nthe curtains of the bed.  Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged\nruffian they had expected to behold, there lay a mere child:  worn with\npain and exhaustion, and sunk into a deep sleep.  His wounded arm,\nbound and splintered up, was crossed upon his breast; his head reclined\nupon the other arm, which was half hidden by his long hair, as it\nstreamed over the pillow.\n\nThe honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on, for a\nminute or so, in silence.  Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the\nyounger lady glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the\nbedside, gathered Oliver's hair from his face.  As she stooped over\nhim, her tears fell upon his forehead.\n\nThe boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity\nand compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection\nhe had never known.  Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of\nwater in a silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a\nfamiliar word, will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes\nthat never were, in this life; which vanish like a breath; which some\nbrief memory of a happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have\nawakened; which no voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall.\n\n'What can this mean?' exclaimed the elder lady.  'This poor child can\nnever have been the pupil of robbers!'\n\n'Vice,' said the surgeon, replacing the curtain, 'takes up her abode in\nmany temples; and who can say that a fair outside shell not enshrine\nher?'\n\n'But at so early an age!' urged Rose.\n\n'My dear young lady,' rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his\nhead; 'crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered\nalone.  The youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims.'\n\n'But, can you--oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has\nbeen the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?' said\nRose.\n\nThe surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared\nit was very possible; and observing that they might disturb the\npatient, led the way into an adjoining apartment.\n\n'But even if he has been wicked,' pursued Rose, 'think how young he is;\nthink that he may never have known a mother's love, or the comfort of a\nhome; that ill-usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven\nhim to herd with men who have forced him to guilt.  Aunt, dear aunt,\nfor mercy's sake, think of this, before you let them drag this sick\nchild to a prison, which in any case must be the grave of all his\nchances of amendment.  Oh! as you love me, and know that I have never\nfelt the want of parents in your goodness and affection, but that I\nmight have done so, and might have been equally helpless and\nunprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him before it is too\nlate!'\n\n'My dear love,' said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to\nher bosom, 'do you think I would harm a hair of his head?'\n\n'Oh, no!' replied Rose, eagerly.\n\n'No, surely,' said the old lady; 'my days are drawing to their close:\nand may mercy be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to\nsave him, sir?'\n\n'Let me think, ma'am,' said the doctor; 'let me think.'\n\nMr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns\nup and down the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his\ntoes, and frowning frightfully.  After various exclamations of 'I've\ngot it now' and 'no, I haven't,' and as many renewals of the walking\nand frowning, he at length made a dead halt, and spoke as follows:\n\n'I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles,\nand that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it.  Giles is a faithful\nfellow and an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a\nthousand ways, and reward him for being such a good shot besides.  You\ndon't object to that?'\n\n'Unless there is some other way of preserving the child,' replied Mrs.\nMaylie.\n\n'There is no other,' said the doctor.  'No other, take my word for it.'\n\n'Then my aunt invests you with full power,' said Rose, smiling through\nher tears; 'but pray don't be harder upon the poor fellows than is\nindispensably necessary.'\n\n'You seem to think,' retorted the doctor, 'that everybody is disposed\nto be hard-hearted to-day, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for\nthe sake of the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as\nvulnerable and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow\nwho appeals to your compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that\nI might avail myself, on the spot, of such a favourable opportunity for\ndoing so, as the present.'\n\n'You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself,' returned Rose,\nblushing.\n\n'Well,' said the doctor, laughing heartily, 'that is no very difficult\nmatter.  But to return to this boy.  The great point of our agreement\nis yet to come.  He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and\nalthough I have told that thick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that\nhe musn't be moved or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may\nconverse with him without danger.  Now I make this stipulation--that I\nshall examine him in your presence, and that, if, from what he says, we\njudge, and I can show to the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he\nis a real and thorough bad one (which is more than possible), he shall\nbe left to his fate, without any farther interference on my part, at\nall events.'\n\n'Oh no, aunt!' entreated Rose.\n\n'Oh yes, aunt!' said the doctor.  'Is is a bargain?'\n\n'He cannot be hardened in vice,' said Rose; 'It is impossible.'\n\n'Very good,' retorted the doctor; 'then so much the more reason for\nacceding to my proposition.'\n\nFinally the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down\nto wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.\n\nThe patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial\nthan Mr. Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed\non, and still Oliver slumbered heavily.  It was evening, indeed, before\nthe kind-hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at\nlength sufficiently restored to be spoken to.  The boy was very ill, he\nsaid, and weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled\nwith anxiety to disclose something, that he deemed it better to give\nhim the opportunity, than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next\nmorning: which he should otherwise have done.\n\nThe conference was a long one.  Oliver told them all his simple\nhistory, and was often compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength.\nIt was a solemn thing, to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice\nof the sick child recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities\nwhich hard men had brought upon him.  Oh! if when we oppress and grind\nour fellow-creatures, we bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences\nof human error, which, like dense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly\nit is true, but not less surely, to Heaven, to pour their\nafter-vengeance on our heads; if we heard but one instant, in\nimagination, the deep testimony of dead men's voices, which no power\ncan stifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the injury and\ninjustice, the suffering, misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day's\nlife brings with it!\n\nOliver's pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness\nand virtue watched him as he slept.  He felt calm and happy, and could\nhave died without a murmur.\n\nThe momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to\nrest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them\nfor being weak all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr.\nGiles.  And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that\nhe could perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the\nkitchen; so into the kitchen he went.\n\nThere were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament,\nthe women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had\nreceived a special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of\nthe day, in consideration of his services), and the constable.  The\nlatter gentleman had a large staff, a large head, large features, and\nlarge half-boots; and he looked as if he had been taking a\nproportionate allowance of ale--as indeed he had.\n\nThe adventures of the previous night were still under discussion; for\nMr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when the doctor\nentered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was corroborating\neverything, before his superior said it.\n\n'Sit still!' said the doctor, waving his hand.\n\n'Thank you, sir, said Mr. Giles.  'Misses wished some ale to be given\nout, sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir,\nand was disposed for company, I am taking mine among 'em here.'\n\nBrittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen\ngenerally were understood to express the gratification they derived\nfrom Mr. Giles's condescension.  Mr. Giles looked round with a\npatronising air, as much as to say that so long as they behaved\nproperly, he would never desert them.\n\n'How is the patient to-night, sir?' asked Giles.\n\n'So-so'; returned the doctor.  'I am afraid you have got yourself into\na scrape there, Mr. Giles.'\n\n'I hope you don't mean to say, sir,' said Mr. Giles, trembling, 'that\nhe's going to die.  If I thought it, I should never be happy again.  I\nwouldn't cut a boy off:  no, not even Brittles here; not for all the\nplate in the county, sir.'\n\n'That's not the point,' said the doctor, mysteriously.  'Mr. Giles, are\nyou a Protestant?'\n\n'Yes, sir, I hope so,' faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale.\n\n'And what are _you_, boy?' said the doctor, turning sharply upon\nBrittles.\n\n'Lord bless me, sir!' replied Brittles, starting violently; 'I'm the\nsame as Mr. Giles, sir.'\n\n'Then tell me this,' said the doctor, 'both of you, both of you! Are\nyou going to take upon yourselves to swear, that that boy upstairs is\nthe boy that was put through the little window last night?  Out with\nit!  Come!  We are prepared for you!'\n\nThe doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered\ncreatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger,\nthat Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and\nexcitement, stared at each other in a state of stupefaction.\n\n'Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?' said the doctor,\nshaking his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the\nbridge of his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's\nutmost acuteness. 'Something may come of this before long.'\n\nThe constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of\noffice: which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.\n\n'It's a simple question of identity, you will observe,' said the doctor.\n\n'That's what it is, sir,' replied the constable, coughing with great\nviolence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had\ngone the wrong way.\n\n'Here's the house broken into,' said the doctor, 'and a couple of men\ncatch one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder smoke,\nand in all the distraction of alarm and darkness.  Here's a boy comes\nto that very same house, next morning, and because he happens to have\nhis arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him--by doing which,\nthey place his life in great danger--and swear he is the thief.  Now,\nthe question is, whether these men are justified by the fact; if not,\nin what situation do they place themselves?'\n\nThe constable nodded profoundly.  He said, if that wasn't law, he would\nbe glad to know what was.\n\n'I ask you again,' thundered the doctor, 'are you, on your solemn\noaths, able to identify that boy?'\n\nBrittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at\nBrittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the\nreply; the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the\ndoctor glanced keenly round; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at\nthe same moment, the sound of wheels.\n\n'It's the runners!' cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.\n\n'The what?' exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.\n\n'The Bow Street officers, sir,' replied Brittles, taking up a candle;\n'me and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning.'\n\n'What?' cried the doctor.\n\n'Yes,' replied Brittles; 'I sent a message up by the coachman, and I\nonly wonder they weren't here before, sir.'\n\n'You did, did you?  Then confound your--slow coaches down here; that's\nall,' said the doctor, walking away.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXI\n\nINVOLVES A CRITICAL POSITION\n\n'Who's that?' inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with\nthe chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.\n\n'Open the door,' replied a man outside; 'it's the officers from Bow\nStreet, as was sent to to-day.'\n\nMuch comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full\nwidth, and confronted a portly man in a great-coat; who walked in,\nwithout saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly\nas if he lived there.\n\n'Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?' said\nthe officer; 'he's in the gig, a-minding the prad.  Have you got a\ncoach 'us here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?'\n\nBrittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building,\nthe portly man stepped back to the garden-gate, and helped his\ncompanion to put up the gig:  while Brittles lighted them, in a state\nof great admiration.  This done, they returned to the house, and, being\nshown into a parlour, took off their great-coats and hats, and showed\nlike what they were.\n\nThe man who had knocked at the door, was a stout personage of middle\nheight, aged about fifty: with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close;\nhalf-whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes.  The other was a\nred-headed, bony man, in top-boots; with a rather ill-favoured\ncountenance, and a turned-up sinister-looking nose.\n\n'Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?' said the\nstouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on\nthe table.  'Oh!  Good-evening, master.  Can I have a word or two with\nyou in private, if you please?'\n\nThis was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that\ngentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and\nshut the door.\n\n'This is the lady of the house,' said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards\nMrs. Maylie.\n\nMr. Blathers made a bow.  Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on\nthe floor, and taking a chair, motioned to Duff to do the same.  The\nlatter gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good\nsociety, or quite so much at his ease in it--one of the two--seated\nhimself, after undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and\nthe head of his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment.\n\n'Now, with regard to this here robbery, master,' said Blathers. 'What\nare the circumstances?'\n\nMr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at\ngreat length, and with much circumlocution.  Messrs. Blathers and Duff\nlooked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.\n\n'I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course,' said\nBlathers; 'but my opinion at once is,--I don't mind committing myself\nto that extent,--that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?'\n\n'Certainly not,' replied Duff.\n\n'And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I\napprehend your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a\ncountryman?' said Mr. Losberne, with a smile.\n\n'That's it, master,' replied Blathers.  'This is all about the robbery,\nis it?'\n\n'All,' replied the doctor.\n\n'Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking\non?' said Blathers.\n\n'Nothing at all,' replied the doctor.  'One of the frightened servants\nchose to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this\nattempt to break into the house; but it's nonsense: sheer absurdity.'\n\n'Wery easy disposed of, if it is,' remarked Duff.\n\n'What he says is quite correct,' observed Blathers, nodding his head in\na confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if\nthey were a pair of castanets.  'Who is the boy? What account does he\ngive of himself?  Where did he come from? He didn't drop out of the\nclouds, did he, master?'\n\n'Of course not,' replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two\nladies.  'I know his whole history: but we can talk about that\npresently.  You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves\nmade their attempt, I suppose?'\n\n'Certainly,' rejoined Mr. Blathers.  'We had better inspect the\npremises first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual\nway of doing business.'\n\nLights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by\nthe native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short,\nwent into the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at\nthe window; and afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in\nat the window; and after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the\nshutter with; and after that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with;\nand after that, a pitchfork to poke the bushes with.  This done, amidst\nthe breathless interest of all beholders, they came in again; and Mr.\nGiles and Brittles were put through a melodramatic representation of\ntheir share in the previous night's adventures: which they performed\nsome six times over: contradicting each other, in not more than one\nimportant respect, the first time, and in not more than a dozen the\nlast.  This consummation being arrived at, Blathers and Duff cleared\nthe room, and held a long council together, compared with which, for\nsecrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the knottiest\npoint in medicine, would be mere child's play.\n\nMeanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy\nstate; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.\n\n'Upon my word,' he said, making a halt, after a great number of very\nrapid turns, 'I hardly know what to do.'\n\n'Surely,' said Rose, 'the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to\nthese men, will be sufficient to exonerate him.'\n\n'I doubt it, my dear young lady,' said the doctor, shaking his head.\n'I don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal\nfunctionaries of a higher grade.  What is he, after all, they would\nsay?  A runaway.  Judged by mere worldly considerations and\nprobabilities, his story is a very doubtful one.'\n\n'You believe it, surely?' interrupted Rose.\n\n'_I_ believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for\ndoing so,' rejoined the doctor; 'but I don't think it is exactly the\ntale for a practical police-officer, nevertheless.'\n\n'Why not?' demanded Rose.\n\n'Because, my pretty cross-examiner,' replied the doctor: 'because,\nviewed with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can\nonly prove the parts that look ill, and none of those that look well.\nConfound the fellows, they _will_ have the why and the wherefore, and\nwill take nothing for granted.  On his own showing, you see, he has\nbeen the companion of thieves for some time past; he has been carried\nto a police-officer, on a charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he\nhas been taken away, forcibly, from that gentleman's house, to a place\nwhich he cannot describe or point out, and of the situation of which he\nhas not the remotest idea.  He is brought down to Chertsey, by men who\nseem to have taken a violent fancy to him, whether he will or no; and\nis put through a window to rob a house; and then, just at the very\nmoment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so do the very thing\nthat would set him all to rights, there rushes into the way, a\nblundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on purpose\nto prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?'\n\n'I see it, of course,' replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's\nimpetuosity; 'but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the\npoor child.'\n\n'No,' replied the doctor; 'of course not!  Bless the bright eyes of\nyour sex!  They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side\nof any question; and that is, always, the one which first presents\nitself to them.'\n\nHaving given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his\nhands into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even\ngreater rapidity than before.\n\n'The more I think of it,' said the doctor, 'the more I see that it will\noccasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in\npossession of the boy's real story.  I am certain it will not be\nbelieved; and even if they can do nothing to him in the end, still the\ndragging it forward, and giving publicity to all the doubts that will\nbe cast upon it, must interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan\nof rescuing him from misery.'\n\n'Oh! what is to be done?' cried Rose.  'Dear, dear! why did they send\nfor these people?'\n\n'Why, indeed!' exclaimed Mrs. Maylie.  'I would not have had them here,\nfor the world.'\n\n'All I know is,' said Mr. Losberne, at last:  sitting down with a kind\nof desperate calmness, 'that we must try and carry it off with a bold\nface.  The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse.  The boy\nhas strong symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be\ntalked to any more; that's one comfort.  We must make the best of it;\nand if bad be the best, it is no fault of ours.  Come in!'\n\n'Well, master,' said Blathers, entering the room followed by his\ncolleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. 'This\nwarn't a put-up thing.'\n\n'And what the devil's a put-up thing?' demanded the doctor, impatiently.\n\n'We call it a put-up robbery, ladies,' said Blathers, turning to them,\nas if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's,\n'when the servants is in it.'\n\n'Nobody suspected them, in this case,' said Mrs. Maylie.\n\n'Wery likely not, ma'am,' replied Blathers; 'but they might have been\nin it, for all that.'\n\n'More likely on that wery account,' said Duff.\n\n'We find it was a town hand,' said Blathers, continuing his report;\n'for the style of work is first-rate.'\n\n'Wery pretty indeed it is,' remarked Duff, in an undertone.\n\n'There was two of 'em in it,' continued Blathers; 'and they had a boy\nwith 'em; that's plain from the size of the window.  That's all to be\nsaid at present.  We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once,\nif you please.'\n\n'Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?' said\nthe doctor: his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred\nto him.\n\n'Oh! to be sure!' exclaimed Rose, eagerly.  'You shall have it\nimmediately, if you will.'\n\n'Why, thank you, miss!' said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across\nhis mouth; 'it's dry work, this sort of duty.  Anythink that's handy,\nmiss; don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts.'\n\n'What shall it be?' asked the doctor, following the young lady to the\nsideboard.\n\n'A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same,' replied\nBlathers.  'It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that\nspirits comes home warmer to the feelings.'\n\nThis interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who\nreceived it very graciously.  While it was being conveyed to her, the\ndoctor slipped out of the room.\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Blathers:  not holding his wine-glass by the stem, but\ngrasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand:\nand placing it in front of his chest; 'I have seen a good many pieces\nof business like this, in my time, ladies.'\n\n'That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers,' said Mr.\nDuff, assisting his colleague's memory.\n\n'That was something in this way, warn't it?' rejoined Mr. Blathers;\n'that was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was.'\n\n'You always gave that to him' replied Duff.  'It was the Family Pet, I\ntell you.  Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had.'\n\n'Get out!' retorted Mr. Blathers; 'I know better.  Do you mind that\ntime when Conkey was robbed of his money, though?  What a start that\nwas!  Better than any novel-book _I_ ever see!'\n\n'What was that?' inquired Rose:  anxious to encourage any symptoms of\ngood-humour in the unwelcome visitors.\n\n'It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down\nupon,' said Blathers.  'This here Conkey Chickweed--'\n\n'Conkey means Nosey, ma'am,' interposed Duff.\n\n'Of course the lady knows that, don't she?' demanded Mr. Blathers.\n'Always interrupting, you are, partner!  This here Conkey Chickweed,\nmiss, kept a public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar,\nwhere a good many young lords went to see cock-fighting, and\nbadger-drawing, and that; and a wery intellectual manner the sports was\nconducted in, for I've seen 'em off'en.  He warn't one of the family,\nat that time; and one night he was robbed of three hundred and\ntwenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was stole out of his bedroom\nin the dead of night, by a tall man with a black patch over his eye,\nwho had concealed himself under the bed, and after committing the\nrobbery, jumped slap out of window:  which was only a story high. He\nwas wery quick about it.  But Conkey was quick, too; for he fired a\nblunderbuss arter him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a\nhue-and-cry, directly, and when they came to look about 'em, found that\nConkey had hit the robber; for there was traces of blood, all the way\nto some palings a good distance off; and there they lost 'em.  However,\nhe had made off with the blunt; and, consequently, the name of Mr.\nChickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the Gazette among the other\nbankrupts; and all manner of benefits and subscriptions, and I don't\nknow what all, was got up for the poor man, who was in a wery low state\nof mind about his loss, and went up and down the streets, for three or\nfour days, a pulling his hair off in such a desperate manner that many\npeople was afraid he might be going to make away with himself. One day\nhe came up to the office, all in a hurry, and had a private interview\nwith the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, and\norders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go\nand assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house.\n\"I see him, Spyers,\" said Chickweed, \"pass my house yesterday morning,\"\n\"Why didn't you up, and collar him!\" says Spyers.  \"I was so struck all\nof a heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,\"\nsays the poor man; \"but we're sure to have him; for between ten and\neleven o'clock at night he passed again.\"  Spyers no sooner heard this,\nthan he put some clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he\nshould have to stop a day or two; and away he goes, and sets himself\ndown at one of the public-house windows behind the little red curtain,\nwith his hat on, all ready to bolt out, at a moment's notice. He was\nsmoking his pipe here, late at night, when all of a sudden Chickweed\nroars out, \"Here he is! Stop thief!  Murder!\"  Jem Spyers dashes out;\nand there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the street full cry.  Away\ngoes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the people; everybody roars\nout, \"Thieves!\" and Chickweed himself keeps on shouting, all the time,\nlike mad.  Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he turns a corner;\nshoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; \"Which is the man?\"\n\"D--me!\" says Chickweed, \"I've lost him again!\"  It was a remarkable\noccurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back to the\npublic-house. Next morning, Spyers took his old place, and looked out,\nfrom behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his\neye, till his own two eyes ached again.  At last, he couldn't help\nshutting 'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he\nhears Chickweed a-roaring out, \"Here he is!\"  Off he starts once more,\nwith Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice\nas long a run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again!  This was\ndone, once or twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that\nMr. Chickweed had been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with\nhim arterwards; and the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone\nmad with grief.'\n\n'What did Jem Spyers say?' inquired the doctor; who had returned to the\nroom shortly after the commencement of the story.\n\n'Jem Spyers,' resumed the officer, 'for a long time said nothing at\nall, and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he\nunderstood his business.  But, one morning, he walked into the bar, and\ntaking out his snuffbox, says \"Chickweed, I've found out who done this\nhere robbery.\"  \"Have you?\" said Chickweed.  \"Oh, my dear Spyers, only\nlet me have wengeance, and I shall die contented!  Oh, my dear Spyers,\nwhere is the villain!\"  \"Come!\" said Spyers, offering him a pinch of\nsnuff, \"none of that gammon!  You did it yourself.\"  So he had; and a\ngood bit of money he had made by it, too; and nobody would never have\nfound it out, if he hadn't been so precious anxious to keep up\nappearances!' said Mr. Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and\nclinking the handcuffs together.\n\n'Very curious, indeed,' observed the doctor.  'Now, if you please, you\ncan walk upstairs.'\n\n'If _you_ please, sir,' returned Mr. Blathers.  Closely following Mr.\nLosberne, the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles\npreceding the party, with a lighted candle.\n\nOliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he\nhad appeared yet.  Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up\nin bed for a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all\nunderstanding what was going forward--in fact, without seeming to\nrecollect where he was, or what had been passing.\n\n'This,' said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence\nnotwithstanding, 'this is the lad, who, being accidently wounded by a\nspring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d' ye-call-him's\ngrounds, at the back here, comes to the house for assistance this\nmorning, and is immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that\ningenious gentleman with the candle in his hand:  who has placed his\nlife in considerable danger, as I can professionally certify.'\n\nMessrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus\nrecommended to their notice.  The bewildered butler gazed from them\ntowards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most\nludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.\n\n'You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?' said the doctor, laying\nOliver gently down again.\n\n'It was all done for the--for the best, sir,' answered Giles. 'I am\nsure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him.  I\nam not of an inhuman disposition, sir.'\n\n'Thought it was what boy?' inquired the senior officer.\n\n'The housebreaker's boy, sir!' replied Giles.  'They--they certainly\nhad a boy.'\n\n'Well?  Do you think so now?' inquired Blathers.\n\n'Think what, now?' replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.\n\n'Think it's the same boy, Stupid-head?' rejoined Blathers, impatiently.\n\n'I don't know; I really don't know,' said Giles, with a rueful\ncountenance.  'I couldn't swear to him.'\n\n'What do you think?' asked Mr. Blathers.\n\n'I don't know what to think,' replied poor Giles.  'I don't think it is\nthe boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't.  You know it can't\nbe.'\n\n'Has this man been a-drinking, sir?' inquired Blathers, turning to the\ndoctor.\n\n'What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!' said Duff, addressing Mr.\nGiles, with supreme contempt.\n\nMr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short\ndialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked,\nthat if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would\nperhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles before them.\n\nActing upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring\napartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and\nhis respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions\nand impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on\nanything, but the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed,\nhis declarations that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put\nbefore him that instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he,\nbecause Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes\npreviously, admitted in the kitchen, that he began to be very much\nafraid he had been a little too hasty.\n\nAmong other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether\nMr. Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow\npistol to that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more\ndestructive loading than gunpowder and brown paper: a discovery which\nmade a considerable impression on everybody but the doctor, who had\ndrawn the ball about ten minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it\nmake a greater impression than on Mr. Giles himself; who, after\nlabouring, for some hours, under the fear of having mortally wounded a\nfellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new idea, and favoured it to\nthe utmost.  Finally, the officers, without troubling themselves very\nmuch about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in the house, and took\nup their rest for that night in the town; promising to return the next\nmorning.\n\nWith the next morning, there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were\nin the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended over night under\nsuspicious circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff\njourneyed accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving\nthemselves, on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been\ndiscovered sleeping under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is\nonly punishable by imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the\nEnglish law, and its comprehensive love of all the King's subjects,\nheld to be no satisfactory proof, in the absence of all other evidence,\nthat the sleeper, or sleepers, have committed burglary accompanied with\nviolence, and have therefore rendered themselves liable to the\npunishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and Duff came back again, as wise\nas they went.\n\nIn short, after some more examination, and a great deal more\nconversation, a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the\njoint bail of Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver's appearance if\nhe should ever be called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded\nwith a couple of guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the\nsubject of their expedition: the latter gentleman on a mature\nconsideration of all the circumstances, inclining to the belief that\nthe burglarious attempt had originated with the Family Pet; and the\nformer being equally disposed to concede the full merit of it to the\ngreat Mr. Conkey Chickweed.\n\nMeanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care\nof Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne.  If fervent\nprayers, gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in\nheaven--and if they be not, what prayers are!--the blessings which the\norphan child called down upon them, sunk into their souls, diffusing\npeace and happiness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXII\n\nOF THE HAPPY LIFE OLIVER BEGAN TO LEAD WITH HIS KIND FRIENDS\n\nOliver's ailings were neither slight nor few.  In addition to the pain\nand delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold\nhad brought on fever and ague:  which hung about him for many weeks,\nand reduced him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to\nget better, and to be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words,\nhow deeply he felt the goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how\nardently he hoped that when he grew strong and well again, he could do\nsomething to show his gratitude; only something, which would let them\nsee the love and duty with which his breast was full; something,\nhowever slight, which would prove to them that their gentle kindness\nhad not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom their charity had\nrescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them with his whole\nheart and soul.\n\n'Poor fellow!' said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly\nendeavouring to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale\nlips; 'you shall have many opportunities of serving us, if you will.\nWe are going into the country, and my aunt intends that you shall\naccompany us.  The quiet place, the pure air, and all the pleasure and\nbeauties of spring, will restore you in a few days.  We will employ you\nin a hundred ways, when you can bear the trouble.'\n\n'The trouble!' cried Oliver.  'Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for\nyou; if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or\nwatching your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make\nyou happy; what would I give to do it!'\n\n'You shall give nothing at all,' said Miss Maylie, smiling; 'for, as I\ntold you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only\ntake half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make\nme very happy indeed.'\n\n'Happy, ma'am!' cried Oliver; 'how kind of you to say so!'\n\n'You will make me happier than I can tell you,' replied the young lady.\n'To think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing\nany one from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an\nunspeakable pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness\nand compassion was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence,\nwould delight me, more than you can well imagine.  Do you understand\nme?' she inquired, watching Oliver's thoughtful face.\n\n'Oh yes, ma'am, yes!' replied Oliver eagerly; 'but I was thinking that\nI am ungrateful now.'\n\n'To whom?' inquired the young lady.\n\n'To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care\nof me before,' rejoined Oliver.  'If they knew how happy I am, they\nwould be pleased, I am sure.'\n\n'I am sure they would,' rejoined Oliver's benefactress; 'and Mr.\nLosberne has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well\nenough to bear the journey, he will carry you to see them.'\n\n'Has he, ma'am?' cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure.  'I\ndon't know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once\nagain!'\n\nIn a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the\nfatigue of this expedition.  One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out,\naccordingly, in a little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie.  When\nthey came to Chertsey Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a\nloud exclamation.\n\n'What's the matter with the boy?' cried the doctor, as usual, all in a\nbustle.  'Do you see anything--hear anything--feel anything--eh?'\n\n'That, sir,' cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. 'That\nhouse!'\n\n'Yes; well, what of it?  Stop coachman.  Pull up here,' cried the\ndoctor.  'What of the house, my man; eh?'\n\n'The thieves--the house they took me to!' whispered Oliver.\n\n'The devil it is!' cried the doctor.  'Hallo, there! let me out!'\n\nBut, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled\nout of the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the\ndeserted tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.\n\n'Halloa?' said a little ugly hump-backed man:  opening the door so\nsuddenly, that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick,\nnearly fell forward into the passage. 'What's the matter here?'\n\n'Matter!' exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment's\nreflection.  'A good deal.  Robbery is the matter.'\n\n'There'll be Murder the matter, too,' replied the hump-backed man,\ncoolly, 'if you don't take your hands off.  Do you hear me?'\n\n'I hear you,' said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake.\n\n'Where's--confound the fellow, what's his rascally name--Sikes; that's\nit.  Where's Sikes, you thief?'\n\nThe hump-backed man stared, as if in excess of amazement and\nindignation; then, twisting himself, dexterously, from the doctor's\ngrasp, growled forth a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the\nhouse.  Before he could shut the door, however, the doctor had passed\ninto the parlour, without a word of parley.\n\nHe looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture; not a vestige\nof anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the\ncupboards; answered Oliver's description!\n\n'Now!' said the hump-backed man, who had watched him keenly, 'what do\nyou mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to\nrob me, or to murder me?  Which is it?'\n\n'Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair,\nyou ridiculous old vampire?' said the irritable doctor.\n\n'What do you want, then?' demanded the hunchback.  'Will you take\nyourself off, before I do you a mischief?  Curse you!'\n\n'As soon as I think proper,' said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other\nparlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to\nOliver's account of it.  'I shall find you out, some day, my friend.'\n\n'Will you?' sneered the ill-favoured cripple.  'If you ever want me,\nI'm here.  I haven't lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty\nyears, to be scared by you.  You shall pay for this; you shall pay for\nthis.'  And so saying, the mis-shapen little demon set up a yell, and\ndanced upon the ground, as if wild with rage.\n\n'Stupid enough, this,' muttered the doctor to himself; 'the boy must\nhave made a mistake.  Here!  Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself\nup again.'  With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money,\nand returned to the carriage.\n\nThe man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations\nand curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the\ndriver, he looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant\nwith a glance so sharp and fierce and at the same time so furious and\nvindictive, that, waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for months\nafterwards.  He continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until\nthe driver had resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their\nway, they could see him some distance behind: beating his feet upon the\nground, and tearing his hair, in transports of real or pretended rage.\n\n'I am an ass!' said the doctor, after a long silence.  'Did you know\nthat before, Oliver?'\n\n'No, sir.'\n\n'Then don't forget it another time.'\n\n'An ass,' said the doctor again, after a further silence of some\nminutes.  'Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows\nhad been there, what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had\nassistance, I see no good that I should have done, except leading to my\nown exposure, and an unavoidable statement of the manner in which I\nhave hushed up this business. That would have served me right, though.\nI am always involving myself in some scrape or other, by acting on\nimpulse.  It might have done me good.'\n\nNow, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon\nanything but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment\nto the nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from\nbeing involved in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the\nwarmest respect and esteem of all who knew him.  If the truth must be\ntold, he was a little out of temper, for a minute or two, at being\ndisappointed in procuring corroborative evidence of Oliver's story on\nthe very first occasion on which he had a chance of obtaining any.  He\nsoon came round again, however; and finding that Oliver's replies to\nhis questions, were still as straightforward and consistent, and still\ndelivered with as much apparent sincerity and truth, as they had ever\nbeen, he made up his mind to attach full credence to them, from that\ntime forth.\n\nAs Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided,\nthey were enabled to drive straight thither.  When the coach turned\ninto it, his heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his\nbreath.\n\n'Now, my boy, which house is it?' inquired Mr. Losberne.\n\n'That!  That!' replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window.\n'The white house.  Oh! make haste!  Pray make haste! I feel as if I\nshould die: it makes me tremble so.'\n\n'Come, come!' said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. 'You\nwill see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and\nwell.'\n\n'Oh!  I hope so!' cried Oliver.  'They were so good to me; so very,\nvery good to me.'\n\nThe coach rolled on.  It stopped.  No; that was the wrong house; the\nnext door.  It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up\nat the windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.\n\nAlas! the white house was empty, and there was a bill in the window.\n'To Let.'\n\n'Knock at the next door,' cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in\nhis.  'What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the\nadjoining house, do you know?'\n\nThe servant did not know; but would go and inquire.  She presently\nreturned, and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone\nto the West Indies, six weeks before.  Oliver clasped his hands, and\nsank feebly backward.\n\n'Has his housekeeper gone too?' inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's\npause.\n\n'Yes, sir'; replied the servant.  'The old gentleman, the housekeeper,\nand a gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together.'\n\n'Then turn towards home again,' said Mr. Losberne to the driver; 'and\ndon't stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded\nLondon!'\n\n'The book-stall keeper, sir?' said Oliver.  'I know the way there.  See\nhim, pray, sir!  Do see him!'\n\n'My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day,' said the\ndoctor.  'Quite enough for both of us.  If we go to the book-stall\nkeeper's, we shall certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house\non fire, or run away.  No; home again straight!'  And in obedience to\nthe doctor's impulse, home they went.\n\nThis bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in\nthe midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times\nduring his illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs.\nBedwin would say to him: and what delight it would be to tell them how\nmany long days and nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had\ndone for him, and in bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope\nof eventually clearing himself with them, too, and explaining how he\nhad been forced away, had buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many\nof his recent trials; and now, the idea that they should have gone so\nfar, and carried with them the belief that he was an impostor and a\nrobber--a belief which might remain uncontradicted to his dying\nday--was almost more than he could bear.\n\nThe circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of\nhis benefactors.  After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather\nhad fairly begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young\nleaves and rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house\nat Chertsey, for some months.\n\nSending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, to the\nbanker's; and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the house,\nthey departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took\nOliver with them.\n\nWho can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft\ntranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green\nhills and rich woods, of an inland village!  Who can tell how scenes of\npeace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close\nand noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded\nhearts!  Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives\nof toil, and who have never wished for change; men, to whom custom has\nindeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick\nand stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even\nthey, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at\nlast for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and, carried far from the\nscenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once\ninto a new state of being.  Crawling forth, from day to day, to some\ngreen sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by\nthe sight of the sky, and hill and plain, and glistening water, that a\nforetaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they\nhave sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the sun whose setting they\nwatched from their lonely chamber window but a few hours before, faded\nfrom their dim and feeble sight!  The memories which peaceful country\nscenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes.\nTheir gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the\ngraves of those we loved:  may purify our thoughts, and bear down\nbefore it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers,\nin the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of\nhaving held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time,\nwhich calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down\npride and worldliness beneath it.\n\nIt was a lovely spot to which they repaired.  Oliver, whose days had\nbeen spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and\nbrawling, seemed to enter on a new existence there.  The rose and\nhoneysuckle clung to the cottage walls; the ivy crept round the trunks\nof the trees; and the garden-flowers perfumed the air with delicious\nodours.  Hard by, was a little churchyard; not crowded with tall\nunsightly gravestones, but full of humble mounds, covered with fresh\nturf and moss: beneath which, the old people of the village lay at\nrest.  Oliver often wandered here; and, thinking of the wretched grave\nin which his mother lay, would sometimes sit him down and sob unseen;\nbut, when he raised his eyes to the deep sky overhead, he would cease\nto think of her as lying in the ground, and would weep for her, sadly,\nbut without pain.\n\nIt was a happy time.  The days were peaceful and serene; the nights\nbrought with them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched\nprison, or associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and\nhappy thoughts.  Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman,\nwho lived near the little church: who taught him to read better, and to\nwrite:  and who spoke so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could\nnever try enough to please him.  Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie\nand Rose, and hear them talk of books; or perhaps sit near them, in\nsome shady place, and listen whilst the young lady read: which he could\nhave done, until it grew too dark to see the letters. Then, he had his\nown lesson for the next day to prepare; and at this, he would work\nhard, in a little room which looked into the garden, till evening came\nslowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, and he with them:\nlistening with such pleasure to all they said:  and so happy if they\nwanted a flower that he could climb to reach, or had forgotten anything\nhe could run to fetch: that he could never be quick enough about it.\nWhen it became quite dark, and they returned home, the young lady would\nsit down to the piano, and play some pleasant air, or sing, in a low\nand gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear.\nThere would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver\nwould sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a\nperfect rapture.\n\nAnd when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way\nin which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily too; like all the\nother days in that most happy time!  There was the little church, in\nthe morning, with the green leaves fluttering at the windows:  the\nbirds singing without:  and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the\nlow porch, and filling the homely building with its fragrance. The poor\npeople were so neat and clean, and knelt so reverently in prayer, that\nit seemed a pleasure, not a tedious duty, their assembling there\ntogether; and though the singing might be rude, it was real, and\nsounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at least) than any he had ever\nheard in church before.  Then, there were the walks as usual, and many\ncalls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at night, Oliver\nread a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been studying all\nthe week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more proud and\npleased, than if he had been the clergyman himself.\n\nIn the morning, Oliver would be a-foot by six o'clock, roaming the\nfields, and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild\nflowers, with which he would return laden, home; and which it took\ngreat care and consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the\nembellishment of the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too,\nfor Miss Maylie's birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the\nsubject under the able tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the\ncages, in the most approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce\nand smart for the day, there was usually some little commission of\ncharity to execute in the village; or, failing that, there was rare\ncricket-playing, sometimes, on the green; or, failing that, there was\nalways something to do in the garden, or about the plants, to which\nOliver (who had studied this science also, under the same master, who\nwas a gardener by trade,) applied himself with hearty good-will, until\nMiss Rose made her appearance:  when there were a thousand\ncommendations to be bestowed on all he had done.\n\nSo three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the\nmost blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled\nhappiness, and which, in Oliver's were true felicity. With the purest\nand most amiable generosity on one side; and the truest, warmest,\nsoul-felt gratitude on the other; it is no wonder that, by the end of\nthat short time, Oliver Twist had become completely domesticated with\nthe old lady and her niece, and that the fervent attachment of his\nyoung and sensitive heart, was repaid by their pride in, and attachment\nto, himself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIII\n\nWHEREIN THE HAPPINESS OF OLIVER AND HIS FRIENDS, EXPERIENCES A SUDDEN\nCHECK\n\nSpring flew swiftly by, and summer came.  If the village had been\nbeautiful at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its\nrichness.  The great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the\nearlier months, had now burst into strong life and health; and\nstretching forth their green arms over the thirsty ground, converted\nopen and naked spots into choice nooks, where was a deep and pleasant\nshade from which to look upon the wide prospect, steeped in sunshine,\nwhich lay stretched beyond.  The earth had donned her mantle of\nbrightest green; and shed her richest perfumes abroad.  It was the\nprime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and flourishing.\n\nStill, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same\ncheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates.  Oliver had long since\ngrown stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in\nhis warm feelings of a great many people.  He was still the same\ngentle, attached, affectionate creature that he had been when pain and\nsuffering had wasted his strength, and when he was dependent for every\nslight attention, and comfort on those who tended him.\n\nOne beautiful night, when they had taken a longer walk than was\ncustomary with them:  for the day had been unusually warm, and there\nwas a brilliant moon, and a light wind had sprung up, which was\nunusually refreshing.  Rose had been in high spirits, too, and they had\nwalked on, in merry conversation, until they had far exceeded their\nordinary bounds.  Mrs. Maylie being fatigued, they returned more slowly\nhome.  The young lady merely throwing off her simple bonnet, sat down\nto the piano as usual.  After running abstractedly over the keys for a\nfew minutes, she fell into a low and very solemn air; and as she played\nit, they heard a sound as if she were weeping.\n\n'Rose, my dear!' said the elder lady.\n\nRose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words\nhad roused her from some painful thoughts.\n\n'Rose, my love!' cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over\nher.  'What is this?  In tears!  My dear child, what distresses you?'\n\n'Nothing, aunt; nothing,' replied the young lady.  'I don't know what\nit is; I can't describe it; but I feel--'\n\n'Not ill, my love?' interposed Mrs. Maylie.\n\n'No, no!  Oh, not ill!' replied Rose: shuddering as though some deadly\nchillness were passing over her, while she spoke; 'I shall be better\npresently.  Close the window, pray!'\n\nOliver hastened to comply with her request.  The young lady, making an\neffort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune;\nbut her fingers dropped powerless over the keys. Covering her face with\nher hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she\nwas now unable to repress.\n\n'My child!' said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her, 'I never\nsaw you so before.'\n\n'I would not alarm you if I could avoid it,' rejoined Rose; 'but indeed\nI have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I _am_ ill, aunt.'\n\nShe was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the\nvery short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of\nher countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had\nlost nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an\nanxious haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn\nbefore.  Another minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush:  and\na heavy wildness came over the soft blue eye.  Again this disappeared,\nlike the shadow thrown by a passing cloud; and she was once more deadly\npale.\n\nOliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was\nalarmed by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but seeing that\nshe affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and\nthey so far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to\nretire for the night, she was in better spirits; and appeared even in\nbetter health:  assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in\nthe morning, quite well.\n\n'I hope,' said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, 'that nothing is the\nmatter?  She don't look well to-night, but--'\n\nThe old lady motioned to him not to speak; and sitting herself down in\na dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length,\nshe said, in a trembling voice:\n\n'I hope not, Oliver.  I have been very happy with her for some years:\ntoo happy, perhaps.  It may be time that I should meet with some\nmisfortune; but I hope it is not this.'\n\n'What?' inquired Oliver.\n\n'The heavy blow,' said the old lady, 'of losing the dear girl who has\nso long been my comfort and happiness.'\n\n'Oh!  God forbid!' exclaimed Oliver, hastily.\n\n'Amen to that, my child!' said the old lady, wringing her hands.\n\n'Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?' said Oliver. 'Two\nhours ago, she was quite well.'\n\n'She is very ill now,' rejoined Mrs. Maylies; 'and will be worse, I am\nsure.  My dear, dear Rose!  Oh, what shall I do without her!'\n\nShe gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own\nemotion, ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that,\nfor the sake of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.\n\n'And consider, ma'am,' said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into\nhis eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. 'Oh! consider how\nyoung and good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all\nabout her.  I am sure--certain--quite certain--that, for your sake, who\nare so good yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she\nmakes so happy; she will not die.  Heaven will never let her die so\nyoung.'\n\n'Hush!' said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. 'You think\nlike a child, poor boy.  But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding.  I\nhad forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned,\nfor I am old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the\nagony of separation from the objects of our love.  I have seen enough,\ntoo, to know that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared\nto those that love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow;\nfor Heaven is just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there\nis a brighter world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy.\nGod's will be done!  I love her; and He knows how well!'\n\nOliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she\nchecked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself\nup as she spoke, became composed and firm.  He was still more\nastonished to find that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the\ncare and watching which ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and\ncollected: performing all the duties which had devolved upon her,\nsteadily, and, to all external appearances, even cheerfully.  But he\nwas young, and did not know what strong minds are capable of, under\ntrying circumstances.  How should he, when their possessors so seldom\nknow themselves?\n\nAn anxious night ensued.  When morning came, Mrs. Maylie's predictions\nwere but too well verified.  Rose was in the first stage of a high and\ndangerous fever.\n\n'We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief,' said\nMrs. Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into\nhis face; 'this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to\nMr. Losberne.  It must be carried to the market-town: which is not more\nthan four miles off, by the footpath across the field:  and thence\ndispatched, by an express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The\npeople at the inn will undertake to do this: and I can trust to you to\nsee it done, I know.'\n\nOliver could make no reply, but looked his anxiety to be gone at once.\n\n'Here is another letter,' said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; 'but\nwhether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I\nscarcely know.  I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst.'\n\n'Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?' inquired Oliver; impatient to execute\nhis commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.\n\n'No,' replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver\nglanced at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire,\nat some great lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out.\n\n'Shall it go, ma'am?' asked Oliver, looking up, impatiently.\n\n'I think not,' replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back.  'I will wait until\nto-morrow.'\n\nWith these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off,\nwithout more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.\n\nSwiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which\nsometimes divided them: now almost hidden by the high corn on either\nside, and now emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers\nwere busy at their work:  nor did he stop once, save now and then, for\na few seconds, to recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and\ncovered with dust, on the little market-place of the market-town.\n\nHere he paused, and looked about for the inn.  There were a white bank,\nand a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was\na large house, with all the wood about it painted green:  before which\nwas the sign of 'The George.'  To this he hastened, as soon as it\ncaught his eye.\n\nHe spoke to a postboy who was dozing under the gateway; and who, after\nhearing what he wanted, referred him to the ostler; who after hearing\nall he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall\ngentleman in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots\nwith tops to match, leaning against a pump by the stable-door, picking\nhis teeth with a silver toothpick.\n\nThis gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out\nthe bill:  which took a long time making out:  and after it was ready,\nand paid, a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which\ntook up ten good minutes more.  Meanwhile Oliver was in such a\ndesperate state of impatience and anxiety, that he felt as if he could\nhave jumped upon the horse himself, and galloped away, full tear, to\nthe next stage.  At length, all was ready; and the little parcel having\nbeen handed up, with many injunctions and entreaties for its speedy\ndelivery, the man set spurs to his horse, and rattling over the uneven\npaving of the market-place, was out of the town, and galloping along\nthe turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.\n\nAs it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and\nthat no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a\nsomewhat lighter heart.  He was turning out of the gateway when he\naccidently stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at\nthat moment coming out of the inn door.\n\n'Hah!' cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly\nrecoiling.  'What the devil's this?'\n\n'I beg your pardon, sir,' said Oliver; 'I was in a great hurry to get\nhome, and didn't see you were coming.'\n\n'Death!' muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large\ndark eyes.  'Who would have thought it! Grind him to ashes! He'd start\nup from a stone coffin, to come in my way!'\n\n'I am sorry,' stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild\nlook.  'I hope I have not hurt you!'\n\n'Rot you!' murmured the man, in a horrible passion; between his\nclenched teeth; 'if I had only had the courage to say the word, I might\nhave been free of you in a night.  Curses on your head, and black death\non your heart, you imp!  What are you doing here?'\n\nThe man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He\nadvanced towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at\nhim, but fell violently on the ground:  writhing and foaming, in a fit.\n\nOliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggles of the madman (for such he\nsupposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help.  Having\nseen him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards,\nrunning as fast as he could, to make up for lost time:  and recalling\nwith a great deal of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary\nbehaviour of the person from whom he had just parted.\n\nThe circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for\nwhen he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and\nto drive all considerations of self completely from his memory.\n\nRose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before mid-night she was\ndelirious.  A medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in\nconstant attendance upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he\nhad taken Mrs. Maylie aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a\nmost alarming nature. 'In fact,' he said, 'it would be little short of\na miracle, if she recovered.'\n\nHow often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out,\nwith noiseless footstep, to the staircase, listen for the slightest\nsound from the sick chamber!  How often did a tremble shake his frame,\nand cold drops of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden trampling\nof feet caused him to fear that something too dreadful to think of, had\neven then occurred!  And what had been the fervency of all the prayers\nhe had ever muttered, compared with those he poured forth, now, in the\nagony and passion of his supplication for the life and health of the\ngentle creature, who was tottering on the deep grave's verge!\n\nOh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by\nwhile the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance!  Oh!\nthe racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat\nviolently, and the breath come thick, by the force of the images they\nconjure up before it; the desperate anxiety _to be doing something_ to\nrelieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to\nalleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of\nour helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what\nreflections or endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time,\nallay them!\n\nMorning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke\nin whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time;\nwomen and children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for\nhours after it had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the\ngarden, raising his eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and\nshuddering to see the darkened window, looking as if death lay\nstretched inside.  Late that night, Mr. Losberne arrived.  'It is\nhard,' said the good doctor, turning away as he spoke; 'so young; so\nmuch beloved; but there is very little hope.'\n\nAnother morning.  The sun shone brightly; as brightly as if it looked\nupon no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom\nabout her; with life, and health, and sounds and sights of joy,\nsurrounding her on every side: the fair young creature lay, wasting\nfast.  Oliver crept away to the old churchyard, and sitting down on one\nof the green mounds, wept and prayed for her, in silence.\n\nThere was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and\nmirth in the sunny landscape; such blithesome music in the songs of the\nsummer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering\noverhead; so much of life and joyousness in all; that, when the boy\nraised his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively\noccurred to him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could\nsurely never die when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that\ngraves were for cold and cheerless winter:  not for sunlight and\nfragrance. He almost thought that shrouds were for the old and\nshrunken; and that they never wrapped the young and graceful form in\ntheir ghastly folds.\n\nA knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts.\nAnother!  Again!  It was tolling for the funeral service.  A group of\nhumble mourners entered the gate: wearing white favours; for the corpse\nwas young.  They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother--a\nmother once--among the weeping train.  But the sun shone brightly, and\nthe birds sang on.\n\nOliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received\nfrom the young lady, and wishing that the time could come again, that\nhe might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was.  He\nhad no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of\nthought, for he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred\nlittle occasions rose up before him, on which he fancied he might have\nbeen more zealous, and more earnest, and wished he had been.  We need\nbe careful how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to\nsome small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so\nlittle done--of so many things forgotten, and so many more which might\nhave been repaired!  There is no remorse so deep as that which is\nunavailing; if we would be spared its tortures, let us remember this,\nin time.\n\nWhen he reached home Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour.\nOliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside\nof her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven\nher away.  He learnt that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which\nshe would waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell,\nand die.\n\nThey sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours.  The untasted meal\nwas removed, with looks which showed that their thoughts were\nelsewhere, they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at\nlength, cast over sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his\ndeparture.  Their quick ears caught the sound of an approaching\nfootstep.  They both involuntarily darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne\nentered.\n\n'What of Rose?' cried the old lady.  'Tell me at once!  I can bear it;\nanything but suspense!  Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!'\n\n'You must compose yourself,' said the doctor supporting her. 'Be calm,\nmy dear ma'am, pray.'\n\n'Let me go, in God's name!  My dear child!  She is dead! She is dying!'\n\n'No!' cried the doctor, passionately.  'As He is good and merciful, she\nwill live to bless us all, for years to come.'\n\nThe lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but\nthe energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her\nfirst thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were\nextended to receive her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIV\n\nCONTAINS SOME INTRODUCTORY PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO A YOUNG GENTLEMAN\nWHO NOW ARRIVES UPON THE SCENE; AND A NEW ADVENTURE WHICH HAPPENED TO\nOLIVER\n\nIt was almost too much happiness to bear.  Oliver felt stunned and\nstupefied by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak,\nor rest.  He had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had\npassed, until, after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of\ntears came to his relief, and he seemed to awaken, all at once, to a\nfull sense of the joyful change that had occurred, and the almost\ninsupportable load of anguish which had been taken from his breast.\n\nThe night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward:  laden with\nflowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of\nthe sick chamber.  As he walked briskly along the road, he heard behind\nhim, the noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace.  Looking\nround, he saw that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as\nthe horses were galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning\nagainst a gate until it should have passed him.\n\nAs it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man in a white nightcap,\nwhose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that\nhe could not identify the person.  In another second or two, the\nnightcap was thrust out of the chaise-window, and a stentorian voice\nbellowed to the driver to stop:  which he did, as soon as he could pull\nup his horses.  Then, the nightcap once again appeared: and the same\nvoice called Oliver by his name.\n\n'Here!' cried the voice.  'Oliver, what's the news?  Miss Rose! Master\nO-li-ver!'\n\n'Is is you, Giles?' cried Oliver, running up to the chaise-door.\n\nGiles popped out his nightcap again, preparatory to making some reply,\nwhen he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the\nother corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news.\n\n'In a word!' cried the gentleman, 'Better or worse?'\n\n'Better--much better!' replied Oliver, hastily.\n\n'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the gentleman.  'You are sure?'\n\n'Quite, sir,' replied Oliver.  'The change took place only a few hours\nago; and Mr. Losberne says, that all danger is at an end.'\n\nThe gentleman said not another word, but, opening the chaise-door,\nleaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.\n\n'You are quite certain?  There is no possibility of any mistake on your\npart, my boy, is there?' demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice.\n'Do not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled.'\n\n'I would not for the world, sir,' replied Oliver.  'Indeed you may\nbelieve me.  Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us\nall for many years to come.  I heard him say so.'\n\nThe tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the\nbeginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away,\nand remained silent, for some minutes.  Oliver thought he heard him\nsob, more than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh\nremark--for he could well guess what his feelings were--and so stood\napart, feigning to be occupied with his nosegay.\n\nAll this time, Mr. Giles, with the white nightcap on, had been sitting\non the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and\nwiping his eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with\nwhite spots.  That the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was\nabundantly demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the\nyoung gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.\n\n'I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles,'\nsaid he.  'I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time\nbefore I see her.  You can say I am coming.'\n\n'I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry,' said Giles:  giving a final polish to\nhis ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; 'but if you would leave\nthe postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you.  It\nwouldn't be proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should\nnever have any more authority with them if they did.'\n\n'Well,' rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, 'you can do as you like. Let\nhim go on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us.\nOnly first exchange that nightcap for some more appropriate covering,\nor we shall be taken for madmen.'\n\nMr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and\npocketed his nightcap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape,\nwhich he took out of the chaise.  This done, the postboy drove off;\nGiles, Mr. Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.\n\nAs they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much\ninterest and curiosity at the new comer.  He seemed about\nfive-and-twenty years of age, and was of the middle height; his\ncountenance was frank and handsome; and his demeanor easy and\nprepossessing.  Notwithstanding the difference between youth and age,\nhe bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that Oliver would have\nhad no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, if he had not\nalready spoken of her as his mother.\n\nMrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached\nthe cottage.  The meeting did not take place without great emotion on\nboth sides.\n\n'Mother!' whispered the young man; 'why did you not write before?'\n\n'I did,' replied Mrs. Maylie; 'but, on reflection, I determined to keep\nback the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion.'\n\n'But why,' said the young man, 'why run the chance of that occurring\nwhich so nearly happened?  If Rose had--I cannot utter that word\nnow--if this illness had terminated differently, how could you ever\nhave forgiven yourself!  How could I ever have know happiness again!'\n\n'If that _had_ been the case, Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'I fear your\nhappiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival\nhere, a day sooner or a day later, would have been of very, very little\nimport.'\n\n'And who can wonder if it be so, mother?' rejoined the young man; 'or\nwhy should I say, _if_?--It is--it is--you know it, mother--you must\nknow it!'\n\n'I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can\noffer,' said Mrs. Maylie; 'I know that the devotion and affection of\nher nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and\nlasting.  If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed\nbehaviour in one she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my\ntask so difficult of performance, or have to encounter so many\nstruggles in my own bosom, when I take what seems to me to be the\nstrict line of duty.'\n\n'This is unkind, mother,' said Harry.  'Do you still suppose that I am\na boy ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own\nsoul?'\n\n'I think, my dear son,' returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his\nshoulder, 'that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and\nthat among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more\nfleeting.  Above all, I think' said the lady, fixing her eyes on her\nson's face, 'that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a\nwife on whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no\nfault of hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and\nupon his children also: and, in exact proportion to his success in the\nworld, be cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against\nhim:  he may, no matter how generous and good his nature, one day\nrepent of the connection he formed in early life.  And she may have the\npain of knowing that he does so.'\n\n'Mother,' said the young man, impatiently, 'he would be a selfish\nbrute, unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe,\nwho acted thus.'\n\n'You think so now, Harry,' replied his mother.\n\n'And ever will!' said the young man.  'The mental agony I have\nsuffered, during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of\na passion which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I\nhave lightly formed.  On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as\nfirmly as ever heart of man was set on woman.  I have no thought, no\nview, no hope in life, beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great\nstake, you take my peace and happiness in your hands, and cast them to\nthe wind.  Mother, think better of this, and of me, and do not\ndisregard the happiness of which you seem to think so little.'\n\n'Harry,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'it is because I think so much of warm and\nsensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we\nhave said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now.'\n\n'Let it rest with Rose, then,' interposed Harry.  'You will not press\nthese overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle\nin my way?'\n\n'I will not,' rejoined Mrs. Maylie; 'but I would have you consider--'\n\n'I _have_ considered!' was the impatient reply; 'Mother, I have\nconsidered, years and years.  I have considered, ever since I have been\ncapable of serious reflection.  My feelings remain unchanged, as they\never will; and why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them\nvent, which can be productive of no earthly good?  No!  Before I leave\nthis place, Rose shall hear me.'\n\n'She shall,' said Mrs. Maylie.\n\n'There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she\nwill hear me coldly, mother,' said the young man.\n\n'Not coldly,' rejoined the old lady; 'far from it.'\n\n'How then?' urged the young man.  'She has formed no other attachment?'\n\n'No, indeed,' replied his mother; 'you have, or I mistake, too strong a\nhold on her affections already.  What I would say,' resumed the old\nlady, stopping her son as he was about to speak, 'is this.  Before you\nstake your all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried\nto the highest point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child,\non Rose's history, and consider what effect the knowledge of her\ndoubtful birth may have on her decision:  devoted as she is to us, with\nall the intensity of her noble mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of\nself which, in all matters, great or trifling, has always been her\ncharacteristic.'\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'That I leave you to discover,' replied Mrs. Maylie.  'I must go back\nto her.  God bless you!'\n\n'I shall see you again to-night?' said the young man, eagerly.\n\n'By and by,' replied the lady; 'when I leave Rose.'\n\n'You will tell her I am here?' said Harry.\n\n'Of course,' replied Mrs. Maylie.\n\n'And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how\nI long to see her.  You will not refuse to do this, mother?'\n\n'No,' said the old lady; 'I will tell her all.'  And pressing her son's\nhand, affectionately, she hastened from the room.\n\nMr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment\nwhile this hurried conversation was proceeding.  The former now held\nout his hand to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged\nbetween them.  The doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious\nquestions from his young friend, a precise account of his patient's\nsituation; which was quite as consolatory and full of promise, as\nOliver's statement had encouraged him to hope; and to the whole of\nwhich, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy about the luggage, listened\nwith greedy ears.\n\n'Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?' inquired the\ndoctor, when he had concluded.\n\n'Nothing particular, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.\n\n'Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any house-breakers?' said\nthe doctor.\n\n'None at all, sir,' replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.\n\n'Well,' said the doctor, 'I am sorry to hear it, because you do that\nsort of thing admirably.  Pray, how is Brittles?'\n\n'The boy is very well, sir,' said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone\nof patronage; 'and sends his respectful duty, sir.'\n\n'That's well,' said the doctor.  'Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr.\nGiles, that on the day before that on which I was called away so\nhurriedly, I executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small\ncommission in your favour.  Just step into this corner a moment, will\nyou?'\n\nMr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder,\nand was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on\nthe termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with\nsteps of unusual stateliness.  The subject matter of this conference\nwas not disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily\nenlightened concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and\nhaving called for a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty,\nwhich was highly effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in\nconsideration of his gallant behaviour on the occasion of that\nattempted robbery, to deposit, in the local savings-bank, the sum of\nfive-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use and benefit.  At this, the two\nwomen-servants lifted up their hands and eyes, and supposed that Mr.\nGiles, pulling out his shirt-frill, replied, 'No, no'; and that if they\nobserved that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would thank\nthem to tell him so.  And then he made a great many other remarks, no\nless illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal\nfavour and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the\npurpose, as the remarks of great men commonly are.\n\nAbove stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for\nthe doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful\nHarry Maylie might have been at first, he was not proof against the\nworthy gentleman's good humour, which displayed itself in a great\nvariety of sallies and professional recollections, and an abundance of\nsmall jokes, which struck Oliver as being the drollest things he had\never heard, and caused him to laugh proportionately; to the evident\nsatisfaction of the doctor, who laughed immoderately at himself, and\nmade Harry laugh almost as heartily, by the very force of sympathy.\nSo, they were as pleasant a party as, under the circumstances, they\ncould well have been; and it was late before they retired, with light\nand thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after the doubt and\nsuspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in need.\n\nOliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual\noccupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many\ndays.  The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places;\nand the sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more\ngathered to gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had\nseemed to the sad eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over\nevery object, beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic.  The dew\nseemed to sparkle more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle\namong them with a sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue\nand bright. Such is the influence which the condition of our own\nthoughts, exercise, even over the appearance of external objects.  Men\nwho look on nature, and their fellow-men, and cry that all is dark and\ngloomy, are in the right; but the sombre colours are reflections from\ntheir own jaundiced eyes and hearts.  The real hues are delicate, and\nneed a clearer vision.\n\nIt is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time,\nthat his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie,\nafter the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was\nseized with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in\ntheir arrangement, as left his young companion far behind.  If Oliver\nwere behindhand in these respects, he knew where the best were to be\nfound; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and\nbrought home the fairest that blossomed.  The window of the young\nlady's chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer\nair stream in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always\nstood in water, just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch,\nwhich was made up with great care, every morning.  Oliver could not\nhelp noticing that the withered flowers were never thrown away,\nalthough the little vase was regularly replenished; nor, could he help\nobserving, that whenever the doctor came into the garden, he invariably\ncast his eyes up to that particular corner, and nodded his head most\nexpressively, as he set forth on his morning's walk.  Pending these\nobservations, the days were flying by; and Rose was rapidly recovering.\n\nNor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady\nhad not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now\nand then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself,\nwith redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old\ngentleman, and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even\nhimself.  It was while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was\ngreatly startled and distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.\n\nThe little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his\nbooks, was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house.  It was quite\na cottage-room, with a lattice-window: around which were clusters of\njessamine and honeysuckle, that crept over the casement, and filled the\nplace with their delicious perfume.  It looked into a garden, whence a\nwicket-gate opened into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine\nmeadow-land and wood.  There was no other dwelling near, in that\ndirection; and the prospect it commanded was very extensive.\n\nOne beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning\nto settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this window, intent upon his\nbooks.  He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had\nbeen uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, it is\nno disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have been, to say,\nthat gradually and by slow degrees, he fell asleep.\n\nThere is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it\nholds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things\nabout it, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure.  So far as an\noverpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter\ninability to control our thoughts or power of motion, can be called\nsleep, this is it; and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is\ngoing on about us, and, if we dream at such a time, words which are\nreally spoken, or sounds which really exist at the moment, accommodate\nthemselves with surprising readiness to our visions, until reality and\nimagination become so strangely blended that it is afterwards almost\nmatter of impossibility to separate the two.  Nor is this, the most\nstriking phenomenon incidental to such a state.  It is an undoubted\nfact, that although our senses of touch and sight be for the time dead,\nyet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes that pass before\nus, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the _mere silent\npresence_ of some external object; which may not have been near us when\nwe closed our eyes:  and of whose vicinity we have had no waking\nconsciousness.\n\nOliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that\nhis books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was\nstirring among the creeping plants outside.  And yet he was asleep.\nSuddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he\nthought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again.\nThere sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at\nhim, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat\nbeside him.\n\n'Hush, my dear!' he thought he heard the Jew say; 'it is he, sure\nenough.  Come away.'\n\n'He!' the other man seemed to answer; 'could I mistake him, think you?\nIf a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and\nhe stood amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to\npoint him out.  If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across\nhis grave, I fancy I should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that\nhe lay buried there?'\n\nThe man seemed to say this, with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver\nawoke with the fear, and started up.\n\nGood Heaven!  what was that, which sent the blood tingling to his\nheart, and deprived him of his voice, and of power to move!\nThere--there--at the window--close before him--so close, that he could\nhave almost touched him before he started back:  with his eyes peering\ninto the room, and meeting his:  there stood the Jew!  And beside him,\nwhite with rage or fear, or both, were the scowling features of the man\nwho had accosted him in the inn-yard.\n\nIt was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they\nwere gone.  But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look\nwas as firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply\ncarved in stone, and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed\nfor a moment; then, leaping from the window into the garden, called\nloudly for help.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXV\n\nCONTAINING THE UNSATISFACTORY RESULT OF OLIVER'S ADVENTURE; AND A\nCONVERSATION OF SOME IMPORTANCE BETWEEN HARRY MAYLIE AND ROSE\n\nWhen the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to\nthe spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated,\npointing in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely\nable to articulate the words, 'The Jew! the Jew!'\n\nMr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry\nMaylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard\nOliver's history from his mother, understood it at once.\n\n'What direction did he take?' he asked, catching up a heavy stick which\nwas standing in a corner.\n\n'That,' replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; 'I\nmissed them in an instant.'\n\n'Then, they are in the ditch!' said Harry.  'Follow!  And keep as near\nme, as you can.' So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off\nwith a speed which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the\nothers to keep near him.\n\nGiles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the\ncourse of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and\njust then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking\nhimself up with more agility than he could have been supposed to\npossess, struck into the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting\nall the while, most prodigiously, to know what was the matter.\n\nOn they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader,\nstriking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to\nsearch, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time\nfor the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to\ncommunicate to Mr. Losberne the circumstances that had led to so\nvigorous a pursuit.\n\nThe search was all in vain.  There were not even the traces of recent\nfootsteps, to be seen.  They stood now, on the summit of a little hill,\ncommanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles.\nThere was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain\nthat, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must\nhave made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could\nhave accomplished in so short a time.  A thick wood skirted the\nmeadow-land in another direction; but they could not have gained that\ncovert for the same reason.\n\n'It must have been a dream, Oliver,' said Harry Maylie.\n\n'Oh no, indeed, sir,' replied Oliver, shuddering at the very\nrecollection of the old wretch's countenance; 'I saw him too plainly\nfor that.  I saw them both, as plainly as I see you now.'\n\n'Who was the other?' inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.\n\n'The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the\ninn,' said Oliver.  'We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I\ncould swear to him.'\n\n'They took this way?' demanded Harry:  'are you sure?'\n\n'As I am that the men were at the window,' replied Oliver, pointing\ndown, as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage-garden from\nthe meadow.  'The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew,\nrunning a few paces to the right, crept through that gap.'\n\nThe two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and\nlooking from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the\naccuracy of what he said.  Still, in no direction were there any\nappearances of the trampling of men in hurried flight.  The grass was\nlong; but it was trodden down nowhere, save where their own feet had\ncrushed it.  The sides and brinks of the ditches were of damp clay; but\nin no one place could they discern the print of men's shoes, or the\nslightest mark which would indicate that any feet had pressed the\nground for hours before.\n\n'This is strange!' said Harry.\n\n'Strange?' echoed the doctor.  'Blathers and Duff, themselves, could\nmake nothing of it.'\n\nNotwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did\nnot desist until the coming on of night rendered its further\nprosecution hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance.\nGiles was dispatched to the different ale-houses in the village,\nfurnished with the best description Oliver could give of the appearance\nand dress of the strangers.  Of these, the Jew was, at all events,\nsufficiently remarkable to be remembered, supposing he had been seen\ndrinking, or loitering about; but Giles returned without any\nintelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the mystery.\n\nOn the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but\nwith no better success.  On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie\nrepaired to the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something\nof the men there; but this effort was equally fruitless.  After a few\ndays, the affair began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when\nwonder, having no fresh food to support it, dies away of itself.\n\nMeanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering.  She had left her room: was\nable to go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into\nthe hearts of all.\n\nBut, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little\ncircle; and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more\nheard in the cottage; there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon\nsome there:  even upon Rose herself: which Oliver could not fail to\nremark.  Mrs. Maylie and her son were often closeted together for a\nlong time; and more than once Rose appeared with traces of tears upon\nher face.  After Mr. Losberne had fixed a day for his departure to\nChertsey, these symptoms increased; and it became evident that\nsomething was in progress which affected the peace of the young lady,\nand of somebody else besides.\n\nAt length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour,\nHarry Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to\nspeak with her for a few moments.\n\n'A few--a very few--will suffice, Rose,' said the young man, drawing\nhis chair towards her.  'What I shall have to say, has already\npresented itself to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are\nnot unknown to you, though from my lips you have not heard them stated.'\n\nRose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might\nhave been the effect of her recent illness.  She merely bowed; and\nbending over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to\nproceed.\n\n'I--I--ought to have left here, before,' said Harry.\n\n'You should, indeed,' replied Rose.  'Forgive me for saying so, but I\nwish you had.'\n\n'I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all\napprehensions,' said the young man; 'the fear of losing the one dear\nbeing on whom my every wish and hope are fixed.  You had been dying;\ntrembling between earth and heaven.  We know that when the young, the\nbeautiful, and good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits\ninsensibly turn towards their bright home of lasting rest; we know,\nHeaven help us! that the best and fairest of our kind, too often fade\nin blooming.'\n\nThere were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were\nspoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and\nglistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as\nthough the outpouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred\nnaturally, with the loveliest things in nature.\n\n'A creature,' continued the young man, passionately, 'a creature as\nfair and innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered\nbetween life and death.  Oh! who could hope, when the distant world to\nwhich she was akin, half opened to her view, that she would return to\nthe sorrow and calamity of this!  Rose, Rose, to know that you were\npassing away like some soft shadow, which a light from above, casts\nupon the earth; to have no hope that you would be spared to those who\nlinger here; hardly to know a reason why you should be; to feel that\nyou belonged to that bright sphere whither so many of the fairest and\nthe best have winged their early flight; and yet to pray, amid all\nthese consolations, that you might be restored to those who loved\nyou--these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were mine,\nby day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of fears,\nand apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and never\nknow how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason in\nits course.  You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some\ndrop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream\nof life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a\nhigh and rushing tide.  I have watched you change almost from death, to\nlife, with eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep\naffection. Do not tell me that you wish I had lost this; for it has\nsoftened my heart to all mankind.'\n\n'I did not mean that,' said Rose, weeping; 'I only wish you had left\nhere, that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to\npursuits well worthy of you.'\n\n'There is no pursuit more worthy of me:  more worthy of the highest\nnature that exists:  than the struggle to win such a heart as yours,'\nsaid the young man, taking her hand. 'Rose, my own dear Rose!  For\nyears--for years--I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and\nthen come proudly home and tell you it had been pursued only for you to\nshare; thinking, in my daydreams, how I would remind you, in that happy\nmoment, of the many silent tokens I had given of a boy's attachment,\nand claim your hand, as in redemption of some old mute contract that\nhad been sealed between us!  That time has not arrived; but here, with\nnot fame won, and no young vision realised, I offer you the heart so\nlong your own, and stake my all upon the words with which you greet the\noffer.'\n\n'Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble.' said Rose, mastering the\nemotions by which she was agitated.  'As you believe that I am not\ninsensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer.'\n\n'It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; it is, dear Rose?'\n\n'It is,' replied Rose, 'that you must endeavour to forget me; not as\nyour old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply;\nbut, as the object of your love.  Look into the world; think how many\nhearts you would be proud to gain, are there. Confide some other\npassion to me, if you will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most\nfaithful friend you have.'\n\nThere was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with\none hand, gave free vent to her tears.  Harry still retained the other.\n\n'And your reasons, Rose,' he said, at length, in a low voice; 'your\nreasons for this decision?'\n\n'You have a right to know them,' rejoined Rose.  'You can say nothing\nto alter my resolution.  It is a duty that I must perform.  I owe it,\nalike to others, and to myself.'\n\n'To yourself?'\n\n'Yes, Harry.  I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portionless,\ngirl, with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason\nto suspect that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and\nfastened myself, a clog, on all your hopes and projects.  I owe it to\nyou and yours, to prevent you from opposing, in the warmth of your\ngenerous nature, this great obstacle to your progress in the world.'\n\n'If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty--' Harry began.\n\n'They do not,' replied Rose, colouring deeply.\n\n'Then you return my love?' said Harry.  'Say but that, dear Rose; say\nbut that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!'\n\n'If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved,'\nrejoined Rose, 'I could have--'\n\n'Have received this declaration very differently?' said Harry. 'Do not\nconceal that from me, at least, Rose.'\n\n'I could,' said Rose.  'Stay!' she added, disengaging her hand, 'why\nshould we prolong this painful interview?  Most painful to me, and yet\nproductive of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it _will_ be\nhappiness to know that I once held the high place in your regard which\nI now occupy, and every triumph you achieve in life will animate me\nwith new fortitude and firmness.  Farewell, Harry!  As we have met\nto-day, we meet no more; but in other relations than those in which\nthis conversation have placed us, we may be long and happily entwined;\nand may every blessing that the prayers of a true and earnest heart can\ncall down from the source of all truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper\nyou!'\n\n'Another word, Rose,' said Harry.  'Your reason in your own words.\nFrom your own lips, let me hear it!'\n\n'The prospect before you,' answered Rose, firmly, 'is a brilliant one.\nAll the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can\nhelp men in public life, are in store for you. But those connections\nare proud; and I will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the\nmother who gave me life; nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of\nher who has so well supplied that mother's place.  In a word,' said the\nyoung lady, turning away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, 'there\nis a stain upon my name, which the world visits on innocent heads.  I\nwill carry it into no blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest\nalone on me.'\n\n'One word more, Rose.  Dearest Rose! one more!' cried Harry, throwing\nhimself before her.  'If I had been less--less fortunate, the world\nwould call it--if some obscure and peaceful life had been my\ndestiny--if I had been poor, sick, helpless--would you have turned from\nme then?  Or has my probable advancement to riches and honour, given\nthis scruple birth?'\n\n'Do not press me to reply,' answered Rose.  'The question does not\narise, and never will.  It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it.'\n\n'If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is,' retorted Harry,\n'it will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the\npath before me.  It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the\nutterance of a few brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else.\nOh, Rose: in the name of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name\nof all I have suffered for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer\nme this one question!'\n\n'Then, if your lot had been differently cast,' rejoined Rose; 'if you\nhad been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been\na help and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement,\nand not a blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds; I\nshould have been spared this trial.  I have every reason to be happy,\nvery happy, now; but then, Harry, I own I should have been happier.'\n\nBusy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded\ninto the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears\nwith them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they\nrelieved her.\n\n'I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger,' said\nRose, extending her hand.  'I must leave you now, indeed.'\n\n'I ask one promise,' said Harry.  'Once, and only once more,--say\nwithin a year, but it may be much sooner,--I may speak to you again on\nthis subject, for the last time.'\n\n'Not to press me to alter my right determination,' replied Rose, with a\nmelancholy smile; 'it will be useless.'\n\n'No,' said Harry; 'to hear you repeat it, if you will--finally repeat\nit!  I will lay at your feet, whatever of station of fortune I may\npossess; and if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not\nseek, by word or act, to change it.'\n\n'Then let it be so,' rejoined Rose; 'it is but one pang the more, and\nby that time I may be enabled to bear it better.'\n\nShe extended her hand again.  But the young man caught her to his\nbosom; and imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from\nthe room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVI\n\nIS A VERY SHORT ONE, AND MAY APPEAR OF NO GREAT IMPORTANCE IN ITS\nPLACE, BUT IT SHOULD BE READ NOTWITHSTANDING, AS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST,\nAND A KEY TO ONE THAT WILL FOLLOW WHEN ITS TIME ARRIVES\n\n'And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning;\neh?' said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the\nbreakfast-table.  'Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two\nhalf-hours together!'\n\n'You will tell me a different tale one of these days,' said Harry,\ncolouring without any perceptible reason.\n\n'I hope I may have good cause to do so,' replied Mr. Losberne; 'though\nI confess I don't think I shall.  But yesterday morning you had made up\nyour mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your\nmother, like a dutiful son, to the sea-side. Before noon, you announce\nthat you are going to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I\ngo, on your road to London.  And at night, you urge me, with great\nmystery, to start before the ladies are stirring; the consequence of\nwhich is, that young Oliver here is pinned down to his breakfast when\nhe ought to be ranging the meadows after botanical phenomena of all\nkinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver?'\n\n'I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and\nMr. Maylie went away, sir,' rejoined Oliver.\n\n'That's a fine fellow,' said the doctor; 'you shall come and see me\nwhen you return.  But, to speak seriously, Harry; has any communication\nfrom the great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be\ngone?'\n\n'The great nobs,' replied Harry, 'under which designation, I presume,\nyou include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at\nall, since I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it\nlikely that anything would occur to render necessary my immediate\nattendance among them.'\n\n'Well,' said the doctor, 'you are a queer fellow.  But of course they\nwill get you into parliament at the election before Christmas, and\nthese sudden shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political\nlife.  There's something in that.  Good training is always desirable,\nwhether the race be for place, cup, or sweepstakes.'\n\nHarry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue\nby one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a\nlittle; but he contented himself with saying, 'We shall see,' and\npursued the subject no farther.  The post-chaise drove up to the door\nshortly afterwards; and Giles coming in for the luggage, the good\ndoctor bustled out, to see it packed.\n\n'Oliver,' said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, 'let me speak a word with\nyou.'\n\nOliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him;\nmuch surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which\nhis whole behaviour displayed.\n\n'You can write well now?' said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.\n\n'I hope so, sir,' replied Oliver.\n\n'I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would\nwrite to me--say once a fort-night:  every alternate Monday: to the\nGeneral Post Office in London.  Will you?'\n\n'Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it,' exclaimed Oliver,\ngreatly delighted with the commission.\n\n'I should like to know how--how my mother and Miss Maylie are,' said\nthe young man; 'and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks\nyou take, and what you talk about, and whether she--they, I mean--seem\nhappy and quite well. You understand me?'\n\n'Oh! quite, sir, quite,' replied Oliver.\n\n'I would rather you did not mention it to them,' said Harry, hurrying\nover his words; 'because it might make my mother anxious to write to me\noftener, and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret\nbetween you and me; and mind you tell me everything!  I depend upon\nyou.'\n\nOliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance,\nfaithfully promised to be secret and explicit in his communications.\nMr. Maylie took leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and\nprotection.\n\nThe doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should\nbe left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants\nwere in the garden, looking on.  Harry cast one slight glance at the\nlatticed window, and jumped into the carriage.\n\n'Drive on!' he cried, 'hard, fast, full gallop!  Nothing short of\nflying will keep pace with me, to-day.'\n\n'Halloa!' cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great\nhurry, and shouting to the postillion; 'something very short of flying\nwill keep pace with _me_.  Do you hear?'\n\nJingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible,\nand its rapid progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound\nits way along the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust: now wholly\ndisappearing, and now becoming visible again, as intervening objects,\nor the intricacies of the way, permitted.  It was not until even the\ndusty cloud was no longer to be seen, that the gazers dispersed.\n\nAnd there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot\nwhere the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away;\nfor, behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when\nHarry raised his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.\n\n'He seems in high spirits and happy,' she said, at length. 'I feared\nfor a time he might be otherwise.  I was mistaken.  I am very, very\nglad.'\n\nTears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed\ndown Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in\nthe same direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVII\n\nIN WHICH THE READER MAY PERCEIVE A CONTRAST, NOT UNCOMMON IN\nMATRIMONIAL CASES\n\nMr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on\nthe cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam\nproceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which\nwere sent back from its cold and shining surface.  A paper fly-cage\ndangled from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in\ngloomy thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy\nnet-work, Mr. Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy\nshadow overspread his countenance.  Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might\nbe that the insects brought to mind, some painful passage in his own\npast life.\n\nNor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a\npleasing melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting\nother appearances, and those closely connected with his own person,\nwhich announced that a great change had taken place in the position of\nhis affairs.  The laced coat, and the cocked hat; where were they?  He\nstill wore knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether\nlimbs; but they were not _the_ breeches.  The coat was wide-skirted;\nand in that respect like _the_ coat, but, oh how different!  The mighty\ncocked hat was replaced by a modest round one.  Mr. Bumble was no\nlonger a beadle.\n\nThere are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more\nsubstantial rewards they offer, require peculiar value and dignity from\nthe coats and waistcoats connected with them.  A field-marshal has his\nuniform; a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle\nhis cocked hat.  Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his\nhat and lace; what are they?  Men.  Mere men.  Dignity, and even\nholiness too, sometimes, are more questions of coat and waistcoat than\nsome people imagine.\n\nMr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse.\nAnother beadle had come into power.  On him the cocked hat, gold-laced\ncoat, and staff, had all three descended.\n\n'And to-morrow two months it was done!' said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh.\n'It seems a age.'\n\nMr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence\nof happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh--there\nwas a vast deal of meaning in the sigh.\n\n'I sold myself,' said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of relection,\n'for six teaspoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and a milk-pot; with a small\nquantity of second-hand furniture, and twenty pound in money.  I went\nvery reasonable.  Cheap, dirt cheap!'\n\n'Cheap!' cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble's ear: 'you would have been\ndear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows\nthat!'\n\nMr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort,\nwho, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his\ncomplaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.\n\n'Mrs. Bumble, ma'am!' said Mr. Bumble, with a sentimental sternness.\n\n'Well!' cried the lady.\n\n'Have the goodness to look at me,' said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes\nupon her.  (If she stands such a eye as that,' said Mr. Bumble to\nhimself, 'she can stand anything.  It is a eye I never knew to fail\nwith paupers.  If it fails with her, my power is gone.')\n\nWhether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell\npaupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or\nwhether the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle\nglances; are matters of opinion.  The matter of fact, is, that the\nmatron was in no way overpowered by Mr. Bumble's scowl, but, on the\ncontrary, treated it with great disdain, and even raised a laugh\nthereat, which sounded as though it were genuine.\n\nOn hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first\nincredulous, and afterwards amazed.  He then relapsed into his former\nstate; nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened\nby the voice of his partner.\n\n'Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?' inquired Mrs. Bumble.\n\n'I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma'am,' rejoined\nMr. Bumble; 'and although I was _not_ snoring, I shall snore, gape,\nsneeze, laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my\nprerogative.'\n\n'_Your_ prerogative!' sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.\n\n'I said the word, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble.  'The prerogative of a man\nis to command.'\n\n'And what's the prerogative of a woman, in the name of Goodness?' cried\nthe relict of Mr. Corney deceased.\n\n'To obey, ma'am,' thundered Mr. Bumble.  'Your late unfortunate husband\nshould have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive\nnow.  I wish he was, poor man!'\n\nMrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now\narrived, and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or\nother, must necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this\nallusion to the dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with\na loud scream that Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a\nparoxysm of tears.\n\nBut, tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble's soul;\nhis heart was waterproof.  Like washable beaver hats that improve with\nrain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by showers of\ntears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit admissions of\nhis own power, pleased and exalted him.  He eyed his good lady with\nlooks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, that\nshe should cry her hardest:  the exercise being looked upon, by the\nfaculty, as strongly conducive to health.\n\n'It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and\nsoftens down the temper,' said Mr. Bumble.  'So cry away.'\n\nAs he discharged himself of this pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat\nfrom a peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly, on one side, as a man\nmight, who felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner,\nthrust his hands into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with\nmuch ease and waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.\n\nNow, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because they were less\ntroublesome than a manual assault; but, she was quite prepared to make\ntrial of the latter mode of proceeding, as Mr. Bumble was not long in\ndiscovering.\n\nThe first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow\nsound, immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the\nopposite end of the room.  This preliminary proceeding laying bare his\nhead, the expert lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one\nhand, inflicted a shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and\ndexterity) upon it with the other.  This done, she created a little\nvariety by scratching his face, and tearing his hair; and, having, by\nthis time, inflicted as much punishment as she deemed necessary for the\noffence, she pushed him over a chair, which was luckily well situated\nfor the purpose:  and defied him to talk about his prerogative again,\nif he dared.\n\n'Get up!' said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command.  'And take yourself\naway from here, unless you want me to do something desperate.'\n\nMr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance:  wondering much what\nsomething desperate might be.  Picking up his hat, he looked towards\nthe door.\n\n'Are you going?' demanded Mrs. Bumble.\n\n'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker\nmotion towards the door.  'I didn't intend to--I'm going, my dear!  You\nare so very violent, that really I--'\n\nAt this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the\ncarpet, which had been kicked up in the scuffle.  Mr. Bumble\nimmediately darted out of the room, without bestowing another thought\non his unfinished sentence:  leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full\npossession of the field.\n\nMr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten.  He had a\ndecided propensity for bullying:  derived no inconsiderable pleasure\nfrom the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is\nneedless to say) a coward.  This is by no means a disparagement to his\ncharacter; for many official personages, who are held in high respect\nand admiration, are the victims of similar infirmities.  The remark is\nmade, indeed, rather in his favour than otherwise, and with a view of\nimpressing the reader with a just sense of his qualifications for\noffice.\n\nBut, the measure of his degradation was not yet full.  After making a\ntour of the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws\nreally were too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their\nwives, leaving them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice to be\nvisited with no punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious\nindividuals who had suffered much; Mr. Bumble came to a room where some\nof the female paupers were usually employed in washing the parish\nlinen:  when the sound of voices in conversation, now proceeded.\n\n'Hem!' said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. 'These\nwomen at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hallo! hallo\nthere!  What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?'\n\nWith these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very\nfierce and angry manner:  which was at once exchanged for a most\nhumiliated and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the\nform of his lady wife.\n\n'My dear,' said Mr. Bumble, 'I didn't know you were here.'\n\n'Didn't know I was here!' repeated Mrs. Bumble.  'What do _you_ do\nhere?'\n\n'I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work\nproperly, my dear,' replied Mr. Bumble:  glancing distractedly at a\ncouple of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of\nadmiration at the workhouse-master's humility.\n\n'_You_ thought they were talking too much?' said Mrs. Bumble. 'What\nbusiness is it of yours?'\n\n'Why, my dear--' urged Mr. Bumble submissively.\n\n'What business is it of yours?' demanded Mrs. Bumble, again.\n\n'It's very true, you're matron here, my dear,' submitted Mr. Bumble;\n'but I thought you mightn't be in the way just then.'\n\n'I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble,' returned his lady.  'We don't want\nany of your interference.  You're a great deal too fond of poking your\nnose into things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house\nlaugh, the moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a\nfool every hour in the day.  Be off; come!'\n\nMr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings, the delight of the two\nold paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated\nfor an instant.  Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught\nup a bowl of soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him\ninstantly to depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly\nperson.\n\nWhat could Mr. Bumble do?  He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away;\nand, as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a\nshrill chuckle of irrepressible delight.  It wanted but this.  He was\ndegraded in their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very\npaupers; he had fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to\nthe lowest depth of the most snubbed hen-peckery.\n\n'All in two months!' said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts.\n'Two months!  No more than two months ago, I was not only my own\nmaster, but everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was\nconcerned, and now!--'\n\nIt was too much.  Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the\ngate for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and\nwalked, distractedly, into the street.\n\nHe walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated\nthe first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made\nhim thirsty.  He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length\npaused before one in a by-way, whose parlour, as he gathered from a\nhasty peep over the blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary\ncustomer.  It began to rain, heavily, at the moment.  This determined\nhim.  Mr. Bumble stepped in; and ordering something to drink, as he\npassed the bar, entered the apartment into which he had looked from the\nstreet.\n\nThe man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large\ncloak.  He had the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain\nhaggardness in his look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to\nhave travelled some distance.  He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered,\nbut scarcely deigned to nod his head in acknowledgment of his\nsalutation.\n\nMr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two; supposing even that the\nstranger had been more familiar:  so he drank his gin-and-water in\nsilence, and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.\n\nIt so happened, however: as it will happen very often, when men fall\ninto company under such circumstances:  that Mr. Bumble felt, every now\nand then, a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a\nlook at the stranger:  and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his\neyes, in some confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment\nstealing a look at him.  Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the\nvery remarkable expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and\nbright, but shadowed by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike\nanything he had ever observed before, and repulsive to behold.\n\nWhen they had encountered each other's glance several times in this\nway, the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.\n\n'Were you looking for me,' he said, 'when you peered in at the window?'\n\n'Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr.--'  Here Mr. Bumble stopped\nshort; for he was curious to know the stranger's name, and thought in\nhis impatience, he might supply the blank.\n\n'I see you were not,' said the stranger; an expression of quiet sarcasm\nplaying about his mouth; 'or you have known my name.  You don't know\nit.  I would recommend you not to ask for it.'\n\n'I meant no harm, young man,' observed Mr. Bumble, majestically.\n\n'And have done none,' said the stranger.\n\nAnother silence succeeded this short dialogue:  which was again broken\nby the stranger.\n\n'I have seen you before, I think?' said he.  'You were differently\ndressed at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should\nknow you again.  You were beadle here, once; were you not?'\n\n'I was,' said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; 'porochial beadle.'\n\n'Just so,' rejoined the other, nodding his head.  'It was in that\ncharacter I saw you.  What are you now?'\n\n'Master of the workhouse,' rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and\nimpressively, to check any undue familiarity the stranger might\notherwise assume.  'Master of the workhouse, young man!'\n\n'You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I\ndoubt not?' resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's\neyes, as he raised them in astonishment at the question.\n\n'Don't scruple to answer freely, man.  I know you pretty well, you see.'\n\n'I suppose, a married man,' replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with\nhis hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident\nperplexity, 'is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can,\nthan a single one.  Porochial officers are not so well paid that they\ncan afford to refuse any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a\ncivil and proper manner.'\n\nThe stranger smiled, and nodded his head again: as much to say, he had\nnot mistaken his man; then rang the bell.\n\n'Fill this glass again,' he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to\nthe landlord.  'Let it be strong and hot.  You like it so, I suppose?'\n\n'Not too strong,' replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.\n\n'You understand what that means, landlord!' said the stranger, drily.\n\nThe host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a\nsteaming jorum: of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr.\nBumble's eyes.\n\n'Now listen to me,' said the stranger, after closing the door and\nwindow.  'I came down to this place, to-day, to find you out; and, by\none of those chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends\nsometimes, you walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you\nwere uppermost in my mind.  I want some information from you.  I don't\nask you to give it for nothing, slight as it is.  Put up that, to begin\nwith.'\n\nAs he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table to his\ncompanion, carefully, as though unwilling that the chinking of money\nshould be heard without.  When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the\ncoins, to see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much\nsatisfaction, in his waistcoat-pocket, he went on:\n\n'Carry your memory back--let me see--twelve years, last winter.'\n\n'It's a long time,' said Mr. Bumble.  'Very good.  I've done it.'\n\n'The scene, the workhouse.'\n\n'Good!'\n\n'And the time, night.'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable\ndrabs brought forth the life and health so often denied to\nthemselves--gave birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and\nhid their shame, rot 'em in the grave!'\n\n'The lying-in room, I suppose?' said Mr. Bumble, not quite following\nthe stranger's excited description.\n\n'Yes,' said the stranger.  'A boy was born there.'\n\n'A many boys,' observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head, despondingly.\n\n'A murrain on the young devils!' cried the stranger; 'I speak of one; a\nmeek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here, to a\ncoffin-maker--I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in\nit--and who afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed.\n\n'Why, you mean Oliver!  Young Twist!' said Mr. Bumble; 'I remember him,\nof course.  There wasn't a obstinater young rascal--'\n\n'It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him,' said the\nstranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the outset of a tirade on the subject\nof poor Oliver's vices.  'It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his\nmother.  Where is she?'\n\n'Where is she?' said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered\nfacetious.  'It would be hard to tell.  There's no midwifery there,\nwhichever place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment,\nanyway.'\n\n'What do you mean?' demanded the stranger, sternly.\n\n'That she died last winter,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.\n\nThe man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and\nalthough he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his\ngaze gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in\nthought.  For some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be\nrelieved or disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed\nmore freely; and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great\nmatter. With that he rose, as if to depart.\n\nBut Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an\nopportunity was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in\nthe possession of his better half.  He well remembered the night of old\nSally's death, which the occurrences of that day had given him good\nreason to recollect, as the occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs.\nCorney; and although that lady had never confided to him the disclosure\nof which she had been the solitary witness, he had heard enough to know\nthat it related to something that had occurred in the old woman's\nattendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young mother of Oliver Twist.\nHastily calling this circumstance to mind, he informed the stranger,\nwith an air of mystery, that one woman had been closeted with the old\nharridan shortly before she died; and that she could, as he had reason\nto believe, throw some light on the subject of his inquiry.\n\n'How can I find her?' said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and\nplainly showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused\nafresh by the intelligence.\n\n'Only through me,' rejoined Mr. Bumble.\n\n'When?' cried the stranger, hastily.\n\n'To-morrow,' rejoined Bumble.\n\n'At nine in the evening,' said the stranger, producing a scrap of\npaper, and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side,\nin characters that betrayed his agitation; 'at nine in the evening,\nbring her to me there.  I needn't tell you to be secret.  It's your\ninterest.'\n\nWith these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for\nthe liquor that had been drunk.  Shortly remarking that their roads\nwere different, he departed, without more ceremony than an emphatic\nrepetition of the hour of appointment for the following night.\n\nOn glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it\ncontained no name.  The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him\nto ask it.\n\n'What do you want?' cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble\ntouched him on the arm.  'Following me?'\n\n'Only to ask a question,' said the other, pointing to the scrap of\npaper.  'What name am I to ask for?'\n\n'Monks!' rejoined the man; and strode hastily, away.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXVIII\n\nCONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN MR. AND MRS. BUMBLE, AND\nMR. MONKS, AT THEIR NOCTURNAL INTERVIEW\n\nIt was a dull, close, overcast summer evening.  The clouds, which had\nbeen threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of\nvapour, already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a\nviolent thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the\nmain street of the town, directed their course towards a scattered\nlittle colony of ruinous houses, distant from it some mile and a-half,\nor thereabouts, and erected on a low unwholesome swamp, bordering upon\nthe river.\n\nThey were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might,\nperhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the\nrain, and sheltering them from observation.  The husband carried a\nlantern, from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged on, a few\npaces in front, as though--the way being dirty--to give his wife the\nbenefit of treading in his heavy footprints.  They went on, in profound\nsilence; every now and then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned\nhis head as if to make sure that his helpmate was following; then,\ndiscovering that she was close at his heels, he mended his rate of\nwalking, and proceeded, at a considerable increase of speed, towards\ntheir place of destination.\n\nThis was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long\nbeen known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under\nvarious pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on\nplunder and crime.  It was a collection of mere hovels:  some, hastily\nbuilt with loose bricks: others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber: jumbled\ntogether without any attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for\nthe most part, within a few feet of the river's bank.  A few leaky\nboats drawn up on the mud, and made fast to the dwarf wall which\nskirted it:  and here and there an oar or coil of rope:  appeared, at\nfirst, to indicate that the inhabitants of these miserable cottages\npursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the shattered and\nuseless condition of the articles thus displayed, would have led a\npasser-by, without much difficulty, to the conjecture that they were\ndisposed there, rather for the preservation of appearances, than with\nany view to their being actually employed.\n\nIn the heart of this cluster of huts; and skirting the river, which its\nupper stories overhung; stood a large building, formerly used as a\nmanufactory of some kind.  It had, in its day, probably furnished\nemployment to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements.  But it had\nlong since gone to ruin.  The rat, the worm, and the action of the\ndamp, had weakened and rotted the piles on which it stood; and a\nconsiderable portion of the building had already sunk down into the\nwater; while the remainder, tottering and bending over the dark stream,\nseemed to wait a favourable opportunity of following its old companion,\nand involving itself in the same fate.\n\nIt was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as\nthe first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain\ncommenced pouring violently down.\n\n'The place should be somewhere here,' said Bumble, consulting a scrap\nof paper he held in his hand.\n\n'Halloa there!' cried a voice from above.\n\nFollowing the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head and descried a man\nlooking out of a door, breast-high, on the second story.\n\n'Stand still, a minute,' cried the voice; 'I'll be with you directly.'\nWith which the head disappeared, and the door closed.\n\n'Is that the man?' asked Mr. Bumble's good lady.\n\nMr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.\n\n'Then, mind what I told you,' said the matron: 'and be careful to say\nas little as you can, or you'll betray us at once.'\n\nMr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was\napparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of\nproceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was\nprevented by the appearance of Monks: who opened a small door, near\nwhich they stood, and beckoned them inwards.\n\n'Come in!' he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground.\n'Don't keep me here!'\n\nThe woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any\nother invitation.  Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lag behind,\nfollowed:  obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that\nremarkable dignity which was usually his chief characteristic.\n\n'What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?' said\nMonks, turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the\ndoor behind them.\n\n'We--we were only cooling ourselves,' stammered Bumble, looking\napprehensively about him.\n\n'Cooling yourselves!' retorted Monks.  'Not all the rain that ever\nfell, or ever will fall, will put as much of hell's fire out, as a man\ncan carry about with him.  You won't cool yourself so easily; don't\nthink it!'\n\nWith this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and\nbent his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was\nfain to withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.\n\n'This is the woman, is it?' demanded Monks.\n\n'Hem!  That is the woman,' replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife's\ncaution.\n\n'You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?' said the matron,\ninterposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.\n\n'I know they will always keep _one_ till it's found out,' said Monks.\n\n'And what may that be?' asked the matron.\n\n'The loss of their own good name,' replied Monks.  'So, by the same\nrule, if a woman's a party to a secret that might hang or transport\nher, I'm not afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I!  Do you\nunderstand, mistress?'\n\n'No,' rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.\n\n'Of course you don't!' said Monks.  'How should you?'\n\nBestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two\ncompanions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened\nacross the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the\nroof.  He was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder,\nleading to another floor of warehouses above:  when a bright flash of\nlightning streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed,\nwhich shook the crazy building to its centre.\n\n'Hear it!' he cried, shrinking back.  'Hear it!  Rolling and crashing\non as if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were\nhiding from it.  I hate the sound!'\n\nHe remained silent for a few moments; and then, removing his hands\nsuddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable discomposure of Mr.\nBumble, that it was much distorted and discoloured.\n\n'These fits come over me, now and then,' said Monks, observing his\nalarm; 'and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's\nall over for this once.'\n\nThus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the\nwindow-shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which\nhung at the end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy\nbeams in the ceiling:  and which cast a dim light upon an old table and\nthree chairs that were placed beneath it.\n\n'Now,' said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, 'the\nsooner we come to our business, the better for all.  The woman know\nwhat it is, does she?'\n\nThe question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated the\nreply, by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.\n\n'He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died;\nand that she told you something--'\n\n'About the mother of the boy you named,' replied the matron\ninterrupting him.  'Yes.'\n\n'The first question is, of what nature was her communication?' said\nMonks.\n\n'That's the second,' observed the woman with much deliberation. 'The\nfirst is, what may the communication be worth?'\n\n'Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?'\nasked Monks.\n\n'Nobody better than you, I am persuaded,' answered Mrs. Bumble: who did\nnot want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.\n\n'Humph!' said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry;\n'there may be money's worth to get, eh?'\n\n'Perhaps there may,' was the composed reply.\n\n'Something that was taken from her,' said Monks.  'Something that she\nwore.  Something that--'\n\n'You had better bid,' interrupted Mrs. Bumble.  'I have heard enough,\nalready, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to.'\n\nMr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any\ngreater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened\nto this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes:  which he\ndirected towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised\nastonishment; increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded,\nwhat sum was required for the disclosure.\n\n'What's it worth to you?' asked the woman, as collectedly as before.\n\n'It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds,' replied Monks. 'Speak\nout, and let me know which.'\n\n'Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty\npounds in gold,' said the woman; 'and I'll tell you all I know.  Not\nbefore.'\n\n'Five-and-twenty pounds!' exclaimed Monks, drawing back.\n\n'I spoke as plainly as I could,' replied Mrs. Bumble.  'It's not a\nlarge sum, either.'\n\n'Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's\ntold!' cried Monks impatiently; 'and which has been lying dead for\ntwelve years past or more!'\n\n'Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value\nin course of time,' answered the matron, still preserving the resolute\nindifference she had assumed.  'As to lying dead, there are those who\nwill lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for\nanything you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!'\n\n'What if I pay it for nothing?' asked Monks, hesitating.\n\n'You can easily take it away again,' replied the matron. 'I am but a\nwoman; alone here; and unprotected.'\n\n'Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected, neither,' submitted Mr. Bumble,\nin a voice tremulous with fear: '_I_ am here, my dear. And besides,'\nsaid Mr. Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, 'Mr. Monks is too\nmuch of a gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons.  Mr.\nMonks is aware that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a\nlittle run to seed, as I may say; bu he has heerd:  I say I have no\ndoubt Mr. Monks has heerd, my dear:  that I am a very determined\nofficer, with very uncommon strength, if I'm once roused.  I only want\na little rousing; that's all.'\n\nAs Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern\nwith fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed\nexpression of every feature, that he _did_ want a little rousing, and\nnot a little, prior to making any very warlike demonstration: unless,\nindeed, against paupers, or other person or persons trained down for\nthe purpose.\n\n'You are a fool,' said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; 'and had better hold your\ntongue.'\n\n'He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a\nlower tone,' said Monks, grimly.  'So!  He's your husband, eh?'\n\n'He my husband!' tittered the matron, parrying the question.\n\n'I thought as much, when you came in,' rejoined Monks, marking the\nangry glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke.  'So\nmuch the better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people,\nwhen I find that there's only one will between them.  I'm in earnest.\nSee here!'\n\nHe thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and producing a canvas bag, told\nout twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the\nwoman.\n\n'Now,' he said, 'gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder,\nwhich I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's\nhear your story.'\n\nThe thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer, and to shiver and break\nalmost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from\nthe table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say.  The\nfaces of the three nearly touched, as the two men leant over the small\ntable in their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leant forward to\nrender her whisper audible.  The sickly rays of the suspended lantern\nfalling directly upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of\ntheir countenances: which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness,\nlooked ghastly in the extreme.\n\n'When this woman, that we called old Sally, died,' the matron began,\n'she and I were alone.'\n\n'Was there no one by?' asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; 'No\nsick wretch or idiot in some other bed?  No one who could hear, and\nmight, by possibility, understand?'\n\n'Not a soul,' replied the woman; 'we were alone.  _I_ stood alone\nbeside the body when death came over it.'\n\n'Good,' said Monks, regarding her attentively.  'Go on.'\n\n'She spoke of a young creature,' resumed the matron, 'who had brought a\nchild into the world some years before; not merely in the same room,\nbut in the same bed, in which she then lay dying.'\n\n'Ay?' said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder,\n'Blood!  How things come about!'\n\n'The child was the one you named to him last night,' said the matron,\nnodding carelessly towards her husband; 'the mother this nurse had\nrobbed.'\n\n'In life?' asked Monks.\n\n'In death,' replied the woman, with something like a shudder. 'She\nstole from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the\ndead mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the\ninfant's sake.'\n\n'She sold it,' cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; 'did she sell it?\nWhere?  When?  To whom?  How long before?'\n\n'As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this,' said\nthe matron, 'she fell back and died.'\n\n'Without saying more?' cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very\nsuppression, seemed only the more furious.  'It's a lie! I'll not be\nplayed with.  She said more.  I'll tear the life out of you both, but\nI'll know what it was.'\n\n'She didn't utter another word,' said the woman, to all appearance\nunmoved (as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's\nviolence; 'but she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which\nwas partly closed; and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the\nhand by force, I found it clasped a scrap of dirty paper.'\n\n'Which contained--' interposed Monks, stretching forward.\n\n'Nothing,' replied the woman; 'it was a pawnbroker's duplicate.'\n\n'For what?' demanded Monks.\n\n'In good time I'll tell you.' said the woman.  'I judge that she had\nkept the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better\naccount; and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together\nmoney to pay the pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent its\nrunning out; so that if anything came of it, it could still be\nredeemed.  Nothing had come of it; and, as I tell you, she died with\nthe scrap of paper, all worn and tattered, in her hand.  The time was\nout in two days; I thought something might one day come of it too; and\nso redeemed the pledge.'\n\n'Where is it now?' asked Monks quickly.\n\n'_There_,' replied the woman.  And, as if glad to be relieved of it,\nshe hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough\nfor a French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling\nhands.  It contained a little gold locket: in which were two locks of\nhair, and a plain gold wedding-ring.\n\n'It has the word \"Agnes\" engraved on the inside,' said the woman.\n\n'There is a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date;\nwhich is within a year before the child was born.  I found out that.'\n\n'And this is all?' said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the\ncontents of the little packet.\n\n'All,' replied the woman.\n\nMr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the\nstory was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty\npounds back again; and now he took courage to wipe the perspiration\nwhich had been trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of\nthe previous dialogue.\n\n'I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at,' said his\nwife addressing Monks, after a short silence; 'and I want to know\nnothing; for it's safer not.  But I may ask you two questions, may I?'\n\n'You may ask,' said Monks, with some show of surprise; 'but whether I\nanswer or not is another question.'\n\n'--Which makes three,' observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of\nfacetiousness.\n\n'Is that what you expected to get from me?' demanded the matron.\n\n'It is,' replied Monks.  'The other question?'\n\n'What do you propose to do with it?  Can it be used against me?'\n\n'Never,' rejoined Monks; 'nor against me either.  See here!  But don't\nmove a step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush.'\n\nWith these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an\niron ring in the boarding, threw back a large trap-door which opened\nclose at Mr. Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several\npaces backward, with great precipitation.\n\n'Look down,' said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. 'Don't\nfear me.  I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were\nseated over it, if that had been my game.'\n\nThus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble\nhimself, impelled by curiousity, ventured to do the same. The turbid\nwater, swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all\nother sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against\nthe green and slimy piles.  There had once been a water-mill beneath;\nthe tide foaming and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments\nof machinery that yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new\nimpulse, when freed from the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted\nto stem its headlong course.\n\n'If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be to-morrow\nmorning?' said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well.\n\n'Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides,' replied\nBumble, recoiling at the thought.\n\nMonks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly\nthrust it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of\nsome pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream.\nIt fell straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely\naudible splash; and was gone.\n\nThe three looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more\nfreely.\n\n'There!' said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back\ninto its former position.  'If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books\nsay it will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash\namong it.  We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant\nparty.'\n\n'By all means,' observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity.\n\n'You'll keep a quiet tongue in your head, will you?' said Monks, with a\nthreatening look.  'I am not afraid of your wife.'\n\n'You may depend upon me, young man,' answered Mr. Bumble, bowing\nhimself gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. 'On\neverybody's account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks.'\n\n'I am glad, for your sake, to hear it,' remarked Monks. 'Light your\nlantern!  And get away from here as fast as you can.'\n\nIt was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr.\nBumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would\ninfallibly have pitched headlong into the room below.  He lighted his\nlantern from that which Monks had detached from the rope, and now\ncarried in his hand; and making no effort to prolong the discourse,\ndescended in silence, followed by his wife.  Monks brought up the rear,\nafter pausing on the steps to satisfy himself that there were no other\nsounds to be heard than the beating of the rain without, and the\nrushing of the water.\n\nThey traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks\nstarted at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot\nabove the ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a\nmarvellously light step for a gentleman of his figure:  looking\nnervously about him for hidden trap-doors.  The gate at which they had\nentered, was softly unfastened and opened by Monks; merely exchanging a\nnod with their mysterious acquaintance, the married couple emerged into\nthe wet and darkness outside.\n\nThey were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an\ninvincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been\nhidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he\nreturned to the chamber he had just quitted.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXXIX\n\nINTRODUCES SOME RESPECTABLE CHARACTERS WITH WHOM THE READER IS ALREADY\nACQUAINTED, AND SHOWS HOW MONKS AND THE JEW LAID THEIR WORTHY HEADS\nTOGETHER\n\nOn the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned\nin the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as\ntherein narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily\ngrowled forth an inquiry what time of night it was.\n\nThe room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of\nthose he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it\nwas in the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great\ndistance from his former lodgings.  It was not, in appearance, so\ndesirable a habitation as his old quarters:  being a mean and\nbadly-furnished apartment, of very limited size; lighted only by one\nsmall window in the shelving roof, and abutting on a close and dirty\nlane.  Nor were there wanting other indications of the good gentleman's\nhaving gone down in the world of late:  for a great scarcity of\nfurniture, and total absence of comfort, together with the\ndisappearance of all such small moveables as spare clothes and linen,\nbespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated\ncondition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these\nsymptoms, if they had stood in any need of corroboration.\n\nThe housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white great-coat,\nby way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree\nimproved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled\nnightcap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth.  The dog sat at\nthe bedside:  now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now\npricking his ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the\nstreet, or in the lower part of the house, attracted his attention.\nSeated by the window, busily engaged in patching an old waistcoat which\nformed a portion of the robber's ordinary dress, was a female:  so pale\nand reduced with watching and privation, that there would have been\nconsiderable difficulty in recognising her as the same Nancy who has\nalready figured in this tale, but for the voice in which she replied to\nMr. Sikes's question.\n\n'Not long gone seven,' said the girl.  'How do you feel to-night, Bill?'\n\n'As weak as water,' replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes\nand limbs.  'Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering\nbed anyhow.'\n\nIllness had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised\nhim up and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her\nawkwardness, and struck her.\n\n'Whining are you?' said Sikes.  'Come!  Don't stand snivelling there.\nIf you can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether.  D'ye\nhear me?'\n\n'I hear you,' replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a\nlaugh.  'What fancy have you got in your head now?'\n\n'Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?' growled Sikes, marking the\ntear which trembled in her eye.  'All the better for you, you have.'\n\n'Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me to-night, Bill,'\nsaid the girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.\n\n'No!' cried Mr. Sikes.  'Why not?'\n\n'Such a number of nights,' said the girl, with a touch of woman's\ntenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even\nto her voice: 'such a number of nights as I've been patient with you,\nnursing and caring for you, as if you had been a child: and this the\nfirst that I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as\nyou did just now, if you'd thought of that, would you?  Come, come; say\nyou wouldn't.'\n\n'Well, then,' rejoined Mr. Sikes, 'I wouldn't.  Why, damme, now, the\ngirls's whining again!'\n\n'It's nothing,' said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. 'Don't\nyou seem to mind me.  It'll soon be over.'\n\n'What'll be over?' demanded Mr. Sikes in a savage voice. 'What foolery\nare you up to, now, again?  Get up and bustle about, and don't come\nover me with your woman's nonsense.'\n\nAt any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was\ndelivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really\nweak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and\nfainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths\nwith which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his\nthreats.  Not knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon\nemergency; for Miss Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind\nwhich the patient fights and struggles out of, without much assistance;\nMr. Sikes tried a little blasphemy: and finding that mode of treatment\nwholly ineffectual, called for assistance.\n\n'What's the matter here, my dear?' said Fagin, looking in.\n\n'Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?' replied Sikes impatiently. 'Don't\nstand chattering and grinning at me!'\n\nWith an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's\nassistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who\nhad followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on\nthe floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from\nthe grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked\nit in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents\ndown the patient's throat:  previously taking a taste, himself, to\nprevent mistakes.\n\n'Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,' said Mr.\nDawkins; 'and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the\npetticuts.'\n\nThese united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially\nthat department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his\nshare in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry:  were not\nlong in producing the desired effect.  The girl gradually recovered her\nsenses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon\nthe pillow:  leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some\nastonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.\n\n'Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?' he asked Fagin.\n\n'No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and\nI've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see.\nDodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that\nwe spent all our money on, this morning.'\n\nIn compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied this bundle,\nwhich was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed\nthe articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed\nthem on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and\nexcellence.\n\n'Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,' exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing\nto view a huge pasty; 'sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender\nlimbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no\noccasion to pick 'em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so\nprecious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to\nblow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that\nthe niggers didn't work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a\npitch of goodness,--oh no!  Two half-quartern brans; pound of best\nfresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind up all, some of the\nrichest sort you ever lushed!'\n\nUttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his\nextensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while\nMr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw\nspirits from the bottle he carried:  which the invalid tossed down his\nthroat without a moment's hesitation.\n\n'Ah!' said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. 'You'll\ndo, Bill; you'll do now.'\n\n'Do!' exclaimed Mr. Sikes; 'I might have been done for, twenty times\nover, afore you'd have done anything to help me.  What do you mean by\nleaving a man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted\nwagabond?'\n\n'Only hear him, boys!' said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. 'And us\ncome to bring him all these beau-ti-ful things.'\n\n'The things is well enough in their way,' observed Mr. Sikes:  a little\nsoothed as he glanced over the table; 'but what have you got to say for\nyourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health,\nblunt, and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this\nmortal time, than if I was that 'ere dog.--Drive him down, Charley!'\n\n'I never see such a jolly dog as that,' cried Master Bates, doing as he\nwas desired.  'Smelling the grub like a old lady a going to market!\nHe'd make his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and rewive the\ndrayma besides.'\n\n'Hold your din,' cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed: still\ngrowling angrily.  'What have you got to say for yourself, you withered\nold fence, eh?'\n\n'I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant,' replied\nthe Jew.\n\n'And what about the other fortnight?' demanded Sikes.  'What about the\nother fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his\nhole?'\n\n'I couldn't help it, Bill.  I can't go into a long explanation before\ncompany; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour.'\n\n'Upon your what?' growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. 'Here! Cut me\noff a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out\nof my mouth, or it'll choke me dead.'\n\n'Don't be out of temper, my dear,' urged Fagin, submissively. 'I have\nnever forgot you, Bill; never once.'\n\n'No!  I'll pound it that you han't,' replied Sikes, with a bitter grin.\n'You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid\nshivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do\nthat; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well:\nand was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the\ngirl, I might have died.'\n\n'There now, Bill,' remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word.\n'If it hadn't been for the girl!  Who but poor ould Fagin was the means\nof your having such a handy girl about you?'\n\n'He says true enough there!' said Nancy, coming hastily forward. 'Let\nhim be; let him be.'\n\nNancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys,\nreceiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with\nliquor: of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin,\nassuming an unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a\nbetter temper, by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant\nbanter; and, moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough\njokes, which, after repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he\ncondescended to make.\n\n'It's all very well,' said Mr. Sikes; 'but I must have some blunt from\nyou to-night.'\n\n'I haven't a piece of coin about me,' replied the Jew.\n\n'Then you've got lots at home,' retorted Sikes; 'and I must have some\nfrom there.'\n\n'Lots!' cried Fagin, holding up is hands.  'I haven't so much as\nwould--'\n\n'I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know\nyourself, as it would take a pretty long time to count it,' said Sikes;\n'but I must have some to-night; and that's flat.'\n\n'Well, well,' said Fagin, with a sigh, 'I'll send the Artful round\npresently.'\n\n'You won't do nothing of the kind,' rejoined Mr. Sikes. 'The Artful's a\ndeal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get\ndodged by traps and so be perwented, or anything for an excuse, if you\nput him up to it.  Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all\nsure; and I'll lie down and have a snooze while she's gone.'\n\nAfter a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the\namount of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four\nand sixpence: protesting with many solemn asseverations that that would\nonly leave him eighteen-pence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly\nremarking that if he couldn't get any more he must accompany him home;\nwith the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in the cupboard.  The\nJew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, returned homeward,\nattended by Nancy and the boys:  Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, flinging himself\non the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time until the\nyoung lady's return.\n\nIn due course, they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby\nCrackit and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage,\nwhich it is scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and\nwith it, his fifteenth and last sixpence: much to the amusement of his\nyoung friends.  Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found\nrelaxing himself with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and\nmental endowments, yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat\nto go.\n\n'Has nobody been, Toby?' asked Fagin.\n\n'Not a living leg,' answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; 'it's\nbeen as dull as swipes.  You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin,\nto recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a\njuryman; and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't\nhad the good natur' to amuse this youngster.  Horrid dull, I'm blessed\nif I an't!'\n\nWith these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit\nswept up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with\na haughty air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly\nbeneath the consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he\nswaggered out of the room, with so much elegance and gentility, that\nMr. Chitling, bestowing numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots\ntill they were out of sight, assured the company that he considered his\nacquaintance cheap at fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he\ndidn't value his losses the snap of his little finger.\n\n'Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!' said Master Bates, highly amused by this\ndeclaration.\n\n'Not a bit of it,' replied Mr. Chitling.  'Am I, Fagin?'\n\n'A very clever fellow, my dear,' said Fagin, patting him on the\nshoulder, and winking to his other pupils.\n\n'And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an't he, Fagin?' asked Tom.\n\n'No doubt at all of that, my dear.'\n\n'And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an't it,\nFagin?' pursued Tom.\n\n'Very much so, indeed, my dear.  They're only jealous, Tom, because he\nwon't give it to them.'\n\n'Ah!' cried Tom, triumphantly, 'that's where it is!  He has cleaned me\nout.  But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?'\n\n'To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up\nyour loss at once, and don't lose any more time.  Dodger! Charley!\nIt's time you were on the lay.  Come!  It's near ten, and nothing done\nyet.'\n\nIn obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their\nhats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging,\nas they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in\nwhose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very\nconspicuous or peculiar:  inasmuch as there are a great number of\nspirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr.\nChitling for being seen in good society:  and a great number of fine\ngentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their\nreputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.\n\n'Now,' said Fagin, when they had left the room, 'I'll go and get you\nthat cash, Nancy.  This is only the key of a little cupboard where I\nkeep a few odd things the boys get, my dear.  I never lock up my money,\nfor I've got none to lock up, my dear--ha! ha! ha!--none to lock up.\nIt's a poor trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the\nyoung people about me; and I bear it all, I bear it all.  Hush!' he\nsaid, hastily concealing the key in his breast; 'who's that?  Listen!'\n\nThe girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared\nin no way interested in the arrival: or to care whether the person,\nwhoever he was, came or went:  until the murmur of a man's voice\nreached her ears.  The instant she caught the sound, she tore off her\nbonnet and shawl, with the rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under\nthe table. The Jew, turning round immediately afterwards, she muttered\na complaint of the heat:  in a tone of languor that contrasted, very\nremarkably, with the extreme haste and violence of this action:  which,\nhowever, had been unobserved by Fagin, who had his back towards her at\nthe time.\n\n'Bah!' he whispered, as though nettled by the interruption; 'it's the\nman I expected before; he's coming downstairs.  Not a word about the\nmoney while he's here, Nance.  He won't stop long.  Not ten minutes, my\ndear.'\n\nLaying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to\nthe door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without.  He\nreached it, at the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into\nthe room, was close upon the girl before he observed her.\n\nIt was Monks.\n\n'Only one of my young people,' said Fagin, observing that Monks drew\nback, on beholding a stranger.  'Don't move, Nancy.'\n\nThe girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of\ncareless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned towards Fagin, she\nstole another look; so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if\nthere had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly\nhave believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.\n\n'Any news?' inquired Fagin.\n\n'Great.'\n\n'And--and--good?' asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex\nthe other man by being too sanguine.\n\n'Not bad, any way,' replied Monks with a smile.  'I have been prompt\nenough this time.  Let me have a word with you.'\n\nThe girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room,\nalthough she could see that Monks was pointing to her.  The Jew:\nperhaps fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he\nendeavoured to get rid of her:  pointed upward, and took Monks out of\nthe room.\n\n'Not that infernal hole we were in before,' she could hear the man say\nas they went upstairs.  Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did\nnot reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his\ncompanion to the second story.\n\nBefore the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the\nhouse, the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely\nover her head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door,\nlistening with breathless interest.  The moment the noise ceased, she\nglided from the room; ascended the stairs with incredible softness and\nsilence; and was lost in the gloom above.\n\nThe room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl\nglided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards,\nthe two men were heard descending.  Monks went at once into the street;\nand the Jew crawled upstairs again for the money.  When he returned,\nthe girl was adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.\n\n'Why, Nance!' exclaimed the Jew, starting back as he put down the\ncandle, 'how pale you are!'\n\n'Pale!' echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look\nsteadily at him.\n\n'Quite horrible.  What have you been doing to yourself?'\n\n'Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't\nknow how long and all,' replied the girl carelessly. 'Come!  Let me get\nback; that's a dear.'\n\nWith a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her\nhand.  They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a\n'good-night.'\n\nWhen the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep;\nand seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue\nher way.  Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite\nopposite to that in which Sikes was awaiting her returned, quickened\nher pace, until it gradually resolved into a violent run.  After\ncompletely exhausting herself, she stopped to take breath:  and, as if\nsuddenly recollecting herself, and deploring her inability to do\nsomething she was bent upon, wrung her hands, and burst into tears.\n\nIt might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full\nhopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with\nnearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction; partly to recover\nlost time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own\nthoughts:  soon reached the dwelling where she had left the\nhousebreaker.\n\nIf she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes,\nhe did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the\nmoney, and receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of\nsatisfaction, and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the\nslumbers which her arrival had interrupted.\n\nIt was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so\nmuch employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal\nhad so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his\ntemper; that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical\nupon her behaviour and deportment.  That she had all the abstracted and\nnervous manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous\nstep, which it has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would\nhave been obvious to the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have\ntaken the alarm at once; but Mr. Sikes lacking the niceties of\ndiscrimination, and being troubled with no more subtle misgivings than\nthose which resolve themselves into a dogged roughness of behaviour\ntowards everybody; and being, furthermore, in an unusually amiable\ncondition, as has been already observed; saw nothing unusual in her\ndemeanor, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, that, had\nher agitation been far more perceptible than it was, it would have been\nvery unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.\n\nAs that day closed in, the girl's excitement increased; and, when night\ncame on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink\nhimself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire\nin her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.\n\nMr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water\nwith his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass\ntowards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when\nthese symptoms first struck him.\n\n'Why, burn my body!' said the man, raising himself on his hands as he\nstared the girl in the face.  'You look like a corpse come to life\nagain.  What's the matter?'\n\n'Matter!' replied the girl.  'Nothing.  What do you look at me so hard\nfor?'\n\n'What foolery is this?' demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and\nshaking her roughly.  'What is it?  What do you mean?  What are you\nthinking of?'\n\n'Of many things, Bill,' replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so,\npressing her hands upon her eyes.  'But, Lord!  What odds in that?'\n\nThe tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed\nto produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look\nwhich had preceded them.\n\n'I tell you wot it is,' said Sikes; 'if you haven't caught the fever,\nand got it comin' on, now, there's something more than usual in the\nwind, and something dangerous too.  You're not a-going to--.  No,\ndamme! you wouldn't do that!'\n\n'Do what?' asked the girl.\n\n'There ain't,' said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the\nwords to himself; 'there ain't a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I'd\nhave cut her throat three months ago.  She's got the fever coming on;\nthat's it.'\n\nFortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the\nbottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic.\nThe girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but\nwith her back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he\ndrank off the contents.\n\n'Now,' said the robber, 'come and sit aside of me, and put on your own\nface; or I'll alter it so, that you won't know it agin when you do want\nit.'\n\nThe girl obeyed.  Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the\npillow: turning his eyes upon her face.  They closed; opened again;\nclosed once more; again opened.  He shifted his position restlessly;\nand, after dozing again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as\noften springing up with a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about\nhim, was suddenly stricken, as it were, while in the very attitude of\nrising, into a deep and heavy sleep.  The grasp of his hand relaxed;\nthe upraised arm fell languidly by his side; and he lay like one in a\nprofound trance.\n\n'The laudanum has taken effect at last,' murmured the girl, as she rose\nfrom the bedside.  'I may be too late, even now.'\n\nShe hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl:  looking fearfully\nround, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she\nexpected every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes's heavy hand upon\nher shoulder; then, stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the\nrobber's lips; and then opening and closing the room-door with\nnoiseless touch, hurried from the house.\n\nA watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which\nshe had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.\n\n'Has it long gone the half-hour?' asked the girl.\n\n'It'll strike the hour in another quarter,' said the man: raising his\nlantern to her face.\n\n'And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more,' muttered Nancy:\nbrushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.\n\nMany of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues\nthrough which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards\nthe West-End of London.  The clock struck ten, increasing her\nimpatience.  She tore along the narrow pavement:  elbowing the\npassengers from side to side; and darting almost under the horses'\nheads, crossed crowded streets, where clusters of persons were eagerly\nwatching their opportunity to do the like.\n\n'The woman is mad!' said the people, turning to look after her as she\nrushed away.\n\nWhen she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were\ncomparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still\ngreater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past.  Some\nquickened their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening\nat such an unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back,\nsurprised at her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and\nwhen she neared her place of destination, she was alone.\n\nIt was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park.\nAs the brilliant light of the lamp which burnt before its door, guided\nher to the spot, the clock struck eleven.  She had loitered for a few\npaces as though irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the\nsound determined her, and she stepped into the hall.  The porter's seat\nwas vacant.  She looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced\ntowards the stairs.\n\n'Now, young woman!' said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a\ndoor behind her, 'who do you want here?'\n\n'A lady who is stopping in this house,' answered the girl.\n\n'A lady!' was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. 'What lady?'\n\n'Miss Maylie,' said Nancy.\n\nThe young woman, who had by this time, noted her appearance, replied\nonly by a look of virtuous disdain; and summoned a man to answer her.\nTo him, Nancy repeated her request.\n\n'What name am I to say?' asked the waiter.\n\n'It's of no use saying any,' replied Nancy.\n\n'Nor business?' said the man.\n\n'No, nor that neither,' rejoined the girl.  'I must see the lady.'\n\n'Come!' said the man, pushing her towards the door.  'None of this.\nTake yourself off.'\n\n'I shall be carried out if I go!' said the girl violently; 'and I can\nmake that a job that two of you won't like to do.  Isn't there anybody\nhere,' she said, looking round, 'that will see a simple message carried\nfor a poor wretch like me?'\n\nThis appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who\nwith some of the other servants was looking on, and who stepped forward\nto interfere.\n\n'Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?' said this person.\n\n'What's the good?' replied the man.  'You don't suppose the young lady\nwill see such as her; do you?'\n\nThis allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of\nchaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great\nfervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly\nadvocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.\n\n'Do what you like with me,' said the girl, turning to the men again;\n'but do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for\nGod Almighty's sake.'\n\nThe soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that\nthe man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.\n\n'What's it to be?' said the man, with one foot on the stairs.\n\n'That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone,' said\nNancy; 'and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to\nsay, she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned\nout of doors as an impostor.'\n\n'I say,' said the man, 'you're coming it strong!'\n\n'You give the message,' said the girl firmly; 'and let me hear the\nanswer.'\n\nThe man ran upstairs.  Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless,\nlistening with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn,\nof which the chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they\nbecame still more so, when the man returned, and said the young woman\nwas to walk upstairs.\n\n'It's no good being proper in this world,' said the first housemaid.\n\n'Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire,' said the\nsecond.\n\nThe third contented herself with wondering 'what ladies was made of';\nand the fourth took the first in a quartette of 'Shameful!' with which\nthe Dianas concluded.\n\nRegardless of all this: for she had weightier matters at heart: Nancy\nfollowed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small ante-chamber,\nlighted by a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XL\n\nA STRANGE INTERVIEW, WHICH IS A SEQUEL TO THE LAST CHAMBER\n\nThe girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most\nnoisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the\nwoman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light\nstep approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered,\nand thought of the wide contrast which the small room would in another\nmoment contain, she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame,\nand shrunk as though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with\nwhom she had sought this interview.\n\nBut struggling with these better feelings was pride,--the vice of the\nlowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and\nself-assured.  The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the\nfallen outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the\njails and hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself,--even\nthis degraded being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the\nwomanly feeling which she thought a weakness, but which alone connected\nher with that humanity, of which her wasting life had obliterated so\nmany, many traces when a very child.\n\nShe raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which\npresented itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending\nthem on the ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as\nshe said:\n\n'It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady.  If I had taken offence,\nand gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it\none day, and not without reason either.'\n\n'I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you,' replied Rose.\n'Do not think of that.  Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the\nperson you inquired for.'\n\nThe kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the\nabsence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl\ncompletely by surprise, and she burst into tears.\n\n'Oh, lady, lady!' she said, clasping her hands passionately before her\nface, 'if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me,--there\nwould--there would!'\n\n'Sit down,' said Rose, earnestly.  'If you are in poverty or affliction\nI shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can,--I shall indeed.  Sit\ndown.'\n\n'Let me stand, lady,' said the girl, still weeping, 'and do not speak\nto me so kindly till you know me better.  It is growing late.\nIs--is--that door shut?'\n\n'Yes,' said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance\nin case she should require it.  'Why?'\n\n'Because,' said the girl, 'I am about to put my life and the lives of\nothers in your hands.  I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to\nold Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville.'\n\n'You!' said Rose Maylie.\n\n'I, lady!' replied the girl.  'I am the infamous creature you have\nheard of, that lives among the thieves, and that never from the first\nmoment I can recollect my eyes and senses opening on London streets\nhave known any better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so\nhelp me God!  Do not mind shrinking openly from me, lady.  I am younger\nthan you would think, to look at me, but I am well used to it. The\npoorest women fall back, as I make my way along the crowded pavement.'\n\n'What dreadful things are these!' said Rose, involuntarily falling from\nher strange companion.\n\n'Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady,' cried the girl, 'that you\nhad friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you\nwere never in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness,\nand--and--something worse than all--as I have been from my cradle.  I\nmay use the word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will\nbe my deathbed.'\n\n'I pity you!' said Rose, in a broken voice.  'It wrings my heart to\nhear you!'\n\n'Heaven bless you for your goodness!' rejoined the girl. 'If you knew\nwhat I am sometimes, you would pity me, indeed. But I have stolen away\nfrom those who would surely murder me, if they knew I had been here, to\ntell you what I have overheard.  Do you know a man named Monks?'\n\n'No,' said Rose.\n\n'He knows you,' replied the girl; 'and knew you were here, for it was\nby hearing him tell the place that I found you out.'\n\n'I never heard the name,' said Rose.\n\n'Then he goes by some other amongst us,' rejoined the girl, 'which I\nmore than thought before.  Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put\ninto your house on the night of the robbery, I--suspecting this\nman--listened to a conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark.\nI found out, from what I heard, that Monks--the man I asked you about,\nyou know--'\n\n'Yes,' said Rose, 'I understand.'\n\n'--That Monks,' pursued the girl, 'had seen him accidently with two of\nour boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be\nthe same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out\nwhy.  A bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he\nshould have a certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a\nthief, which this Monks wanted for some purpose of his own.'\n\n'For what purpose?' asked Rose.\n\n'He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of\nfinding out,' said the girl; 'and there are not many people besides me\nthat could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery.  But\nI did; and I saw him no more till last night.'\n\n'And what occurred then?'\n\n'I'll tell you, lady.  Last night he came again.  Again they went\nupstairs, and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow would not betray\nme, again listened at the door.  The first words I heard Monks say were\nthese:  \"So the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of\nthe river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is\nrotting in her coffin.\"  They laughed, and talked of his success in\ndoing this; and Monks, talking on about the boy, and getting very wild,\nsaid that though he had got the young devil's money safely now, he'd\nrather have had it the other way; for, what a game it would have been\nto have brought down the boast of the father's will, by driving him\nthrough every jail in town, and then hauling him up for some capital\nfelony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good profit\nof him besides.'\n\n'What is all this!' said Rose.\n\n'The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips,' replied the girl.\n'Then, he said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to\nyours, that if he could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life\nwithout bringing his own neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't,\nhe'd be upon the watch to meet him at every turn in life; and if he\ntook advantage of his birth and history, he might harm him yet. \"In\nshort, Fagin,\" he says, \"Jew as you are, you never laid such snares as\nI'll contrive for my young brother, Oliver.\"'\n\n'His brother!' exclaimed Rose.\n\n'Those were his words,' said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had\nscarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes\nhaunted her perpetually.  'And more. When he spoke of you and the other\nlady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil, against\nhim, that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said\nthere was some comfort in that too, for how many thousands and hundreds\nof thousands of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who\nyour two-legged spaniel was.'\n\n'You do not mean,' said Rose, turning very pale, 'to tell me that this\nwas said in earnest?'\n\n'He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did,' replied the\ngirl, shaking her head.  'He is an earnest man when his hatred is up.\nI know many who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a\ndozen times, than to that Monks once.  It is growing late, and I have\nto reach home without suspicion of having been on such an errand as\nthis.  I must get back quickly.'\n\n'But what can I do?' said Rose.  'To what use can I turn this\ncommunication without you?  Back!  Why do you wish to return to\ncompanions you paint in such terrible colors?  If you repeat this\ninformation to a gentleman whom I can summon in an instant from the\nnext room, you can be consigned to some place of safety without half an\nhour's delay.'\n\n'I wish to go back,' said the girl.  'I must go back, because--how can\nI tell such things to an innocent lady like you?--because among the men\nI have told you of, there is one: the most desperate among them all;\nthat I can't leave:  no, not even to be saved from the life I am\nleading now.'\n\n'Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before,' said Rose;\n'your coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard;\nyour manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your\nevident contrition, and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you\nmight yet be reclaimed.  Oh!' said the earnest girl, folding her hands\nas the tears coursed down her face, 'do not turn a deaf ear to the\nentreaties of one of your own sex; the first--the first, I do believe,\nwho ever appealed to you in the voice of pity and compassion.  Do hear\nmy words, and let me save you yet, for better things.'\n\n'Lady,' cried the girl, sinking on her knees, 'dear, sweet, angel lady,\nyou _are_ the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and\nif I had heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of\nsin and sorrow; but it is too late, it is too late!'\n\n'It is never too late,' said Rose, 'for penitence and atonement.'\n\n'It is,' cried the girl, writhing in agony of her mind; 'I cannot leave\nhim now!  I could not be his death.'\n\n'Why should you be?' asked Rose.\n\n'Nothing could save him,' cried the girl.  'If I told others what I\nhave told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die.\nHe is the boldest, and has been so cruel!'\n\n'Is it possible,' cried Rose, 'that for such a man as this, you can\nresign every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue?  It is\nmadness.'\n\n'I don't know what it is,' answered the girl; 'I only know that it is\nso, and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and\nwretched as myself.  I must go back.  Whether it is God's wrath for the\nwrong I have done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through\nevery suffering and ill usage; and I should be, I believe, if I knew\nthat I was to die by his hand at last.'\n\n'What am I to do?' said Rose.  'I should not let you depart from me\nthus.'\n\n'You should, lady, and I know you will,' rejoined the girl, rising.\n'You will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness,\nand forced no promise from you, as I might have done.'\n\n'Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?' said Rose.\n'This mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me,\nbenefit Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?'\n\n'You must have some kind gentleman about you that will hear it as a\nsecret, and advise you what to do,' rejoined the girl.\n\n'But where can I find you again when it is necessary?' asked Rose.  'I\ndo not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will\nyou be walking or passing at any settled period from this time?'\n\n'Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and\ncome alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I\nshall not be watched or followed?' asked the girl.\n\n'I promise you solemnly,' answered Rose.\n\n'Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve,' said\nthe girl without hesitation, 'I will walk on London Bridge if I am\nalive.'\n\n'Stay another moment,' interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly\ntowards the door.  'Think once again on your own condition, and the\nopportunity you have of escaping from it.  You have a claim on me:  not\nonly as the voluntary bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost\nalmost beyond redemption.  Will you return to this gang of robbers, and\nto this man, when a word can save you?  What fascination is it that can\ntake you back, and make you cling to wickedness and misery?  Oh! is\nthere no chord in your heart that I can touch!  Is there nothing left,\nto which I can appeal against this terrible infatuation!'\n\n'When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are,' replied the\ngirl steadily, 'give away your hearts, love will carry you all\nlengths--even such as you, who have home, friends, other admirers,\neverything, to fill them.  When such as I, who have no certain roof but\nthe coffinlid, and no friend in sickness or death but the hospital\nnurse, set our rotten hearts on any man, and let him fill the place\nthat has been a blank through all our wretched lives, who can hope to\ncure us?  Pity us, lady--pity us for having only one feeling of the\nwoman left, and for having that turned, by a heavy judgment, from a\ncomfort and a pride, into a new means of violence and suffering.'\n\n'You will,' said Rose, after a pause, 'take some money from me, which\nmay enable you to live without dishonesty--at all events until we meet\nagain?'\n\n'Not a penny,' replied the girl, waving her hand.\n\n'Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you,' said\nRose, stepping gently forward.  'I wish to serve you indeed.'\n\n'You would serve me best, lady,' replied the girl, wringing her hands,\n'if you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think\nof what I am, to-night, than I ever did before, and it would be\nsomething not to die in the hell in which I have lived.  God bless you,\nsweet lady, and send as much happiness on your head as I have brought\nshame on mine!'\n\nThus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away;\nwhile Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which\nhad more the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank\ninto a chair, and endeavoured to collect her wandering thoughts.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLI\n\nCONTAINING FRESH DISCOVERIES, AND SHOWING THAT SUPRISES, LIKE\nMISFORTUNES, SELDOM COME ALONE\n\nHer situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While\nshe felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in\nwhich Oliver's history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the\nconfidence which the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed,\nhad reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl.  Her words and\nmanner had touched Rose Maylie's heart; and, mingled with her love for\nher young charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour,\nwas her fond wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope.\n\nThey purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing\nfor some weeks to a distant part of the coast.  It was now midnight of\nthe first day.  What course of action could she determine upon, which\ncould be adopted in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone\nthe journey without exciting suspicion?\n\nMr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but\nRose was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman's\nimpetuosity, and foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first\nexplosion of his indignation, he would regard the instrument of\nOliver's recapture, to trust him with the secret, when her\nrepresentations in the girl's behalf could be seconded by no\nexperienced person.  These were all reasons for the greatest caution\nand most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie,\nwhose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the\nworthy doctor on the subject.  As to resorting to any legal adviser,\neven if she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of,\nfor the same reason.  Once the thought occurred to her of seeking\nassistance from Harry; but this awakened the recollection of their last\nparting, and it seemed unworthy of her to call him back, when--the\ntears rose to her eyes as she pursued this train of reflection--he\nmight have by this time learnt to forget her, and to be happier away.\n\nDisturbed by these different reflections; inclining now to one course\nand then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive\nconsideration presented itself to her mind; Rose passed a sleepless and\nanxious night.  After more communing with herself next day, she arrived\nat the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.\n\n'If it be painful to him,' she thought, 'to come back here, how painful\nit will be to me!  But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he\nmay come himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me--he did when\nhe went away.  I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us\nboth.'  And here Rose dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the\nvery paper which was to be her messenger should not see her weep.\n\nShe had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and\nhad considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without\nwriting the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the\nstreets, with Mr. Giles for a body-guard, entered the room in such\nbreathless haste and violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new\ncause of alarm.\n\n'What makes you look so flurried?' asked Rose, advancing to meet him.\n\n'I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked,' replied the boy.\n'Oh dear!  To think that I should see him at last, and you should be\nable to know that I have told you the truth!'\n\n'I never thought you had told us anything but the truth,' said Rose,\nsoothing him.  'But what is this?--of whom do you speak?'\n\n'I have seen the gentleman,' replied Oliver, scarcely able to\narticulate, 'the gentleman who was so good to me--Mr. Brownlow, that we\nhave so often talked about.'\n\n'Where?' asked Rose.\n\n'Getting out of a coach,' replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight,\n'and going into a house.  I didn't speak to him--I couldn't speak to\nhim, for he didn't see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go\nup to him.  But Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they\nsaid he did.  Look here,' said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, 'here\nit is; here's where he lives--I'm going there directly!  Oh, dear me,\ndear me!  What shall I do when I come to see him and hear him speak\nagain!'\n\nWith her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many\nother incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was\nCraven Street, in the Strand.  She very soon determined upon turning\nthe discovery to account.\n\n'Quick!' she said.  'Tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready\nto go with me.  I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss\nof time.  I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour,\nand be ready as soon as you are.'\n\nOliver needed no prompting to despatch, and in little more than five\nminutes they were on their way to Craven Street.  When they arrived\nthere, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the\nold gentleman to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant,\nrequested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business.  The servant\nsoon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him\ninto an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman\nof benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat.  At no great distance\nfrom whom, was seated another old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and\ngaiters; who did not look particularly benevolent, and who was sitting\nwith his hands clasped on the top of a thick stick, and his chin\npropped thereupon.\n\n'Dear me,' said the gentleman, in the bottle-green coat, hastily rising\nwith great politeness, 'I beg your pardon, young lady--I imagined it\nwas some importunate person who--I beg you will excuse me.  Be seated,\npray.'\n\n'Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?' said Rose, glancing from the other\ngentleman to the one who had spoken.\n\n'That is my name,' said the old gentleman.  'This is my friend, Mr.\nGrimwig.  Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?'\n\n'I believe,' interposed Miss Maylie, 'that at this period of our\ninterview, I need not give that gentleman the trouble of going away.\nIf I am correctly informed, he is cognizant of the business on which I\nwish to speak to you.'\n\nMr. Brownlow inclined his head.  Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very\nstiff bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and\ndropped into it again.\n\n'I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt,' said Rose, naturally\nembarrassed; 'but you once showed great benevolence and goodness to a\nvery dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest\nin hearing of him again.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'Oliver Twist you knew him as,' replied Rose.\n\nThe words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been\naffecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with\na great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his\nfeatures every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged\nin a prolonged and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed\nso much emotion, he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into\nhis former attitude, and looking out straight before him emitted a long\ndeep whistle, which seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air,\nbut to die away in the innermost recesses of his stomach.\n\nMr. Browlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not\nexpressed in the same eccentric manner.  He drew his chair nearer to\nMiss Maylie's, and said,\n\n'Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the\nquestion that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which\nnobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce\nany evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once\ninduced to entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in\npossession of it.'\n\n'A bad one!  I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one,' growled Mr.\nGrimwig, speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle\nof his face.\n\n'He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart,' said Rose,\ncolouring; 'and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his\nyears, has planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do\nhonour to many who have numbered his days six times over.'\n\n'I'm only sixty-one,' said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. 'And,\nas the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I\ndon't see the application of that remark.'\n\n'Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'he does not\nmean what he says.'\n\n'Yes, he does,' growled Mr. Grimwig.\n\n'No, he does not,' said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he\nspoke.\n\n'He'll eat his head, if he doesn't,' growled Mr. Grimwig.\n\n'He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does,' said Mr.\nBrownlow.\n\n'And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it,' responded Mr.\nGrimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.\n\nHaving gone thus far, the two old gentlemen severally took snuff, and\nafterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.\n\n'Now, Miss Maylie,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'to return to the subject in\nwhich your humanity is so much interested.  Will you let me know what\nintelligence you have of this poor child:  allowing me to promise that\nI exhausted every means in my power of discovering him, and that since\nI have been absent from this country, my first impression that he had\nimposed upon me, and had been persuaded by his former associates to rob\nme, has been considerably shaken.'\n\nRose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a\nfew natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr.\nBrownlow's house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's\nprivate ear, and concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow,\nfor some months past, had been not being able to meet with his former\nbenefactor and friend.\n\n'Thank God!' said the old gentleman.  'This is great happiness to me,\ngreat happiness.  But you have not told me where he is now, Miss\nMaylie.  You must pardon my finding fault with you,--but why not have\nbrought him?'\n\n'He is waiting in a coach at the door,' replied Rose.\n\n'At this door!' cried the old gentleman.  With which he hurried out of\nthe room, down the stairs, up the coachsteps, and into the coach,\nwithout another word.\n\nWhen the room-door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head,\nand converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot,\ndescribed three distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and\nthe table; sitting in it all the time.  After performing this\nevolution, he rose and limped as fast as he could up and down the room\nat least a dozen times, and then stopping suddenly before Rose, kissed\nher without the slightest preface.\n\n'Hush!' he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual\nproceeding.  'Don't be afraid.  I'm old enough to be your grandfather.\nYou're a sweet girl.  I like you.  Here they are!'\n\nIn fact, as he threw himself at one dexterous dive into his former\nseat, Mr. Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig\nreceived very graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had\nbeen the only reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver's behalf,\nRose Maylie would have been well repaid.\n\n'There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye,' said\nMr. Brownlow, ringing the bell.  'Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please.'\n\nThe old housekeeper answered the summons with all dispatch; and\ndropping a curtsey at the door, waited for orders.\n\n'Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin,' said Mr. Brownlow, rather\ntestily.\n\n'Well, that I do, sir,' replied the old lady.  'People's eyes, at my\ntime of life, don't improve with age, sir.'\n\n'I could have told you that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow; 'but put on your\nglasses, and see if you can't find out what you were wanted for, will\nyou?'\n\nThe old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But\nOliver's patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to\nhis first impulse, he sprang into her arms.\n\n'God be good to me!' cried the old lady, embracing him; 'it is my\ninnocent boy!'\n\n'My dear old nurse!' cried Oliver.\n\n'He would come back--I knew he would,' said the old lady, holding him\nin her arms.  'How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is\ndressed again!  Where have you been, this long, long while?  Ah! the\nsame sweet face, but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad.  I\nhave never forgotten them or his quiet smile, but have seen them every\nday, side by side with those of my own dear children, dead and gone\nsince I was a lightsome young creature.'  Running on thus, and now\nholding Oliver from her to mark how he had grown, now clasping him to\nher and passing her fingers fondly through his hair, the good soul\nlaughed and wept upon his neck by turns.\n\nLeaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led\nthe way into another room; and there, heard from Rose a full narration\nof her interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise\nand perplexity.  Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in\nher friend Mr. Losberne in the first instance.  The old gentleman\nconsidered that she had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold\nsolemn conference with the worthy doctor himself.  To afford him an\nearly opportunity for the execution of this design, it was arranged\nthat he should call at the hotel at eight o'clock that evening, and\nthat in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should be cautiously informed of all\nthat had occurred.  These preliminaries adjusted, Rose and Oliver\nreturned home.\n\nRose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor's wrath.\nNancy's history was no sooner unfolded to him, than he poured forth a\nshower of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the\nfirst victim of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff;\nand actually put on his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the\nassistance of those worthies.  And, doubtless, he would, in this first\noutbreak, have carried the intention into effect without a moment's\nconsideration of the consequences, if he had not been restrained, in\npart, by corresponding violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was\nhimself of an irascible temperament, and party by such arguments and\nrepresentations as seemed best calculated to dissuade him from his\nhotbrained purpose.\n\n'Then what the devil is to be done?' said the impetuous doctor, when\nthey had rejoined the two ladies.  'Are we to pass a vote of thanks to\nall these vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred\npounds, or so, apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some\nslight acknowledgment of their kindness to Oliver?'\n\n'Not exactly that,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; 'but we must\nproceed gently and with great care.'\n\n'Gentleness and care,' exclaimed the doctor.  'I'd send them one and\nall to--'\n\n'Never mind where,' interposed Mr. Brownlow.  'But reflect whether\nsending them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view.'\n\n'What object?' asked the doctor.\n\n'Simply, the discovery of Oliver's parentage, and regaining for him the\ninheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently\ndeprived.'\n\n'Ah!' said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief;\n'I almost forgot that.'\n\n'You see,' pursued Mr. Brownlow; 'placing this poor girl entirely out\nof the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these\nscoundrels to justice without compromising her safety, what good should\nwe bring about?'\n\n'Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability,' suggested the\ndoctor, 'and transporting the rest.'\n\n'Very good,' replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; 'but no doubt they will\nbring that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step\nin to forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very\nQuixotic act, in direct opposition to our own interest--or at least to\nOliver's, which is the same thing.'\n\n'How?' inquired the doctor.\n\n'Thus.  It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in\ngetting to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man,\nMonks, upon his knees.  That can only be done by stratagem, and by\ncatching him when he is not surrounded by these people.  For, suppose\nhe were apprehended, we have no proof against him.  He is not even (so\nfar as we know, or as the facts appear to us) concerned with the gang\nin any of their robberies. If he were not discharged, it is very\nunlikely that he could receive any further punishment than being\ncommitted to prison as a rogue and vagabond; and of course ever\nafterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that he might as\nwell, for our purposes, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot.'\n\n'Then,' said the doctor impetuously, 'I put it to you again, whether\nyou think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be\nconsidered binding; a promise made with the best and kindest\nintentions, but really--'\n\n'Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray,' said Mr.\nBrownlow, interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. 'The promise\nshall be kept.  I don't think it will, in the slightest degree,\ninterfere with our proceedings.  But, before we can resolve upon any\nprecise course of action, it will be necessary to see the girl; to\nascertain from her whether she will point out this Monks, on the\nunderstanding that he is to be dealt with by us, and not by the law;\nor, if she will not, or cannot do that, to procure from her such an\naccount of his haunts and description of his person, as will enable us\nto identify him.  She cannot be seen until next Sunday night; this is\nTuesday.  I would suggest that in the meantime, we remain perfectly\nquiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver himself.'\n\nAlthough Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving\na delay of five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course\noccurred to him just then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very\nstrongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman's proposition was carried\nunanimously.\n\n'I should like,' he said, 'to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig.  He\nis a strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material\nassistance to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted\nthe Bar in disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of\ncourse, in twenty years, though whether that is recommendation or not,\nyou must determine for yourselves.'\n\n'I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in\nmine,' said the doctor.\n\n'We must put it to the vote,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'who may he be?'\n\n'That lady's son, and this young lady's--very old friend,' said the\ndoctor, motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an\nexpressive glance at her niece.\n\nRose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this\nmotion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and\nMr. Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee.\n\n'We stay in town, of course,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'while there remains\nthe slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of\nsuccess.  I will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the\nobject in which we are all so deeply interested, and I am content to\nremain here, if it be for twelve months, so long as you assure me that\nany hope remains.'\n\n'Good!' rejoined Mr. Brownlow.  'And as I see on the faces about me, a\ndisposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to\ncorroborate Oliver's tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me\nstipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may\ndeem it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story.  Believe\nme, I make this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite\nhopes destined never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and\ndisappointments already quite numerous enough.  Come!  Supper has been\nannounced, and young Oliver, who is all alone in the next room, will\nhave begun to think, by this time, that we have wearied of his company,\nand entered into some dark conspiracy to thrust him forth upon the\nworld.'\n\nWith these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and\nescorted her into the supper-room.  Mr. Losberne followed, leading\nRose; and the council was, for the present, effectually broken up.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLII\n\nAN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF OLIVER'S, EXHIBITING DECIDED MARKS OF GENIUS,\nBECOMES A PUBLIC CHARACTER IN THE METROPOLIS\n\nUpon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on\nher self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London,\nby the Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that\nthis history should bestow some attention.\n\nThey were a man and woman; or perhaps they would be better described as\na male and female:  for the former was one of those long-limbed,\nknock-kneed, shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign\nany precise age,--looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like\nundergrown men, and when they are almost men, like overgrown boys.  The\nwoman was young, but of a robust and hardy make, as she need have been\nto bear the weight of the heavy bundle which was strapped to her back.\nHer companion was not encumbered with much luggage, as there merely\ndangled from a stick which he carried over his shoulder, a small parcel\nwrapped in a common handkerchief, and apparently light enough.  This\ncircumstance, added to the length of his legs, which were of unusual\nextent, enabled him with much ease to keep some half-dozen paces in\nadvance of his companion, to whom he occasionally turned with an\nimpatient jerk of the head:  as if reproaching her tardiness, and\nurging her to greater exertion.\n\nThus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any\nobject within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider\npassage for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until\nthey passed through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller\nstopped and called impatiently to his companion,\n\n'Come on, can't yer?  What a lazybones yer are, Charlotte.'\n\n'It's a heavy load, I can tell you,' said the female, coming up, almost\nbreathless with fatigue.\n\n'Heavy!  What are yer talking about?  What are yer made for?' rejoined\nthe male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the\nother shoulder.  'Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't\nenough to tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!'\n\n'Is it much farther?' asked the woman, resting herself against a bank,\nand looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.\n\n'Much farther!  Yer as good as there,' said the long-legged tramper,\npointing out before him.  'Look there!  Those are the lights of London.'\n\n'They're a good two mile off, at least,' said the woman despondingly.\n\n'Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty,' said Noah\nClaypole; for he it was; 'but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and\nso I give yer notice.'\n\nAs Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road\nwhile speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution,\nthe woman rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his\nside.\n\n'Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?' she asked, after they\nhad walked a few hundred yards.\n\n'How should I know?' replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably\nimpaired by walking.\n\n'Near, I hope,' said Charlotte.\n\n'No, not near,' replied Mr. Claypole.  'There!  Not near; so don't\nthink it.'\n\n'Why not?'\n\n'When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough,\nwithout any why or because either,' replied Mr. Claypole with dignity.\n\n'Well, you needn't be so cross,' said his companion.\n\n'A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it to go and stop at the very\nfirst public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he come up\nafter us, might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart\nwith handcuffs on,' said Mr. Claypole in a jeering tone.  'No!  I shall\ngo and lose myself among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop\ntill we come to the very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on.\n'Cod, yer may thanks yer stars I've got a head; for if we hadn't gone,\nat first, the wrong road a purpose, and come back across country, yer'd\nhave been locked up hard and fast a week ago, my lady.  And serve yer\nright for being a fool.'\n\n'I know I ain't as cunning as you are,' replied Charlotte; 'but don't\nput all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up.  You\nwould have been if I had been, any way.'\n\n'Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did,' said Mr. Claypole.\n\n'I took it for you, Noah, dear,' rejoined Charlotte.\n\n'Did I keep it?' asked Mr. Claypole.\n\n'No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you\nare,' said the lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm\nthrough his.\n\nThis was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole's habit to\nrepose a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be\nobserved, in justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte\nto this extent, in order that, if they were pursued, the money might be\nfound on her:  which would leave him an opportunity of asserting his\ninnocence of any theft, and would greatly facilitate his chances of\nescape.  Of course, he entered at this juncture, into no explanation of\nhis motives, and they walked on very lovingly together.\n\nIn pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without\nhalting, until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely\njudged, from the crowd of passengers and numbers of vehicles, that\nLondon began in earnest.  Just pausing to observe which appeared the\nmost crowded streets, and consequently the most to be avoided, he\ncrossed into Saint John's Road, and was soon deep in the obscurity of\nthe intricate and dirty ways, which, lying between Gray's Inn Lane and\nSmithfield, render that part of the town one of the lowest and worst\nthat improvement has left in the midst of London.\n\nThrough these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after\nhim; now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole\nexternal character of some small public-house; now jogging on again, as\nsome fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his\npurpose.  At length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in\nappearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen; and, having crossed\nover and surveyed it from the opposite pavement, graciously announced\nhis intention of putting up there, for the night.\n\n'So give us the bundle,' said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman's\nshoulders, and slinging it over his own; 'and don't yer speak, except\nwhen yer spoke to.  What's the name of the house--t-h-r--three what?'\n\n'Cripples,' said Charlotte.\n\n'Three Cripples,' repeated Noah, 'and a very good sign too.  Now, then!\nKeep close at my heels, and come along.'  With these injunctions, he\npushed the rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house,\nfollowed by his companion.\n\nThere was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows\non the counter, was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at\nNoah, and Noah stared very hard at him.\n\nIf Noah had been attired in his charity-boy's dress, there might have\nbeen some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had\ndiscarded the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his\nleathers, there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting\nso much attention in a public-house.\n\n'Is this the Three Cripples?' asked Noah.\n\n'That is the dabe of this 'ouse,' replied the Jew.\n\n'A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country,\nrecommended us here,' said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her\nattention to this most ingenious device for attracting respect, and\nperhaps to warn her to betray no surprise.  'We want to sleep here\nto-night.'\n\n'I'b dot certaid you cad,' said Barney, who was the attendant sprite;\n'but I'll idquire.'\n\n'Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer\nwhile yer inquiring, will yer?' said Noah.\n\nBarney complied by ushering them into a small back-room, and setting\nthe required viands before them; having done which, he informed the\ntravellers that they could be lodged that night, and left the amiable\ncouple to their refreshment.\n\nNow, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps\nlower, so that any person connected with the house, undrawing a small\ncurtain which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the\nlast-named apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not only\nlook down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of\nbeing observed (the glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between\nwhich and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but\ncould, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable\ndistinctness, their subject of conversation.  The landlord of the house\nhad not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes,\nand Barney had only just returned from making the communication above\nrelated, when Fagin, in the course of his evening's business, came into\nthe bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.\n\n'Hush!' said Barney:  'stradegers id the next roob.'\n\n'Strangers!' repeated the old man in a whisper.\n\n'Ah!  Ad rub uds too,' added Barney.  'Frob the cuttry, but subthig in\nyour way, or I'b bistaked.'\n\nFagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest.\n\nMounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass,\nfrom which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from\nthe dish, and porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses\nof both to Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his\npleasure.\n\n'Aha!' he whispered, looking round to Barney, 'I like that fellow's\nlooks.  He'd be of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already.\nDon't make as much noise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear 'em\ntalk--let me hear 'em.'\n\nHe again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the\npartition, listened attentively:  with a subtle and eager look upon his\nface, that might have appertained to some old goblin.\n\n'So I mean to be a gentleman,' said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs,\nand continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had\narrived too late to hear. 'No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a\ngentleman's life for me:  and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.'\n\n'I should like that well enough, dear,' replied Charlotte; 'but tills\nain't to be emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.'\n\n'Tills be blowed!' said Mr. Claypole; 'there's more things besides\ntills to be emptied.'\n\n'What do you mean?' asked his companion.\n\n'Pockets, women's ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!' said Mr.\nClaypole, rising with the porter.\n\n'But you can't do all that, dear,' said Charlotte.\n\n'I shall look out to get into company with them as can,' replied Noah.\n'They'll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you\nyourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and\ndeceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.'\n\n'Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!' exclaimed Charlotte,\nimprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.\n\n'There, that'll do:  don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross\nwith yer,' said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity.  'I\nshould like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of\n'em, and follering 'em about, unbeknown to themselves.  That would suit\nme, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some\ngentleman of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound\nnote you've got,--especially as we don't very well know how to get rid\nof it ourselves.'\n\nAfter expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot\nwith an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents,\nnodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he\nappeared greatly refreshed.  He was meditating another, when the sudden\nopening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.\n\nThe stranger was Mr. Fagin.  And very amiable he looked, and a very low\nbow he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest\ntable, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.\n\n'A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,' said Fagin,\nrubbing his hands.  'From the country, I see, sir?'\n\n'How do yer see that?' asked Noah Claypole.\n\n'We have not so much dust as that in London,' replied Fagin, pointing\nfrom Noah's shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two\nbundles.\n\n'Yer a sharp feller,' said Noah.  'Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!'\n\n'Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,' replied the Jew,\nsinking his voice to a confidential whisper; 'and that's the truth.'\n\nFagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his\nright forefinger,--a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though\nnot with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being\nlarge enough for the purpose.  However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret\nthe endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and\nput about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly\nmanner.\n\n'Good stuff that,' observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.\n\n'Dear!' said Fagin.  'A man need be always emptying a till, or a\npocket, or a woman's reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank,\nif he drinks it regularly.'\n\nMr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he\nfell back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a\ncountenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror.\n\n'Don't mind me, my dear,' said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. 'Ha!\nha! it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very\nlucky it was only me.'\n\n'I didn't take it,' stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs\nlike an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could\nunder his chair; 'it was all her doing; yer've got it now, Charlotte,\nyer know yer have.'\n\n'No matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear,' replied Fagin,\nglancing, nevertheless, with a hawk's eye at the girl and the two\nbundles.  'I'm in that way myself, and I like you for it.'\n\n'In what way?' asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.\n\n'In that way of business,' rejoined Fagin; 'and so are the people of\nthe house.  You've hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe\nhere as you could be.  There is not a safer place in all this town than\nis the Cripples; that is, when I like to make it so.  And I have taken\na fancy to you and the young woman; so I've said the word, and you may\nmake your minds easy.'\n\nNoah Claypole's mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but\nhis body certainly was not; for he shuffled and writhed about, into\nvarious uncouth positions:  eyeing his new friend meanwhile with\nmingled fear and suspicion.\n\n'I'll tell you more,' said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by\ndint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. 'I have got a friend\nthat I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right\nway, where you can take whatever department of the business you think\nwill suit you best at first, and be taught all the others.'\n\n'Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,' replied Noah.\n\n'What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?' inquired Fagin,\nshrugging his shoulders.  'Here!  Let me have a word with you outside.'\n\n'There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,' said Noah, getting\nhis legs by gradual degrees abroad again. 'She'll take the luggage\nupstairs the while.  Charlotte, see to them bundles.'\n\nThis mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed\nwithout the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off\nwith the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out.\n\n'She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?' he asked as he resumed\nhis seat:  in the tone of a keeper who had tamed some wild animal.\n\n'Quite perfect,' rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. 'You're\na genius, my dear.'\n\n'Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here,' replied Noah. 'But,\nI say, she'll be back if yer lose time.'\n\n'Now, what do you think?' said Fagin.  'If you was to like my friend,\ncould you do better than join him?'\n\n'Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!' responded Noah,\nwinking one of his little eyes.\n\n'The top of the tree; employs a power of hands; has the very best\nsociety in the profession.'\n\n'Regular town-maders?' asked Mr. Claypole.\n\n'Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on\nmy recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just\nnow,' replied Fagin.\n\n'Should I have to hand over?' said Noah, slapping his breeches-pocket.\n\n'It couldn't possibly be done without,' replied Fagin, in a most\ndecided manner.\n\n'Twenty pound, though--it's a lot of money!'\n\n'Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of,' retorted Fagin. 'Number\nand date taken, I suppose?  Payment stopped at the Bank? Ah!  It's not\nworth much to him.  It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it\nfor a great deal in the market.'\n\n'When could I see him?' asked Noah doubtfully.\n\n'To-morrow morning.'\n\n'Where?'\n\n'Here.'\n\n'Um!' said Noah.  'What's the wages?'\n\n'Live like a gentleman--board and lodging, pipes and spirits free--half\nof all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns,' replied Mr.\nFagin.\n\nWhether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least\ncomprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he\nbeen a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected\nthat, in the event of his refusal, it was in the power of his new\nacquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and more unlikely\nthings had come to pass), he gradually relented, and said he thought\nthat would suit him.\n\n'But, yer see,' observed Noah, 'as she will be able to do a good deal,\nI should like to take something very light.'\n\n'A little fancy work?' suggested Fagin.\n\n'Ah! something of that sort,' replied Noah.  'What do you think would\nsuit me now?  Something not too trying for the strength, and not very\ndangerous, you know.  That's the sort of thing!'\n\n'I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my\ndear,' said Fagin.  'My friend wants somebody who would do that well,\nvery much.'\n\n'Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it\nsometimes,' rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; 'but it wouldn't pay by\nitself, you know.'\n\n'That's true!' observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate.\n'No, it might not.'\n\n'What do you think, then?' asked Noah, anxiously regarding him.\n'Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not\nmuch more risk than being at home.'\n\n'What do you think of the old ladies?' asked Fagin. 'There's a good\ndeal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running\nround the corner.'\n\n'Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?' asked Noah,\nshaking his head.  'I don't think that would answer my purpose.  Ain't\nthere any other line open?'\n\n'Stop!' said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee.  'The kinchin lay.'\n\n'What's that?' demanded Mr. Claypole.\n\n'The kinchins, my dear,' said Fagin, 'is the young children that's sent\non errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay\nis just to take their money away--they've always got it ready in their\nhands,--then knock 'em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if\nthere were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt\nitself.  Ha! ha! ha!'\n\n'Ha! ha!' roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy.\n'Lord, that's the very thing!'\n\n'To be sure it is,' replied Fagin; 'and you can have a few good beats\nchalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like\nthat, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many\nkinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nWith this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a\nburst of laughter both long and loud.\n\n'Well, that's all right!' said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and\nCharlotte had returned.  'What time to-morrow shall we say?'\n\n'Will ten do?' asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent,\n'What name shall I tell my good friend.'\n\n'Mr. Bolter,' replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such\nemergency.  'Mr. Morris Bolter.  This is Mrs. Bolter.'\n\n'Mrs. Bolter's humble servant,' said Fagin, bowing with grotesque\npoliteness.  'I hope I shall know her better very shortly.'\n\n'Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?' thundered Mr. Claypole.\n\n'Yes, Noah, dear!' replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.\n\n'She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,' said Mr. Morris\nBolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin.  'You understand?'\n\n'Oh yes, I understand--perfectly,' replied Fagin, telling the truth for\nonce.  'Good-night!  Good-night!'\n\nWith many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah\nClaypole, bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten\nher relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness\nand air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex,\nbut a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on\nthe kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIII\n\nWHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE\n\n'And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?' asked Mr.\nClaypole, otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into\nbetween them, he had removed next day to Fagin's house.  ''Cod, I\nthought as much last night!'\n\n'Every man's his own friend, my dear,' replied Fagin, with his most\ninsinuating grin.  'He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere.'\n\n'Except sometimes,' replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of\nthe world.  'Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know.'\n\n'Don't believe that,' said Fagin.  'When a man's his own enemy, it's\nonly because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for\neverybody but himself.  Pooh! pooh!  There ain't such a thing in\nnature.'\n\n'There oughn't to be, if there is,' replied Mr. Bolter.\n\n'That stands to reason.  Some conjurers say that number three is the\nmagic number, and some say number seven.  It's neither, my friend,\nneither.  It's number one.\n\n'Ha! ha!' cried Mr. Bolter.  'Number one for ever.'\n\n'In a little community like ours, my dear,' said Fagin, who felt it\nnecessary to qualify this position, 'we have a general number one,\nwithout considering me too as the same, and all the other young people.'\n\n'Oh, the devil!' exclaimed Mr. Bolter.\n\n'You see,' pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, 'we\nare so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must\nbe so.  For instance, it's your object to take care of number\none--meaning yourself.'\n\n'Certainly,' replied Mr. Bolter.  'Yer about right there.'\n\n'Well!  You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking\ncare of me, number one.'\n\n'Number two, you mean,' said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with\nthe quality of selfishness.\n\n'No, I don't!' retorted Fagin.  'I'm of the same importance to you, as\nyou are to yourself.'\n\n'I say,' interrupted Mr. Bolter, 'yer a very nice man, and I'm very\nfond of yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes\nto.'\n\n'Only think,' said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out\nhis hands; 'only consider.  You've done what's a very pretty thing, and\nwhat I love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the\ncravat round your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very\ndifficult to unloose--in plain English, the halter!'\n\nMr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it\ninconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not\nin substance.\n\n'The gallows,' continued Fagin, 'the gallows, my dear, is an ugly\nfinger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has\nstopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway.  To keep in\nthe easy road, and keep it at a distance, is object number one with\nyou.'\n\n'Of course it is,' replied Mr. Bolter.  'What do yer talk about such\nthings for?'\n\n'Only to show you my meaning clearly,' said the Jew, raising his\neyebrows.  'To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my\nlittle business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number\none, the second my number one.  The more you value your number one, the\nmore careful you must be of mine; so we come at last to what I told you\nat first--that a regard for number one holds us all together, and must\ndo so, unless we would all go to pieces in company.'\n\n'That's true,' rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully.  'Oh! yer a cunning\nold codger!'\n\nMr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no\nmere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a\nsense of his wily genius, which it was most important that he should\nentertain in the outset of their acquaintance.  To strengthen an\nimpression so desirable and useful, he followed up the blow by\nacquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude and extent of his\noperations; blending truth and fiction together, as best served his\npurpose; and bringing both to bear, with so much art, that Mr. Bolter's\nrespect visibly increased, and became tempered, at the same time, with\na degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly desirable to awaken.\n\n'It's this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under\nheavy losses,' said Fagin.  'My best hand was taken from me, yesterday\nmorning.'\n\n'You don't mean to say he died?' cried Mr. Bolter.\n\n'No, no,' replied Fagin, 'not so bad as that.  Not quite so bad.'\n\n'What, I suppose he was--'\n\n'Wanted,' interposed Fagin.  'Yes, he was wanted.'\n\n'Very particular?' inquired Mr. Bolter.\n\n'No,' replied Fagin, 'not very.  He was charged with attempting to pick\na pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him,--his own, my dear,\nhis own, for he took snuff himself, and was very fond of it.  They\nremanded him till to-day, for they thought they knew the owner.  Ah! he\nwas worth fifty boxes, and I'd give the price of as many to have him\nback.  You should have known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known\nthe Dodger.'\n\n'Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don't yer think so?' said Mr.\nBolter.\n\n'I'm doubtful about it,' replied Fagin, with a sigh.  'If they don't\nget any fresh evidence, it'll only be a summary conviction, and we\nshall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's\na case of lagging.  They know what a clever lad he is; he'll be a\nlifer.  They'll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.'\n\n'What do you mean by lagging and a lifer?' demanded Mr. Bolter. 'What's\nthe good of talking in that way to me; why don't yer speak so as I can\nunderstand yer?'\n\nFagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the\nvulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been\ninformed that they represented that combination of words,\n'transportation for life,' when the dialogue was cut short by the entry\nof Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches-pockets, and his face\ntwisted into a look of semi-comical woe.\n\n'It's all up, Fagin,' said Charley, when he and his new companion had\nbeen made known to each other.\n\n'What do you mean?'\n\n'They've found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a\ncoming to 'dentify him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out,'\nreplied Master Bates.  'I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and\na hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels.  To\nthink of Jack Dawkins--lummy Jack--the Dodger--the Artful Dodger--going\nabroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box!  I never thought\nhe'd a done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest.\nOh, why didn't he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, and\ngo out as a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour\nnor glory!'\n\nWith this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master\nBates sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and\ndespondency.\n\n'What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!'\nexclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. 'Wasn't he always\nthe top-sawyer among you all!  Is there one of you that could touch him\nor come near him on any scent!  Eh?'\n\n'Not one,' replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret;\n'not one.'\n\n'Then what do you talk of?' replied Fagin angrily; 'what are you\nblubbering for?'\n\n''Cause it isn't on the rec-ord, is it?' said Charley, chafed into\nperfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets;\n''cause it can't come out in the 'dictment; 'cause nobody will never\nknow half of what he was.  How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar?\nP'raps not be there at all.  Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!'\n\n'Ha! ha!' cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr.\nBolter in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the\npalsy; 'see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear.  Ain't\nit beautiful?'\n\nMr. Bolter nodded assent, and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of\nCharley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to\nthat young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.\n\n'Never mind, Charley,' said Fagin soothingly; 'it'll come out, it'll be\nsure to come out.  They'll all know what a clever fellow he was; he'll\nshow it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers.  Think how\nyoung he is too!  What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time\nof life!'\n\n'Well, it is a honour that is!' said Charley, a little consoled.\n\n'He shall have all he wants,' continued the Jew.  'He shall be kept in\nthe Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman.  Like a gentleman!  With his\nbeer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he\ncan't spend it.'\n\n'No, shall he though?' cried Charley Bates.\n\n'Ay, that he shall,' replied Fagin, 'and we'll have a big-wig, Charley:\none that's got the greatest gift of the gab:  to carry on his defence;\nand he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we'll read\nit all in the papers--\"Artful Dodger--shrieks of laughter--here the\ncourt was convulsed\"--eh, Charley, eh?'\n\n'Ha! ha!' laughed Master Bates, 'what a lark that would be, wouldn't\nit, Fagin?  I say, how the Artful would bother 'em wouldn't he?'\n\n'Would!' cried Fagin.  'He shall--he will!'\n\n'Ah, to be sure, so he will,' repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.\n\n'I think I see him now,' cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.\n\n'So do I,' cried Charley Bates.  'Ha! ha! ha! so do I.  I see it all\nafore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin.  What a game!  What a regular game!\nAll the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of\n'em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge's own son making\na speech arter dinner--ha! ha! ha!'\n\nIn fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend's eccentric\ndisposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to\nconsider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now\nlooked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and\nexquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time\nwhen his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of\ndisplaying his abilities.\n\n'We must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy means or other,'\nsaid Fagin.  'Let me think.'\n\n'Shall I go?' asked Charley.\n\n'Not for the world,' replied Fagin.  'Are you mad, my dear, stark mad,\nthat you'd walk into the very place where--No, Charley, no. One is\nenough to lose at a time.'\n\n'You don't mean to go yourself, I suppose?' said Charley with a\nhumorous leer.\n\n'That wouldn't quite fit,' replied Fagin shaking his head.\n\n'Then why don't you send this new cove?' asked Master Bates, laying his\nhand on Noah's arm.  'Nobody knows him.'\n\n'Why, if he didn't mind--' observed Fagin.\n\n'Mind!' interposed Charley.  'What should he have to mind?'\n\n'Really nothing, my dear,' said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, 'really\nnothing.'\n\n'Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,' observed Noah, backing towards\nthe door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm.  'No,\nno--none of that.  It's not in my department, that ain't.'\n\n'Wot department has he got, Fagin?' inquired Master Bates, surveying\nNoah's lank form with much disgust.  'The cutting away when there's\nanything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when there's everything\nright; is that his branch?'\n\n'Never mind,' retorted Mr. Bolter; 'and don't yer take liberties with\nyer superiors, little boy, or yer'll find yerself in the wrong shop.'\n\nMaster Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat, that it\nwas some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter\nthat he incurred no possible danger in visiting the police-office;\nthat, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had\nengaged, nor any description of his person, had yet been forwarded to\nthe metropolis, it was very probable that he was not even suspected of\nhaving resorted to it for shelter; and that, if he were properly\ndisguised, it would be as safe a spot for him to visit as any in\nLondon, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, the very last, to which\nhe could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.\n\nPersuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much\ngreater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented,\nwith a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin's\ndirections, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a waggoner's\nfrock, velveteen breeches, and leather leggings:  all of which articles\nthe Jew had at hand.  He was likewise furnished with a felt hat well\ngarnished with turnpike tickets; and a carter's whip.  Thus equipped,\nhe was to saunter into the office, as some country fellow from Covent\nGarden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his\ncuriousity; and as he was as awkward, ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow\nas need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that he would look the part to\nperfection.\n\nThese arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs\nand tokens by which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by\nMaster Bates through dark and winding ways to within a very short\ndistance of Bow Street. Having described the precise situation of the\noffice, and accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk\nstraight up the passage, and when he got into the side, and pull off\nhis hat as he went into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on\nalone, and promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.\n\nNoah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually\nfollowed the directions he had received, which--Master Bates being\npretty well acquainted with the locality--were so exact that he was\nenabled to gain the magisterial presence without asking any question,\nor meeting with any interruption by the way.\n\nHe found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly women, who\nwere huddled together in a dirty frowsy room, at the upper end of which\nwas a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a dock for the\nprisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the witnesses in\nthe middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the awful\nlocality last named, being screened off by a partition which concealed\nthe bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine (if they\ncould) the full majesty of justice.\n\nThere were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to\ntheir admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a\ncouple of policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the\ntable.  A jailer stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his\nnose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue\ntendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or\nlooked sternly up to bid some woman 'Take that baby out,' when the\ngravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered in the\nmother's shawl, from some meagre infant.  The room smelt close and\nunwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling\nblackened.  There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a\ndusty clock above the dock--the only thing present, that seemed to go\non as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance\nwith both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less\nunpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that\nfrowned upon it.\n\nNoah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were\nseveral women who would have done very well for that distinguished\ncharacter's mother or sister, and more than one man who might be\nsupposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all\nanswering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was to be seen.  He\nwaited in a state of much suspense and uncertainty until the women,\nbeing committed for trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly\nrelieved by the appearance of another prisoner who he felt at once\ncould be no other than the object of his visit.\n\nIt was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big\ncoat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his\nhat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait\naltogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock, requested\nin an audible voice to know what he was placed in that 'ere disgraceful\nsitivation for.\n\n'Hold your tongue, will you?' said the jailer.\n\n'I'm an Englishman, ain't I?' rejoined the Dodger.  'Where are my\npriwileges?'\n\n'You'll get your privileges soon enough,' retorted the jailer, 'and\npepper with 'em.'\n\n'We'll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to\nsay to the beaks, if I don't,' replied Mr. Dawkins.  'Now then!  Wot is\nthis here business?  I shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this\nhere little affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for\nI've got an appointment with a genelman in the City, and as I am a man\nof my word and wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I\nain't there to my time, and then pr'aps ther won't be an action for\ndamage against them as kep me away.  Oh no, certainly not!'\n\nAt this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a\nview to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to\ncommunicate 'the names of them two files as was on the bench.'  Which\nso tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as\nMaster Bates could have done if he had heard the request.\n\n'Silence there!' cried the jailer.\n\n'What is this?' inquired one of the magistrates.\n\n'A pick-pocketing case, your worship.'\n\n'Has the boy ever been here before?'\n\n'He ought to have been, a many times,' replied the jailer. 'He has been\npretty well everywhere else.  _I_ know him well, your worship.'\n\n'Oh! you know me, do you?' cried the Artful, making a note of the\nstatement.  'Wery good.  That's a case of deformation of character, any\nway.'\n\nHere there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.\n\n'Now then, where are the witnesses?' said the clerk.\n\n'Ah! that's right,' added the Dodger.  'Where are they?  I should like\nto see 'em.'\n\nThis wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward\nwho had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in\na crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very\nold one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own\ncountenance.  For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon\nas he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon\nhis person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the\nlid.  This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court\nGuide, and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was\nhis, and that he had missed it on the previous day, the moment he had\ndisengaged himself from the crowd before referred to.  He had also\nremarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in making\nhis way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner before him.\n\n'Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?' said the magistrate.\n\n'I wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with\nhim,' replied the Dodger.\n\n'Have you anything to say at all?'\n\n'Do you hear his worship ask if you've anything to say?' inquired the\njailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.\n\n'I beg your pardon,' said the Dodger, looking up with an air of\nabstraction.  'Did you redress yourself to me, my man?'\n\n'I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,'\nobserved the officer with a grin.  'Do you mean to say anything, you\nyoung shaver?'\n\n'No,' replied the Dodger, 'not here, for this ain't the shop for\njustice:  besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning\nwith the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have\nsomething to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous\nand 'spectable circle of acquaintance as'll make them beaks wish they'd\nnever been born, or that they'd got their footmen to hang 'em up to\ntheir own hat-pegs, afore they let 'em come out this morning to try it\non upon me.  I'll--'\n\n'There!  He's fully committed!' interposed the clerk. 'Take him away.'\n\n'Come on,' said the jailer.\n\n'Oh ah!  I'll come on,' replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the\npalm of his hand.  'Ah! (to the Bench) it's no use your looking\nfrightened; I won't show you no mercy, not a ha'porth of it.  _You'll_\npay for this, my fine fellers.  I wouldn't be you for something!  I\nwouldn't go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and ask\nme.  Here, carry me off to prison!  Take me away!'\n\nWith these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the\ncollar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary\nbusiness of it; and then grinning in the officer's face, with great\nglee and self-approval.\n\nHaving seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the\nbest of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting\nhere some time, he was joined by that young gentleman, who had\nprudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked carefully\nabroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his new friend had not\nbeen followed by any impertinent person.\n\nThe two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news\nthat the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and\nestablishing for himself a glorious reputation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIV\n\nTHE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO ROSE MAYLIE. SHE\nFAILS.\n\nAdept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the\ngirl Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of\nthe step she had taken, wrought upon her mind.  She remembered that\nboth the crafty Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes,\nwhich had been hidden from all others: in the full confidence that she\nwas trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion.  Vile as those\nschemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were\nher feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and\ndeeper down into an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape;\nstill, there were times when, even towards him, she felt some\nrelenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within the iron grasp\nhe had so long eluded, and he should fall at last--richly as he merited\nsuch a fate--by her hand.\n\nBut, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach\nitself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix\nitself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by\nany consideration.  Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful\ninducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated\nthat her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which\ncould lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a\nrefuge from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her--and\nwhat more could she do! She was resolved.\n\nThough all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they\nforced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too.\nShe grew pale and thin, even within a few days.  At times, she took no\nheed of what was passing before her, or no part in conversations where\nonce, she would have been the loudest.  At other times, she laughed\nwithout merriment, and was noisy without a moment afterwards--she sat\nsilent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her hands, while the\nvery effort by which she roused herself, told, more forcibly than even\nthese indications, that she was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were\noccupied with matters very different and distant from those in the\ncourse of discussion by her companions.\n\nIt was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the\nhour.  Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen.  The\ngirl looked up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened\ntoo.  Eleven.\n\n'An hour this side of midnight,' said Sikes, raising the blind to look\nout and returning to his seat.  'Dark and heavy it is too. A good night\nfor business this.'\n\n'Ah!' replied Fagin.  'What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none\nquite ready to be done.'\n\n'You're right for once,' replied Sikes gruffly.  'It is a pity, for I'm\nin the humour too.'\n\nFagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.\n\n'We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train.\nThat's all I know,' said Sikes.\n\n'That's the way to talk, my dear,' replied Fagin, venturing to pat him\non the shoulder.  'It does me good to hear you.'\n\n'Does you good, does it!' cried Sikes.  'Well, so be it.'\n\n'Ha! ha! ha!' laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this\nconcession.  'You're like yourself to-night, Bill.  Quite like\nyourself.'\n\n'I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my\nshoulder, so take it away,' said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand.\n\n'It make you nervous, Bill,--reminds you of being nabbed, does it?'\nsaid Fagin, determined not to be offended.\n\n'Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,' returned Sikes. 'There never\nwas another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father,\nand I suppose _he_ is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time,\nunless you came straight from the old 'un without any father at all\nbetwixt you; which I shouldn't wonder at, a bit.'\n\nFagin offered no reply to this compliment:  but, pulling Sikes by the\nsleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of\nthe foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving\nthe room.\n\n'Hallo!' cried Sikes.  'Nance.  Where's the gal going to at this time\nof night?'\n\n'Not far.'\n\n'What answer's that?' retorted Sikes.  'Do you hear me?'\n\n'I don't know where,' replied the girl.\n\n'Then I do,' said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because\nhe had any real objection to the girl going where she listed.\n'Nowhere.  Sit down.'\n\n'I'm not well.  I told you that before,' rejoined the girl.  'I want a\nbreath of air.'\n\n'Put your head out of the winder,' replied Sikes.\n\n'There's not enough there,' said the girl.  'I want it in the street.'\n\n'Then you won't have it,' replied Sikes.  With which assurance he rose,\nlocked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her\nhead, flung it up to the top of an old press.  'There,' said the\nrobber.  'Now stop quietly where you are, will you?'\n\n'It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,' said the girl\nturning very pale.  'What do you mean, Bill?  Do you know what you're\ndoing?'\n\n'Know what I'm--Oh!' cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, 'she's out of her\nsenses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way.'\n\n'You'll drive me on the something desperate,' muttered the girl placing\nboth hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some\nviolent outbreak.  'Let me go, will you,--this minute--this instant.'\n\n'No!' said Sikes.\n\n'Tell him to let me go, Fagin.  He had better.  It'll be better for\nhim.  Do you hear me?' cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.\n\n'Hear you!' repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her.\n'Aye!  And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have\nsuch a grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out.\nWot has come over you, you jade!  Wot is it?'\n\n'Let me go,' said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself\ndown on the floor, before the door, she said, 'Bill, let me go; you\ndon't know what you are doing. You don't, indeed.  For only one\nhour--do--do!'\n\n'Cut my limbs off one by one!' cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the\narm, 'If I don't think the gal's stark raving mad.  Get up.'\n\n'Not till you let me go--not till you let me go--Never--never!'\nscreamed the girl.  Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his\nopportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling\nand wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where\nhe sat himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her\ndown by force.  She struggled and implored by turns until twelve\no'clock had struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest\nthe point any further.  With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make\nno more efforts to go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at\nleisure and rejoined Fagin.\n\n'Whew!' said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face.\n'Wot a precious strange gal that is!'\n\n'You may say that, Bill,' replied Fagin thoughtfully.  'You may say\nthat.'\n\n'Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you\nthink?' asked Sikes.  'Come; you should know her better than me. Wot\ndoes it mean?'\n\n'Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.'\n\n'Well, I suppose it is,' growled Sikes.  'I thought I had tamed her,\nbut she's as bad as ever.'\n\n'Worse,' said Fagin thoughtfully.  'I never knew her like this, for\nsuch a little cause.'\n\n'Nor I,' said Sikes.  'I think she's got a touch of that fever in her\nblood yet, and it won't come out--eh?'\n\n'Like enough.'\n\n'I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's\ntook that way again,' said Sikes.\n\nFagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.\n\n'She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched\non my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself\naloof,' said Sikes.  'We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one\nway or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here\nso long has made her restless--eh?'\n\n'That's it, my dear,' replied the Jew in a whisper.  'Hush!'\n\nAs he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her\nformer seat.  Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and\nfro; tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing.\n\n'Why, now she's on the other tack!' exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of\nexcessive surprise on his companion.\n\nFagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few\nminutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering\nSikes that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat\nand bade him good-night.  He paused when he reached the room-door, and\nlooking round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.\n\n'Light him down,' said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. 'It's a pity he\nshould break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers.  Show\nhim a light.'\n\nNancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle.  When they\nreached the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close\nto the girl, said, in a whisper.\n\n'What is it, Nancy, dear?'\n\n'What do you mean?' replied the girl, in the same tone.\n\n'The reason of all this,' replied Fagin.  'If _he_'--he pointed with\nhis skinny fore-finger up the stairs--'is so hard with you (he's a\nbrute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don't you--'\n\n'Well?' said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching\nher ear, and his eyes looking into hers.\n\n'No matter just now.  We'll talk of this again.  You have a friend in\nme, Nance; a staunch friend.  I have the means at hand, quiet and\nclose.  If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog--like a\ndog!  worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes--come to me.  I\nsay, come to me.  He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of\nold, Nance.'\n\n'I know you well,' replied the girl, without manifesting the least\nemotion.  'Good-night.'\n\nShe shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said\ngood-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look\nwith a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them.\n\nFagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were\nworking within his brain.  He had conceived the idea--not from what had\njust passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by\ndegrees--that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had\nconceived an attachment for some new friend.  Her altered manner, her\nrepeated absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the\ninterests of the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and,\nadded to these, her desperate impatience to leave home that night at a\nparticular hour, all favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him\nat least, almost matter of certainty.  The object of this new liking\nwas not among his myrmidons.  He would be a valuable acquisition with\nsuch an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin argued) be secured\nwithout delay.\n\nThere was another, and a darker object, to be gained.  Sikes knew too\nmuch, and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the\nwounds were hidden.  The girl must know, well, that if she shook him\noff, she could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely\nwreaked--to the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life--on the\nobject of her more recent fancy.\n\n'With a little persuasion,' thought Fagin, 'what more likely than that\nshe would consent to poison him?  Women have done such things, and\nworse, to secure the same object before now.  There would be the\ndangerous villain:  the man I hate:  gone; another secured in his\nplace; and my influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime\nto back it, unlimited.'\n\nThese things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he\nsat alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his\nthoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of\nsounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting.  There\nwas no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to\nunderstand his meaning.  The girl clearly comprehended it.  Her glance\nat parting showed _that_.\n\nBut perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and\nthat was one of the chief ends to be attained. 'How,' thought Fagin, as\nhe crept homeward, 'can I increase my influence with her?  What new\npower can I acquire?'\n\nSuch brains are fertile in expedients.  If, without extracting a\nconfession from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her\naltered regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of\nwhom she stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs,\ncould he not secure her compliance?\n\n'I can,' said Fagin, almost aloud.  'She durst not refuse me then.  Not\nfor her life, not for her life!  I have it all.  The means are ready,\nand shall be set to work.  I shall have you yet!'\n\nHe cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards\nthe spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way:\nbusying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he\nwrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy\ncrushed with every motion of his fingers.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLV\n\nNOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION\n\nThe old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for\nthe appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed\ninterminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious\nassault on the breakfast.\n\n'Bolter,' said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite\nMorris Bolter.\n\n'Well, here I am,' returned Noah.  'What's the matter?  Don't yer ask\nme to do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this\nplace.  Yer never get time enough over yer meals.'\n\n'You can talk as you eat, can't you?' said Fagin, cursing his dear\nyoung friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart.\n\n'Oh yes, I can talk.  I get on better when I talk,' said Noah, cutting\na monstrous slice of bread.  'Where's Charlotte?'\n\n'Out,' said Fagin.  'I sent her out this morning with the other young\nwoman, because I wanted us to be alone.'\n\n'Oh!' said Noah.  'I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast\nfirst.  Well.  Talk away.  Yer won't interrupt me.'\n\nThere seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he\nhad evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of\nbusiness.\n\n'You did well yesterday, my dear,' said Fagin.  'Beautiful!  Six\nshillings and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day!  The kinchin\nlay will be a fortune to you.'\n\n'Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,' said Mr.\nBolter.\n\n'No, no, my dear.  The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the\nmilk-can was a perfect masterpiece.'\n\n'Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,' remarked Mr. Bolter\ncomplacently.  'The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was\nstanding by itself outside a public-house.  I thought it might get\nrusty with the rain, or catch cold, yer know.  Eh?  Ha! ha! ha!'\n\nFagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his\nlaugh out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk\nof bread and butter, and assisted himself to a second.\n\n'I want you, Bolter,' said Fagin, leaning over the table, 'to do a\npiece of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.'\n\n'I say,' rejoined Bolter, 'don't yer go shoving me into danger, or\nsending me any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that\ndon't; and so I tell yer.'\n\n'That's not the smallest danger in it--not the very smallest,' said the\nJew; 'it's only to dodge a woman.'\n\n'An old woman?' demanded Mr. Bolter.\n\n'A young one,' replied Fagin.\n\n'I can do that pretty well, I know,' said Bolter.  'I was a regular\ncunning sneak when I was at school.  What am I to dodge her for?  Not\nto--'\n\n'Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and,\nif possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street,\nor the house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the\ninformation you can.'\n\n'What'll yer give me?' asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking\nhis employer, eagerly, in the face.\n\n'If you do it well, a pound, my dear.  One pound,' said Fagin, wishing\nto interest him in the scent as much as possible.  'And that's what I\nnever gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable\nconsideration to be gained.'\n\n'Who is she?' inquired Noah.\n\n'One of us.'\n\n'Oh Lor!' cried Noah, curling up his nose.  'Yer doubtful of her, are\nyer?'\n\n'She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they\nare,' replied Fagin.\n\n'I see,' said Noah.  'Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if\nthey're respectable people, eh?  Ha! ha! ha! I'm your man.'\n\n'I knew you would be,' cried Fagin, elated by the success of his\nproposal.\n\n'Of course, of course,' replied Noah.  'Where is she? Where am I to\nwait for her?  Where am I to go?'\n\n'All that, my dear, you shall hear from me.  I'll point her out at the\nproper time,' said Fagin.  'You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.'\n\nThat night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and\nequipped in his carter's dress:  ready to turn out at a word from\nFagin.  Six nights passed--six long weary nights--and on each, Fagin\ncame home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was\nnot yet time.  On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an\nexultation he could not conceal.  It was Sunday.\n\n'She goes abroad to-night,' said Fagin, 'and on the right errand, I'm\nsure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will\nnot be back much before daybreak.  Come with me. Quick!'\n\nNoah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of\nsuch intense excitement that it infected him.  They left the house\nstealthily, and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at\nlength before a public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in\nwhich he had slept, on the night of his arrival in London.\n\nIt was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed.  It opened softly\non its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise;\nand the door was closed behind them.\n\nScarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words,\nFagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of\nglass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in\nthe adjoining room.\n\n'Is that the woman?' he asked, scarcely above his breath.\n\nFagin nodded yes.\n\n'I can't see her face well,' whispered Noah.  'She is looking down, and\nthe candle is behind her.\n\n'Stay there,' whispered Fagin.  He signed to Barney, who withdrew.  In\nan instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of\nsnuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking\nto the girl, caused her to raise her face.\n\n'I see her now,' cried the spy.\n\n'Plainly?'\n\n'I should know her among a thousand.'\n\nHe hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out.\nFagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and\nthey held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place\nof concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.\n\n'Hist!' cried the lad who held the door.  'Dow.'\n\nNoah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.\n\n'To the left,' whispered the lad; 'take the left had, and keep od the\nother side.'\n\nHe did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl's retreating\nfigure, already at some distance before him.  He advanced as near as he\nconsidered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the\nbetter to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or\nthrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind\nher, pass on.  She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to\nwalk with a steadier and firmer step.  The spy preserved the same\nrelative distance between them, and followed:  with his eye upon her.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVI\n\nTHE APPOINTMENT KEPT\n\nThe church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures\nemerged on London Bridge.  One, which advanced with a swift and rapid\nstep, was that of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in\nquest of some expected object; the other figure was that of a man, who\nslunk along in the deepest shadow he could find, and, at some distance,\naccommodated his pace to hers:  stopping when she stopped:  and as she\nmoved again, creeping stealthily on:  but never allowing himself, in\nthe ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon her footsteps.  Thus, they\ncrossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore, when the\nwoman, apparently disappointed in her anxious scrutiny of the\nfoot-passengers, turned back.  The movement was sudden; but he who\nwatched her, was not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into\none of the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning\nover the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to\npass on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in\nadvance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed\nher again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped.  The man\nstopped too.\n\nIt was a very dark night.  The day had been unfavourable, and at that\nhour and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were,\nhurried quickly past:  very possibly without seeing, but certainly\nwithout noticing, either the woman, or the man who kept her in view.\nTheir appearance was not calculated to attract the importunate regards\nof such of London's destitute population, as chanced to take their way\nover the bridge that night in search of some cold arch or doorless\nhovel wherein to lay their heads; they stood there in silence:  neither\nspeaking nor spoken to, by any one who passed.\n\nA mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that\nburnt upon the small craft moored off the different wharfs, and\nrendering darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks.\nThe old smoke-stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull\nfrom the dense mass of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water\ntoo black to reflect even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old\nSaint Saviour's Church, and the spire of Saint Magnus, so long the\ngiant-warders of the ancient bridge, were visible in the gloom; but the\nforest of shipping below bridge, and the thickly scattered spires of\nchurches above, were nearly all hidden from sight.\n\nThe girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro--closely watched\nmeanwhile by her hidden observer--when the heavy bell of St. Paul's\ntolled for the death of another day.  Midnight had come upon the\ncrowded city.  The palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse:\nthe chambers of birth and death, of health and sickness, the rigid face\nof the corpse and the calm sleep of the child:  midnight was upon them\nall.\n\nThe hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by\na grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a\nshort distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked\nstraight towards it.  They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement,\nwhen the girl started, and immediately made towards them.\n\nThey walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who\nentertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of\nbeing realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate.\nThey halted with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it\nimmediately; for a man in the garments of a countryman came close\nup--brushed against them, indeed--at that precise moment.\n\n'Not here,' said Nancy hurriedly, 'I am afraid to speak to you here.\nCome away--out of the public road--down the steps yonder!'\n\nAs she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction\nin which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and\nroughly asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.\n\nThe steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the\nSurrey bank, and on the same side of the bridge as Saint Saviour's\nChurch, form a landing-stairs from the river.  To this spot, the man\nbearing the appearance of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and after\na moment's survey of the place, he began to descend.\n\nThese stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights.\nJust below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the\nleft terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames.\nAt this point the lower steps widen:  so that a person turning that\nangle of the wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs\nwho chance to be above him, if only a step. The countryman looked\nhastily round, when he reached this point; and as there seemed no\nbetter place of concealment, and, the tide being out, there was plenty\nof room, he slipped aside, with his back to the pilaster, and there\nwaited:  pretty certain that they would come no lower, and that even if\nhe could not hear what was said, he could follow them again, with\nsafety.\n\nSo tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the\nspy to penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he\nhad been led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for\nlost, and persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or\nhad resorted to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious\nconversation.  He was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place,\nand regaining the road above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and\ndirectly afterwards of voices almost close at his ear.\n\nHe drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely\nbreathing, listened attentively.\n\n'This is far enough,' said a voice, which was evidently that of the\ngentleman.  'I will not suffer the young lady to go any farther.  Many\npeople would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but\nyou see I am willing to humour you.'\n\n'To humour me!' cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed.\n'You're considerate, indeed, sir.  To humour me!  Well, well, it's no\nmatter.'\n\n'Why, for what,' said the gentleman in a kinder tone, 'for what purpose\ncan you have brought us to this strange place?  Why not have let me\nspeak to you, above there, where it is light, and there is something\nstirring, instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?'\n\n'I told you before,' replied Nancy, 'that I was afraid to speak to you\nthere.  I don't know why it is,' said the girl, shuddering, 'but I have\nsuch a fear and dread upon me to-night that I can hardly stand.'\n\n'A fear of what?' asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.\n\n'I scarcely know of what,' replied the girl.  'I wish I did. Horrible\nthoughts of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that\nhas made me burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day.  I was\nreading a book to-night, to wile the time away, and the same things\ncame into the print.'\n\n'Imagination,' said the gentleman, soothing her.\n\n'No imagination,' replied the girl in a hoarse voice. 'I'll swear I saw\n\"coffin\" written in every page of the book in large black\nletters,--aye, and they carried one close to me, in the streets\nto-night.'\n\n'There is nothing unusual in that,' said the gentleman. 'They have\npassed me often.'\n\n'_Real ones_,' rejoined the girl.  'This was not.'\n\nThere was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the\nconcealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and\nthe blood chilled within him.  He had never experienced a greater\nrelief than in hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged\nher to be calm, and not allow herself to become the prey of such\nfearful fancies.\n\n'Speak to her kindly,' said the young lady to her companion. 'Poor\ncreature!  She seems to need it.'\n\n'Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me\nas I am to-night, and preached of flames and vengeance,' cried the\ngirl.  'Oh, dear lady, why ar'n't those who claim to be God's own folks\nas gentle and as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth,\nand beauty, and all that they have lost, might be a little proud\ninstead of so much humbler?'\n\n'Ah!' said the gentleman.  'A Turk turns his face, after washing it\nwell, to the East, when he says his prayers; these good people, after\ngiving their faces such a rub against the World as to take the smiles\noff, turn with no less regularity, to the darkest side of Heaven.\nBetween the Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first!'\n\nThese words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were\nperhaps uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover\nherself.  The gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.\n\n'You were not here last Sunday night,' he said.\n\n'I couldn't come,' replied Nancy; 'I was kept by force.'\n\n'By whom?'\n\n'Him that I told the young lady of before.'\n\n'You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on\nthe subject which has brought us here to-night, I hope?' asked the old\ngentleman.\n\n'No,' replied the girl, shaking her head.  'It's not very easy for me\nto leave him unless he knows why; I couldn't give him a drink of\nlaudanum before I came away.'\n\n'Did he awake before you returned?' inquired the gentleman.\n\n'No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me.'\n\n'Good,' said the gentleman.  'Now listen to me.'\n\n'I am ready,' replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.\n\n'This young lady,' the gentleman began, 'has communicated to me, and to\nsome other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly\na fortnight since.  I confess to you that I had doubts, at first,\nwhether you were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe\nyou are.'\n\n'I am,' said the girl earnestly.\n\n'I repeat that I firmly believe it.  To prove to you that I am disposed\nto trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the\nsecret, whatever it may be, from the fear of this man Monks.  But\nif--if--' said the gentleman, 'he cannot be secured, or, if secured,\ncannot be acted upon as we wish, you must deliver up the Jew.'\n\n'Fagin,' cried the girl, recoiling.\n\n'That man must be delivered up by you,' said the gentleman.\n\n'I will not do it!  I will never do it!' replied the girl. 'Devil that\nhe is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that.'\n\n'You will not?' said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this\nanswer.\n\n'Never!' returned the girl.\n\n'Tell me why?'\n\n'For one reason,' rejoined the girl firmly, 'for one reason, that the\nlady knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her\npromise:  and for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has\nled, I have led a bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the\nsame courses together, and I'll not turn upon them, who might--any of\nthem--have turned upon me, but didn't, bad as they are.'\n\n'Then,' said the gentleman, quickly, as if this had been the point he\nhad been aiming to attain; 'put Monks into my hands, and leave him to\nme to deal with.'\n\n'What if he turns against the others?'\n\n'I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him,\nthere the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver's\nlittle history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye,\nand if the truth is once elicited, they shall go scot free.'\n\n'And if it is not?' suggested the girl.\n\n'Then,' pursued the gentleman, 'this Fagin shall not be brought to\njustice without your consent.  In such a case I could show you reasons,\nI think, which would induce you to yield it.'\n\n'Have I the lady's promise for that?' asked the girl.\n\n'You have,' replied Rose.  'My true and faithful pledge.'\n\n'Monks would never learn how you knew what you do?' said the girl,\nafter a short pause.\n\n'Never,' replied the gentleman.  'The intelligence should be brought to\nbear upon him, that he could never even guess.'\n\n'I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child,' said the\ngirl after another interval of silence, 'but I will take your words.'\n\nAfter receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so,\nshe proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the\nlistener to discover even the purport of what she said, to describe, by\nname and situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that\nnight.  From the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared\nas if the gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she\ncommunicated.  When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the\nplace, the best position from which to watch it without exciting\nobservation, and the night and hour on which Monks was most in the\nhabit of frequenting it, she seemed to consider for a few moments, for\nthe purpose of recalling his features and appearances more forcibly to\nher recollection.\n\n'He is tall,' said the girl, 'and a strongly made man, but not stout;\nhe has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his\nshoulder, first on one side, and then on the other. Don't forget that,\nfor his eyes are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man's,\nthat you might almost tell him by that alone.  His face is dark, like\nhis hair and eyes; and, although he can't be more than six or eight and\ntwenty, withered and haggard. His lips are often discoloured and\ndisfigured with the marks of teeth; for he has desperate fits, and\nsometimes even bites his hands and covers them with wounds--why did you\nstart?' said the girl, stopping suddenly.\n\nThe gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious\nof having done so, and begged her to proceed.\n\n'Part of this,' said the girl, 'I have drawn out from other people at\nthe house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times\nhe was covered up in a large cloak.  I think that's all I can give you\nto know him by.  Stay though,' she added.  'Upon his throat:  so high\nthat you can see a part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his\nface:  there is--'\n\n'A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?' cried the gentleman.\n\n'How's this?' said the girl.  'You know him!'\n\nThe young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they\nwere so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.\n\n'I think I do,' said the gentleman, breaking silence.  'I should by\nyour description.  We shall see.  Many people are singularly like each\nother.  It may not be the same.'\n\nAs he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he\ntook a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell\nfrom the distinctness with which he heard him mutter, 'It must be he!'\n\n'Now,' he said, returning:  so it seemed by the sound:  to the spot\nwhere he had stood before, 'you have given us most valuable assistance,\nyoung woman, and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to\nserve you?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied Nancy.\n\n'You will not persist in saying that,' rejoined the gentleman, with a\nvoice and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder\nand more obdurate heart. 'Think now.  Tell me.'\n\n'Nothing, sir,' rejoined the girl, weeping.  'You can do nothing to\nhelp me.  I am past all hope, indeed.'\n\n'You put yourself beyond its pale,' said the gentleman. 'The past has\nbeen a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies mis-spent, and such\npriceless treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never\ngrants again, but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it\nis in our power to offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must\ncome as you seek it; but a quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you\nfear to remain here, in some foreign country, it is not only within the\ncompass of our ability but our most anxious wish to secure you. Before\nthe dawn of morning, before this river wakes to the first glimpse of\nday-light, you shall be placed as entirely beyond the reach of your\nformer associates, and leave as utter an absence of all trace behind\nyou, as if you were to disappear from the earth this moment.  Come!  I\nwould not have you go back to exchange one word with any old companion,\nor take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very air which is\npestilence and death to you.  Quit them all, while there is time and\nopportunity!'\n\n'She will be persuaded now,' cried the young lady.  'She hesitates, I\nam sure.'\n\n'I fear not, my dear,' said the gentleman.\n\n'No sir, I do not,' replied the girl, after a short struggle.  'I am\nchained to my old life.  I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave\nit.  I must have gone too far to turn back,--and yet I don't know, for\nif you had spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it\noff.  But,' she said, looking hastily round, 'this fear comes over me\nagain.  I must go home.'\n\n'Home!' repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.\n\n'Home, lady,' rejoined the girl.  'To such a home as I have raised for\nmyself with the work of my whole life.  Let us part. I shall be watched\nor seen.  Go!  Go!  If I have done you any service all I ask is, that\nyou leave me, and let me go my way alone.'\n\n'It is useless,' said the gentleman, with a sigh.  'We compromise her\nsafety, perhaps, by staying here.  We may have detained her longer than\nshe expected already.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' urged the girl. 'You have.'\n\n'What,' cried the young lady, 'can be the end of this poor creature's\nlife!'\n\n'What!' repeated the girl.  'Look before you, lady.  Look at that dark\nwater.  How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the\ntide, and leave no living thing, to care for, or bewail them.  It may\nbe years hence, or it may be only months, but I shall come to that at\nlast.'\n\n'Do not speak thus, pray,' returned the young lady, sobbing.\n\n'It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors\nshould!' replied the girl.  'Good-night, good-night!'\n\nThe gentleman turned away.\n\n'This purse,' cried the young lady.  'Take it for my sake, that you may\nhave some resource in an hour of need and trouble.'\n\n'No!' replied the girl.  'I have not done this for money.  Let me have\nthat to think of.  And yet--give me something that you have worn:  I\nshould like to have something--no, no, not a ring--your gloves or\nhandkerchief--anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you,\nsweet lady.  There.  Bless you!  God bless you. Good-night, good-night!'\n\nThe violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some\ndiscovery which would subject her to ill-usage and violence, seemed to\ndetermine the gentleman to leave her, as she requested.\n\nThe sound of retreating footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.\n\nThe two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards\nappeared upon the bridge.  They stopped at the summit of the stairs.\n\n'Hark!' cried the young lady, listening.  'Did she call!  I thought I\nheard her voice.'\n\n'No, my love,' replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. 'She has not\nmoved, and will not till we are gone.'\n\nRose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his,\nand led her, with gentle force, away.  As they disappeared, the girl\nsunk down nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and\nvented the anguish of her heart in bitter tears.\n\nAfter a time she arose, and with feeble and tottering steps ascended\nthe street.  The astonished listener remained motionless on his post\nfor some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious\nglances round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his\nhiding-place, and returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in\nthe same manner as he had descended.\n\nPeeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that\nhe was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and\nmade for the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVII\n\nFATAL CONSEQUENCES\n\nIt was nearly two hours before day-break; that time which in the autumn\nof the year, may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets\nare silent and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and\nprofligacy and riot have staggered home to dream; it was at this still\nand silent hour, that Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so\ndistorted and pale, and eyes so red and blood-shot, that he looked less\nlike a man, than like some hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and\nworried by an evil spirit.\n\nHe sat crouching over a cold hearth, wrapped in an old torn coverlet,\nwith his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table\nby his side.  His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed\nin thought, he hit his long black nails, he disclosed among his\ntoothless gums a few such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's.\n\nStretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep.\nTowards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and\nthen brought them back again to the candle; which with a long-burnt\nwick drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon\nthe table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.\n\nIndeed they were.  Mortification at the overthrow of his notable\nscheme; hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; and\nutter distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter\ndisappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of\ndetection, and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by\nall; these were the passionate considerations which, following close\nupon each other with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain\nof Fagin, as every evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his\nheart.\n\nHe sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take\nthe smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted\nby a footstep in the street.\n\n'At last,' he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. 'At last!'\n\nThe bell rang gently as he spoke.  He crept upstairs to the door, and\npresently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who\ncarried a bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his\nouter coat, the man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.\n\n'There!' he said, laying the bundle on the table.  'Take care of that,\nand do the most you can with it.  It's been trouble enough to get; I\nthought I should have been here, three hours ago.'\n\nFagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard,\nsat down again without speaking.  But he did not take his eyes off the\nrobber, for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over\nagainst each other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his\nlips quivering so violently, and his face so altered by the emotions\nwhich had mastered him, that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back\nhis chair, and surveyed him with a look of real affright.\n\n'Wot now?' cried Sikes.  'Wot do you look at a man so for?'\n\nFagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the\nair; but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the\nmoment gone.\n\n'Damme!' said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. 'He's\ngone mad.  I must look to myself here.'\n\n'No, no,' rejoined Fagin, finding his voice.  'It's not--you're not the\nperson, Bill.  I've no--no fault to find with you.'\n\n'Oh, you haven't, haven't you?' said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and\nostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket.  'That's\nlucky--for one of us.  Which one that is, don't matter.'\n\n'I've got that to tell you, Bill,' said Fagin, drawing his chair\nnearer, 'will make you worse than me.'\n\n'Aye?' returned the robber with an incredulous air.  'Tell away! Look\nsharp, or Nance will think I'm lost.'\n\n'Lost!' cried Fagin.  'She has pretty well settled that, in her own\nmind, already.'\n\nSikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face,\nand reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched\nhis coat collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.\n\n'Speak, will you!' he said; 'or if you don't, it shall be for want of\nbreath.  Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words.\nOut with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!'\n\n'Suppose that lad that's laying there--' Fagin began.\n\nSikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not\npreviously observed him.  'Well!' he said, resuming his former position.\n\n'Suppose that lad,' pursued Fagin, 'was to peach--to blow upon us\nall--first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having\na meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe\nevery mark that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be\nmost easily taken.  Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow\nupon a plant we've all been in, more or less--of his own fancy; not\ngrabbed, trapped, tried, earwigged by the parson and brought to it on\nbread and water,--but of his own fancy; to please his own taste;\nstealing out at nights to find those most interested against us, and\npeaching to them.  Do you hear me?' cried the Jew, his eyes flashing\nwith rage.  'Suppose he did all this, what then?'\n\n'What then!' replied Sikes; with a tremendous oath.  'If he was left\nalive till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot\ninto as many grains as there are hairs upon his head.'\n\n'What if I did it!' cried Fagin almost in a yell.  'I, that knows so\nmuch, and could hang so many besides myself!'\n\n'I don't know,' replied Sikes, clenching his teeth and turning white at\nthe mere suggestion.  'I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put\nin irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with\nthem in the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I\nshould have such strength,' muttered the robber, poising his brawny\narm, 'that I could smash your head as if a loaded waggon had gone over\nit.'\n\n'You would?'\n\n'Would I!' said the housebreaker.  'Try me.'\n\n'If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or--'\n\n'I don't care who,' replied Sikes impatiently.  'Whoever it was, I'd\nserve them the same.'\n\nFagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent,\nstooped over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse\nhim.  Sikes leant forward in his chair:  looking on with his hands upon\nhis knees, as if wondering much what all this questioning and\npreparation was to end in.\n\n'Bolter, Bolter!  Poor lad!' said Fagin, looking up with an expression\nof devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis.\n'He's tired--tired with watching for her so long,--watching for _her_,\nBill.'\n\n'Wot d'ye mean?' asked Sikes, drawing back.\n\nFagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him\ninto a sitting posture.  When his assumed name had been repeated\nseveral times, Noah rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked\nsleepily about him.\n\n'Tell me that again--once again, just for him to hear,' said the Jew,\npointing to Sikes as he spoke.\n\n'Tell yer what?' asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.\n\n'That about-- _Nancy_,' said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if\nto prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. 'You\nfollowed her?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'To London Bridge?'\n\n'Yes.'\n\n'Where she met two people.'\n\n'So she did.'\n\n'A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before,\nwho asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she\ndid--and to describe him, which she did--and to tell her what house it\nwas that we meet at, and go to, which she did--and where it could be\nbest watched from, which she did--and what time the people went there,\nwhich she did.  She did all this.  She told it all every word without a\nthreat, without a murmur--she did--did she not?' cried Fagin, half mad\nwith fury.\n\n'All right,' replied Noah, scratching his head.  'That's just what it\nwas!'\n\n'What did they say, about last Sunday?'\n\n'About last Sunday!' replied Noah, considering.  'Why I told yer that\nbefore.'\n\n'Again.  Tell it again!' cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes,\nand brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.\n\n'They asked her,' said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to\nhave a dawning perception who Sikes was, 'they asked her why she didn't\ncome, last Sunday, as she promised.  She said she couldn't.'\n\n'Why--why?  Tell him that.'\n\n'Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told\nthem of before,' replied Noah.\n\n'What more of him?' cried Fagin.  'What more of the man she had told\nthem of before?  Tell him that, tell him that.'\n\n'Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew\nwhere she was going to,' said Noah; 'and so the first time she went to\nsee the lady, she--ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that\nit did--she gave him a drink of laudanum.'\n\n'Hell's fire!' cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from the Jew.  'Let me\ngo!'\n\nFlinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted,\nwildly and furiously, up the stairs.\n\n'Bill, Bill!' cried Fagin, following him hastily.  'A word. Only a\nword.'\n\nThe word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was\nunable to open the door:  on which he was expending fruitless oaths and\nviolence, when the Jew came panting up.\n\n'Let me out,' said Sikes.  'Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me\nout, I say!'\n\n'Hear me speak a word,' rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock.\n'You won't be--'\n\n'Well,' replied the other.\n\n'You won't be--too--violent, Bill?'\n\nThe day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see\neach other's faces.  They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire\nin the eyes of both, which could not be mistaken.\n\n'I mean,' said Fagin, showing that he felt all disguise was now\nuseless, 'not too violent for safety.  Be crafty, Bill, and not too\nbold.'\n\nSikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had\nturned the lock, dashed into the silent streets.\n\nWithout one pause, or moment's consideration; without once turning his\nhead to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering\nthem to the ground, but looking straight before him with savage\nresolution:  his teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw\nseemed starting through his skin; the robber held on his headlong\ncourse, nor muttered a word, nor relaxed a muscle, until he reached his\nown door.  He opened it, softly, with a key; strode lightly up the\nstairs; and entering his own room, double-locked the door, and lifting\na heavy table against it, drew back the curtain of the bed.\n\nThe girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it.  He had roused her from her\nsleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.\n\n'Get up!' said the man.\n\n'It is you, Bill!' said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his\nreturn.\n\n'It is,' was the reply.  'Get up.'\n\nThere was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the\ncandlestick, and hurled it under the grate.  Seeing the faint light of\nearly day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.\n\n'Let it be,' said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. 'There's enough\nlight for wot I've got to do.'\n\n'Bill,' said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, 'why do you look like\nthat at me!'\n\nThe robber sat regarding her, for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils\nand heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat,\ndragged her into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the\ndoor, placed his heavy hand upon her mouth.\n\n'Bill, Bill!' gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal\nfear,--'I--I won't scream or cry--not once--hear me--speak to me--tell\nme what I have done!'\n\n'You know, you she devil!' returned the robber, suppressing his breath.\n'You were watched to-night; every word you said was heard.'\n\n'Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours,'\nrejoined the girl, clinging to him.  'Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have\nthe heart to kill me.  Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one\nnight, for you.  You _shall_ have time to think, and save yourself this\ncrime; I will not loose my hold, you cannot throw me off.  Bill, Bill,\nfor dear God's sake, for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my\nblood!  I have been true to you, upon my guilty soul I have!'\n\nThe man struggled violently, to release his arms; but those of the girl\nwere clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear\nthem away.\n\n'Bill,' cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, 'the\ngentleman and that dear lady, told me to-night of a home in some\nforeign country where I could end my days in solitude and peace.  Let\nme see them again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy\nand goodness to you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far\napart lead better lives, and forget how we have lived, except in\nprayers, and never see each other more. It is never too late to repent.\nThey told me so--I feel it now--but we must have time--a little, little\ntime!'\n\nThe housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty\nof immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the\nmidst of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could\nsummon, upon the upturned face that almost touched his own.\n\nShe staggered and fell:  nearly blinded with the blood that rained down\nfrom a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty,\non her knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief--Rose Maylie's\nown--and holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as\nher feeble strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her\nMaker.\n\nIt was a ghastly figure to look upon.  The murderer staggering backward\nto the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy\nclub and struck her down.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLVIII\n\nTHE FLIGHT OF SIKES\n\nOf all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed\nwithin wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the\nworst.  Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning\nair, that was the foulest and most cruel.\n\nThe sun--the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new\nlife, and hope, and freshness to man--burst upon the crowded city in\nclear and radiant glory.  Through costly-coloured glass and\npaper-mended window, through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed\nits equal ray.  It lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay.\nIt did.  He tried to shut it out, but it would stream in.  If the sight\nhad been a ghastly one in the dull morning, what was it, now, in all\nthat brilliant light!\n\nHe had not moved; he had been afraid to stir.  There had been a moan\nand motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck\nand struck again.  Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to\nfancy the eyes, and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them\nglaring upward, as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that\nquivered and danced in the sunlight on the ceiling.  He had plucked it\noff again.  And there was the body--mere flesh and blood, no more--but\nsuch flesh, and so much blood!\n\nHe struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There\nwas hair upon the end, which blazed and shrunk into a light cinder,\nand, caught by the air, whirled up the chimney.  Even that frightened\nhim, sturdy as he was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then\npiled it on the coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes.  He washed\nhimself, and rubbed his clothes; there were spots that would not be\nremoved, but he cut the pieces out, and burnt them.  How those stains\nwere dispersed about the room!  The very feet of the dog were bloody.\n\nAll this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no,\nnot for a moment.  Such preparations completed, he moved, backward,\ntowards the door:  dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his\nfeet anew and carry out new evidence of the crime into the streets. He\nshut the door softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.\n\nHe crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing\nwas visible from the outside.  There was the curtain still drawn, which\nshe would have opened to admit the light she never saw again.  It lay\nnearly under there.  _He_ knew that.  God, how the sun poured down upon\nthe very spot!\n\nThe glance was instantaneous.  It was a relief to have got free of the\nroom.  He whistled on the dog, and walked rapidly away.\n\nHe went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which\nstands the stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate\nHill, unsteady of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the\nright again, almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the\nfoot-path across the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came on\nHampstead Heath.  Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Heath, he\nmounted the opposite bank, and crossing the road which joins the\nvillages of Hampstead and Highgate, made along the remaining portion of\nthe heath to the fields at North End, in one of which he laid himself\ndown under a hedge, and slept.\n\nSoon he was up again, and away,--not far into the country, but back\ntowards London by the high-road--then back again--then over another\npart of the same ground as he already traversed--then wandering up and\ndown in fields, and lying on ditches' brinks to rest, and starting up\nto make for some other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again.\n\nWhere could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat\nand drink?  Hendon.  That was a good place, not far off, and out of\nmost people's way.  Thither he directed his steps,--running sometimes,\nand sometimes, with a strange perversity, loitering at a snail's pace,\nor stopping altogether and idly breaking the hedges with a stick.  But\nwhen he got there, all the people he met--the very children at the\ndoors--seemed to view him with suspicion.  Back he turned again,\nwithout the courage to purchase bit or drop, though he had tasted no\nfood for many hours; and once more he lingered on the Heath, uncertain\nwhere to go.\n\nHe wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the\nold place.  Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane,\nand still he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round,\nand still lingered about the same spot.  At last he got away, and\nshaped his course for Hatfield.\n\nIt was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the\ndog, limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the\nhill by the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the little\nstreet, crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided\nthem to the spot.  There was a fire in the tap-room, and some\ncountry-labourers were drinking before it.\n\nThey made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the furthest\ncorner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog:  to whom he\ncast a morsel of food from time to time.\n\nThe conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the\nneighbouring land, and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted,\nupon the age of some old man who had been buried on the previous\nSunday; the young men present considering him very old, and the old men\npresent declaring him to have been quite young--not older, one\nwhite-haired grandfather said, than he was--with ten or fifteen year of\nlife in him at least--if he had taken care; if he had taken care.\n\nThere was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The\nrobber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in his\ncorner, and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half wakened by the\nnoisy entrance of a new comer.\n\nThis was an antic fellow, half pedlar and half mountebank, who\ntravelled about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors,\nwashballs, harness-paste, medicine for dogs and horses, cheap\nperfumery, cosmetics, and such-like wares, which he carried in a case\nslung to his back.  His entrance was the signal for various homely\njokes with the countrymen, which slackened not until he had made his\nsupper, and opened his box of treasures, when he ingeniously contrived\nto unite business with amusement.\n\n'And what be that stoof?  Good to eat, Harry?' asked a grinning\ncountryman, pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.\n\n'This,' said the fellow, producing one, 'this is the infallible and\ninvaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt,\nmildew, spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen,\ncambric, cloth, crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or\nwoollen stuff.  Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains,\npaint-stains, pitch-stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with\nthe infallible and invaluable composition.  If a lady stains her\nhonour, she has only need to swallow one cake and she's cured at\nonce--for it's poison.  If a gentleman wants to prove this, he has only\nneed to bolt one little square, and he has put it beyond question--for\nit's quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, and a great deal nastier\nin the flavour, consequently the more credit in taking it.  One penny a\nsquare.  With all these virtues, one penny a square!'\n\nThere were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly\nhesitated.  The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.\n\n'It's all bought up as fast as it can be made,' said the fellow. 'There\nare fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery,\nalways a-working upon it, and they can't make it fast enough, though\nthe men work so hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned\ndirectly, with twenty pound a-year for each of the children, and a\npremium of fifty for twins.  One penny a square!  Two half-pence is all\nthe same, and four farthings is received with joy.  One penny a square!\nWine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains,\npitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains!  Here is a stain upon the hat\nof a gentleman in company, that I'll take clean out, before he can\norder me a pint of ale.'\n\n'Hah!' cried Sikes starting up.  'Give that back.'\n\n'I'll take it clean out, sir,' replied the man, winking to the company,\n'before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe\nthe dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but\nthicker than a half-crown.  Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain,\nbeer-stain, water-stain, paint-stain, pitch-stain, mud-stain, or\nblood-stain--'\n\nThe man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew\nthe table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.\n\nWith the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that had fastened\nupon him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was\nnot followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken\nsullen fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of\nthe lamps of a stage-coach that was standing in the street, was walking\npast, when he recognised the mail from London, and saw that it was\nstanding at the little post-office.  He almost knew what was to come;\nbut he crossed over, and listened.\n\nThe guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man,\ndressed like a game-keeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a\nbasket which lay ready on the pavement.\n\n'That's for your people,' said the guard.  'Now, look alive in there,\nwill you.  Damn that 'ere bag, it warn't ready night afore last; this\nwon't do, you know!'\n\n'Anything new up in town, Ben?' asked the game-keeper, drawing back to\nthe window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.\n\n'No, nothing that I knows on,' replied the man, pulling on his gloves.\n'Corn's up a little.  I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields\nway, but I don't reckon much upon it.'\n\n'Oh, that's quite true,' said a gentleman inside, who was looking out\nof the window.  'And a dreadful murder it was.'\n\n'Was it, sir?' rejoined the guard, touching his hat.  'Man or woman,\npray, sir?'\n\n'A woman,' replied the gentleman.  'It is supposed--'\n\n'Now, Ben,' replied the coachman impatiently.\n\n'Damn that 'ere bag,' said the guard; 'are you gone to sleep in there?'\n\n'Coming!' cried the office keeper, running out.\n\n'Coming,' growled the guard.  'Ah, and so's the young 'ooman of\nproperty that's going to take a fancy to me, but I don't know when.\nHere, give hold.  All ri--ight!'\n\nThe horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.\n\nSikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he\nhad just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where\nto go.  At length he went back again, and took the road which leads\nfrom Hatfield to St. Albans.\n\nHe went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged\ninto the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe\ncreeping upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him,\nsubstance or shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some\nfearful thing; but these fears were nothing compared to the sense that\nhaunted him of that morning's ghastly figure following at his heels.\nHe could trace its shadow in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the\noutline, and note how stiff and solemn it seemed to stalk along.  He\ncould hear its garments rustling in the leaves, and every breath of\nwind came laden with that last low cry.  If he stopped it did the same.\nIf he ran, it followed--not running too:  that would have been a\nrelief:  but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery of life, and\nborne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell.\n\nAt times, he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat\nthis phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on\nhis head, and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was\nbehind him then.  He had kept it before him that morning, but it was\nbehind now--always.  He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that\nit stood above him, visibly out against the cold night-sky.  He threw\nhimself upon the road--on his back upon the road.  At his head it\nstood, silent, erect, and still--a living grave-stone, with its epitaph\nin blood.\n\nLet no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence\nmust sleep.  There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long\nminute of that agony of fear.\n\nThere was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the\nnight.  Before the door, were three tall poplar trees, which made it\nvery dark within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail.\nHe _could not_ walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretched\nhimself close to the wall--to undergo new torture.\n\nFor now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than\nthat from which he had escaped.  Those widely staring eyes, so\nlustreless and so glassy, that he had better borne to see them than\nthink upon them, appeared in the midst of the darkness: light in\nthemselves, but giving light to nothing.  There were but two, but they\nwere everywhere.  If he shut out the sight, there came the room with\nevery well-known object--some, indeed, that he would have forgotten, if\nhe had gone over its contents from memory--each in its accustomed\nplace.  The body was in _its_ place, and its eyes were as he saw them\nwhen he stole away.  He got up, and rushed into the field without.  The\nfigure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrunk down once\nmore.  The eyes were there, before he had laid himself along.\n\nAnd here he remained in such terror as none but he can know, trembling\nin every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when\nsuddenly there arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting,\nand the roar of voices mingled in alarm and wonder.  Any sound of men\nin that lonely place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm,\nwas something to him.  He regained his strength and energy at the\nprospect of personal danger; and springing to his feet, rushed into the\nopen air.\n\nThe broad sky seemed on fire.  Rising into the air with showers of\nsparks, and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting\nthe atmosphere for miles round, and driving clouds of smoke in the\ndirection where he stood.  The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled\nthe roar, and he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the ringing\nof an alarm-bell, the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames\nas they twined round some new obstacle, and shot aloft as though\nrefreshed by food.  The noise increased as he looked.  There were\npeople there--men and women--light, bustle.  It was like new life to\nhim.  He darted onward--straight, headlong--dashing through brier and\nbrake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as his dog, who careered\nwith loud and sounding bark before him.\n\nHe came upon the spot.  There were half-dressed figures tearing to and\nfro, some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables,\nothers driving the cattle from the yard and out-houses, and others\ncoming laden from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks,\nand the tumbling down of red-hot beams.  The apertures, where doors and\nwindows stood an hour ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls\nrocked and crumbled into the burning well; the molten lead and iron\npoured down, white hot, upon the ground.  Women and children shrieked,\nand men encouraged each other with noisy shouts and cheers.  The\nclanking of the engine-pumps, and the spirting and hissing of the water\nas it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the tremendous roar.  He\nshouted, too, till he was hoarse; and flying from memory and himself,\nplunged into the thickest of the throng.  Hither and thither he dived\nthat night:  now working at the pumps, and now hurrying through the\nsmoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself wherever noise and\nmen were thickest.  Up and down the ladders, upon the roofs of\nbuildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, under\nthe lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great fire\nwas he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor bruise,\nnor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only smoke\nand blackened ruins remained.\n\nThis mad excitement over, there returned, with ten-fold force, the\ndreadful consciousness of his crime.  He looked suspiciously about him,\nfor the men were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject\nof their talk.  The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and\nthey drew off, stealthily, together.  He passed near an engine where\nsome men were seated, and they called to him to share in their\nrefreshment.  He took some bread and meat; and as he drank a draught of\nbeer, heard the firemen, who were from London, talking about the\nmurder.  'He has gone to Birmingham, they say,' said one:  'but they'll\nhave him yet, for the scouts are out, and by to-morrow night there'll\nbe a cry all through the country.'\n\nHe hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then\nlay down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep.  He\nwandered on again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the\nfear of another solitary night.\n\nSuddenly, he took the desperate resolution to going back to London.\n\n'There's somebody to speak to there, at all event,' he thought. 'A good\nhiding-place, too.  They'll never expect to nab me there, after this\ncountry scent.  Why can't I lie by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt\nfrom Fagin, get abroad to France?  Damme, I'll risk it.'\n\nHe acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least\nfrequented roads began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed\nwithin a short distance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk by\na circuitous route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he had\nfixed on for his destination.\n\nThe dog, though.  If any description of him were out, it would not be\nforgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him.\nThis might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets.  He\nresolved to drown him, and walked on, looking about for a pond:\npicking up a heavy stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.\n\nThe animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations\nwere making; whether his instinct apprehended something of their\npurpose, or the robber's sidelong look at him was sterner than\nordinary, he skulked a little farther in the rear than usual, and\ncowered as he came more slowly along.  When his master halted at the\nbrink of a pool, and looked round to call him, he stopped outright.\n\n'Do you hear me call?  Come here!' cried Sikes.\n\nThe animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped\nto attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and\nstarted back.\n\n'Come back!' said the robber.\n\nThe dog wagged his tail, but moved not.  Sikes made a running noose and\ncalled him again.\n\nThe dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, and scoured away at his\nhardest speed.\n\nThe man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the\nexpectation that he would return.  But no dog appeared, and at length\nhe resumed his journey.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XLIX\n\nMONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET.  THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE\nINTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT\n\n The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow\nalighted from a hackney-coach at his own door, and knocked softly.  The\ndoor being opened, a sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed\nhimself on one side of the steps, while another man, who had been\nseated on the box, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side.  At a\nsign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him\nbetween them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks.\n\nThey walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr.\nBrownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back-room. At the door of\nthis apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance,\nstopped.  The two men looked at the old gentleman as if for\ninstructions.\n\n'He knows the alternative,' said Mr. Browlow.  'If he hesitates or\nmoves a finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for\nthe aid of the police, and impeach him as a felon in my name.'\n\n'How dare you say this of me?' asked Monks.\n\n'How dare you urge me to it, young man?' replied Mr. Brownlow,\nconfronting him with a steady look.  'Are you mad enough to leave this\nhouse?  Unhand him.  There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow.\nBut I warn you, by all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that instant\nwill have you apprehended on a charge of fraud and robbery.  I am\nresolute and immoveable.  If you are determined to be the same, your\nblood be upon your own head!'\n\n'By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by\nthese dogs?' asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who\nstood beside him.\n\n'By mine,' replied Mr. Brownlow.  'Those persons are indemnified by me.\nIf you complain of being deprived of your liberty--you had power and\nopportunity to retrieve it as you came along, but you deemed it\nadvisable to remain quiet--I say again, throw yourself for protection\non the law.  I will appeal to the law too; but when you have gone too\nfar to recede, do not sue to me for leniency, when the power will have\npassed into other hands; and do not say I plunged you down the gulf\ninto which you rushed, yourself.'\n\nMonks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides.  He hesitated.\n\n'You will decide quickly,' said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and\ncomposure.  'If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign\nyou to a punishment the extent of which, although I can, with a\nshudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, for you know the\nway.  If not, and you appeal to my forbearance, and the mercy of those\nyou have deeply injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair.\nIt has waited for you two whole days.'\n\nMonks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered still.\n\n'You will be prompt,' said Mr. Brownlow.  'A word from me, and the\nalternative has gone for ever.'\n\nStill the man hesitated.\n\n'I have not the inclination to parley,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'and, as I\nadvocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right.'\n\n'Is there--' demanded Monks with a faltering tongue,--'is there--no\nmiddle course?'\n\n'None.'\n\nMonks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but, reading in\nhis countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the\nroom, and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down.\n\n'Lock the door on the outside,' said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants,\n'and come when I ring.'\n\nThe men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.\n\n'This is pretty treatment, sir,' said Monks, throwing down his hat and\ncloak, 'from my father's oldest friend.'\n\n'It is because I was your father's oldest friend, young man,' returned\nMr. Brownlow; 'it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy\nyears were bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and\nkindred who rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary,\nlonely man:  it is because he knelt with me beside his only sisters'\ndeath-bed when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would--but Heaven\nwilled otherwise--have made her my young wife; it is because my seared\nheart clung to him, from that time forth, through all his trials and\nerrors, till he died; it is because old recollections and associations\nfilled my heart, and even the sight of you brings with it old thoughts\nof him; it is because of all these things that I am moved to treat you\ngently now--yes, Edward Leeford, even now--and blush for your\nunworthiness who bear the name.'\n\n'What has the name to do with it?' asked the other, after\ncontemplating, half in silence, and half in dogged wonder, the\nagitation of his companion.  'What is the name to me?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'nothing to you.  But it was _hers_,\nand even at this distance of time brings back to me, an old man, the\nglow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a\nstranger.  I am very glad you have changed it--very--very.'\n\n'This is all mighty fine,' said Monks (to retain his assumed\ndesignation) after a long silence, during which he had jerked himself\nin sullen defiance to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, shading his\nface with his hand. 'But what do you want with me?'\n\n'You have a brother,' said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself:  'a brother,\nthe whisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the\nstreet, was, in itself, almost enough to make you accompany me hither,\nin wonder and alarm.'\n\n'I have no brother,' replied Monks.  'You know I was an only child.\nWhy do you talk to me of brothers?  You know that, as well as I.'\n\n'Attend to what I do know, and you may not,' said Mr. Brownlow. 'I\nshall interest you by and by.  I know that of the wretched marriage,\ninto which family pride, and the most sordid and narrowest of all\nambition, forced your unhappy father when a mere boy, you were the sole\nand most unnatural issue.'\n\n'I don't care for hard names,' interrupted Monks with a jeering laugh.\n'You know the fact, and that's enough for me.'\n\n'But I also know,' pursued the old gentleman, 'the misery, the slow\ntorture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how\nlistlessly and wearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their\nheavy chain through a world that was poisoned to them both.  I know how\ncold formalities were succeeded by open taunts; how indifference gave\nplace to dislike, dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at last\nthey wrenched the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space\napart, carried each a galling fragment, of which nothing but death\ncould break the rivets, to hide it in new society beneath the gayest\nlooks they could assume.  Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon.\nBut it rusted and cankered at your father's heart for years.'\n\n'Well, they were separated,' said Monks, 'and what of that?'\n\n'When they had been separated for some time,' returned Mr. Brownlow,\n'and your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had\nutterly forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who,\nwith prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among new\nfriends.  This circumstance, at least, you know already.'\n\n'Not I,' said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon\nthe ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything. 'Not I.'\n\n'Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never\nforgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness,' returned Mr.\nBrownlow.  'I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than\neleven years old, and your father but one-and-thirty--for he was, I\nrepeat, a boy, when _his_ father ordered him to marry. Must I go back\nto events which cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will\nyou spare it, and disclose to me the truth?'\n\n'I have nothing to disclose,' rejoined Monks.  'You must talk on if you\nwill.'\n\n'These new friends, then,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'were a naval officer\nretired from active service, whose wife had died some half-a-year\nbefore, and left him with two children--there had been more, but, of\nall their family, happily but two survived. They were both daughters;\none a beautiful creature of nineteen, and the other a mere child of two\nor three years old.'\n\n'What's this to me?' asked Monks.\n\n'They resided,' said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the\ninterruption, 'in a part of the country to which your father in his\nwandering had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode.\nAcquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your\nfather was gifted as few men are.  He had his sister's soul and person.\nAs the old officer knew him more and more, he grew to love him.  I\nwould that it had ended there.  His daughter did the same.'\n\nThe old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes\nfixed upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:\n\n'The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that\ndaughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a\nguileless girl.'\n\n'Your tale is of the longest,' observed Monks, moving restlessly in his\nchair.\n\n'It is a true tale of grief and trial, and sorrow, young man,' returned\nMr. Brownlow, 'and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed\njoy and happiness, it would be very brief.  At length one of those rich\nrelations to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had\nbeen sacrificed, as others are often--it is no uncommon case--died, and\nto repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left him\nhis panacea for all griefs--Money.  It was necessary that he should\nimmediately repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and\nwhere he had died, leaving his affairs in great confusion.  He went;\nwas seized with mortal illness there; was followed, the moment the\nintelligence reached Paris, by your mother who carried you with her; he\ndied the day after her arrival, leaving no will--_no will_--so that the\nwhole property fell to her and you.'\n\nAt this part of the recital Monks held his breath, and listened with a\nface of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards\nthe speaker.  As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the\nair of one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face\nand hands.\n\n'Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,'\nsaid Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other's face,\n'he came to me.'\n\n'I never heard of that,' interrupted Monks in a tone intended to appear\nincredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.\n\n'He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture--a\nportrait painted by himself--a likeness of this poor girl--which he did\nnot wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty\njourney.  He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked\nin a wild, distracted way, of ruin and dishonour worked by himself;\nconfided to me his intention to convert his whole property, at any\nloss, into money, and, having settled on his wife and you a portion of\nhis recent acquisition, to fly the country--I guessed too well he would\nnot fly alone--and never see it more.  Even from me, his old and early\nfriend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth that\ncovered one most dear to both--even from me he withheld any more\nparticular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and after\nthat to see me once again, for the last time on earth. Alas!  _That_\nwas the last time.  I had no letter, and I never saw him more.'\n\n'I went,' said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, 'I went, when all was\nover, to the scene of his--I will use the term the world would freely\nuse, for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him--of his\nguilty love, resolved that if my fears were realised that erring child\nshould find one heart and home to shelter and compassionate her.  The\nfamily had left that part a week before; they had called in such\ntrifling debts as were outstanding, discharged them, and left the place\nby night.  Why, or whither, none can tell.'\n\nMonks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of\ntriumph.\n\n'When your brother,' said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other's\nchair, 'When your brother:  a feeble, ragged, neglected child:  was\ncast in my way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a\nlife of vice and infamy--'\n\n'What?' cried Monks.\n\n'By me,' said Mr. Brownlow.  'I told you I should interest you before\nlong.  I say by me--I see that your cunning associate suppressed my\nname, although for ought he knew, it would be quite strange to your\nears.  When he was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from\nsickness in my house, his strong resemblance to this picture I have\nspoken of, struck me with astonishment.  Even when I first saw him in\nall his dirt and misery, there was a lingering expression in his face\nthat came upon me like a glimpse of some old friend flashing on one in\na vivid dream.  I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew\nhis history--'\n\n'Why not?' asked Monks hastily.\n\n'Because you know it well.'\n\n'I!'\n\n'Denial to me is vain,' replied Mr. Brownlow.  'I shall show you that I\nknow more than that.'\n\n'You--you--can't prove anything against me,' stammered Monks.  'I defy\nyou to do it!'\n\n'We shall see,' returned the old gentleman with a searching glance.  'I\nlost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him.  Your mother\nbeing dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody\ncould, and as when I had last heard of you you were on your own estate\nin the West Indies--whither, as you well know, you retired upon your\nmother's death to escape the consequences of vicious courses here--I\nmade the voyage.  You had left it, months before, and were supposed to\nbe in London, but no one could tell where.  I returned.  Your agents\nhad no clue to your residence.  You came and went, they said, as\nstrangely as you had ever done:  sometimes for days together and\nsometimes not for months:  keeping to all appearance the same low\nhaunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your\nassociates when a fierce ungovernable boy.  I wearied them with new\napplications.  I paced the streets by night and day, but until two\nhours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an\ninstant.'\n\n'And now you do see me,' said Monks, rising boldly, 'what then? Fraud\nand robbery are high-sounding words--justified, you think, by a fancied\nresemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's Brother!\nYou don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you\ndon't even know that.'\n\n'I _did not_,' replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; 'but within the last\nfortnight I have learnt it all.  You have a brother; you know it, and\nhim.  There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret\nand the gain to you at her own death.  It contained a reference to some\nchild likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was\nborn, and accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were\nfirst awakened by his resemblance to your father.  You repaired to the\nplace of his birth. There existed proofs--proofs long suppressed--of\nhis birth and parentage.  Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now,\nin your own words to your accomplice the Jew, \"_the only proofs of the\nboy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that\nreceived them from the mother is rotting in her coffin_.\" Unworthy son,\ncoward, liar,--you, who hold your councils with thieves and murderers\nin dark rooms at night,--you, whose plots and wiles have brought a\nviolent death upon the head of one worth millions such as you,--you,\nwho from your cradle were gall and bitterness to your own father's\nheart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and profligacy, festered,\ntill they found a vent in a hideous disease which had made your face an\nindex even to your mind--you, Edward Leeford, do you still brave me!'\n\n'No, no, no!' returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated\ncharges.\n\n'Every word!' cried the gentleman, 'every word that has passed between\nyou and this detested villain, is known to me.  Shadows on the wall\nhave caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the\npersecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and\nalmost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you\nwere morally if not really a party.'\n\n'No, no,' interposed Monks.  'I--I knew nothing of that; I was going to\ninquire the truth of the story when you overtook me.  I didn't know the\ncause.  I thought it was a common quarrel.'\n\n'It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,' replied Mr. Brownlow.\n'Will you disclose the whole?'\n\n'Yes, I will.'\n\n'Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before\nwitnesses?'\n\n'That I promise too.'\n\n'Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed\nwith me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose\nof attesting it?'\n\n'If you insist upon that, I'll do that also,' replied Monks.\n\n'You must do more than that,' said Mr. Brownlow.  'Make restitution to\nan innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the\noffspring of a guilty and most miserable love.  You have not forgotten\nthe provisions of the will.  Carry them into execution so far as your\nbrother is concerned, and then go where you please.  In this world you\nneed meet no more.'\n\nWhile Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks\non this proposal and the possibilities of evading it:  torn by his\nfears on the one hand and his hatred on the other:  the door was\nhurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in\nviolent agitation.\n\n'The man will be taken,' he cried.  'He will be taken to-night!'\n\n'The murderer?' asked Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'Yes, yes,' replied the other.  'His dog has been seen lurking about\nsome old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is,\nor will be, there, under cover of the darkness.  Spies are hovering\nabout in every direction.  I have spoken to the men who are charged\nwith his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape.  A reward of a\nhundred pounds is proclaimed by Government to-night.'\n\n'I will give fifty more,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'and proclaim it with my\nown lips upon the spot, if I can reach it.  Where is Mr. Maylie?'\n\n'Harry?  As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with\nyou, he hurried off to where he heard this,' replied the doctor, 'and\nmounting his horse sallied forth to join the first party at some place\nin the outskirts agreed upon between them.'\n\n'Fagin,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'what of him?'\n\n'When I last heard, he had not been taken, but he will be, or is, by\nthis time.  They're sure of him.'\n\n'Have you made up your mind?' asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of\nMonks.\n\n'Yes,' he replied.  'You--you--will be secret with me?'\n\n'I will.  Remain here till I return.  It is your only hope of safety.'\n\nThey left the room, and the door was again locked.\n\n'What have you done?' asked the doctor in a whisper.\n\n'All that I could hope to do, and even more.  Coupling the poor girl's\nintelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good\nfriend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and\nlaid bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day.\nWrite and appoint the evening after to-morrow, at seven, for the\nmeeting.  We shall be down there, a few hours before, but shall require\nrest:  especially the young lady, who _may_ have greater need of\nfirmness than either you or I can quite foresee just now.  But my blood\nboils to avenge this poor murdered creature.  Which way have they\ntaken?'\n\n'Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,' replied Mr.\nLosberne.  'I will remain here.'\n\nThe two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement\nwholly uncontrollable.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER L\n\nTHE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE\n\nNear to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe\nabuts, where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on\nthe river blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of\nclose-built low-roofed houses, there exists the filthiest, the\nstrangest, the most extraordinary of the many localities that are\nhidden in London, wholly unknown, even by name, to the great mass of\nits inhabitants.\n\nTo reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of\nclose, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest\nof waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to\noccasion.  The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the\nshops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at\nthe salesman's door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows.\nJostling with unemployed labourers of the lowest class,\nballast-heavers, coal-whippers, brazen women, ragged children, and the\nraff and refuse of the river, he makes his way with difficulty along,\nassailed by offensive sights and smells from the narrow alleys which\nbranch off on the right and left, and deafened by the clash of\nponderous waggons that bear great piles of merchandise from the stacks\nof warehouses that rise from every corner.  Arriving, at length, in\nstreets remoter and less-frequented than those through which he has\npassed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts projecting over the\npavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he passes, chimneys\nhalf crushed half hesitating to fall, windows guarded by rusty iron\nbars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, every imaginable sign\nof desolation and neglect.\n\nIn such a neighborhood, beyond Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark,\nstands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet\ndeep and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill\nPond, but known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch.  It is a\ncreek or inlet from the Thames, and can always be filled at high water\nby opening the sluices at the Lead Mills from which it took its old\nname.  At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden\nbridges thrown across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the\nhouses on either side lowering from their back doors and windows,\nbuckets, pails, domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the\nwater up; and when his eye is turned from these operations to the\nhouses themselves, his utmost astonishment will be excited by the scene\nbefore him.  Crazy wooden galleries common to the backs of half a dozen\nhouses, with holes from which to look upon the slime beneath; windows,\nbroken and patched, with poles thrust out, on which to dry the linen\nthat is never there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the\nair would seem too tainted even for the dirt and squalor which they\nshelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves out above the mud, and\nthreatening to fall into it--as some have done; dirt-besmeared walls\nand decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of poverty, every\nloathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the\nbanks of Folly Ditch.\n\nIn Jacob's Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are\ncrumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling\ninto the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke.\nThirty or forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon\nit, it was a thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed.\nThe houses have no owners; they are broken open, and entered upon by\nthose who have the courage; and there they live, and there they die.\nThey must have powerful motives for a secret residence, or be reduced\nto a destitute condition indeed, who seek a refuge in Jacob's Island.\n\nIn an upper room of one of these houses--a detached house of fair size,\nruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window:\nof which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already\ndescribed--there were assembled three men, who, regarding each other\nevery now and then with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation,\nsat for some time in profound and gloomy silence.  One of these was\nToby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty\nyears, whose nose had been almost beaten in, in some old scuffle, and\nwhose face bore a frightful scar which might probably be traced to the\nsame occasion.  This man was a returned transport, and his name was\nKags.\n\n'I wish,' said Toby turning to Mr. Chitling, 'that you had picked out\nsome other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come\nhere, my fine feller.'\n\n'Why didn't you, blunder-head!' said Kags.\n\n'Well, I thought you'd have been a little more glad to see me than\nthis,' replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.\n\n'Why, look'e, young gentleman,' said Toby, 'when a man keeps himself so\nvery ex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over\nhis head with nobody a prying and smelling about it, it's rather a\nstartling thing to have the honour of a wisit from a young gentleman\n(however respectable and pleasant a person he may be to play cards with\nat conweniency) circumstanced as you are.'\n\n'Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping\nwith him, that's arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts,\nand is too modest to want to be presented to the Judges on his return,'\nadded Mr. Kags.\n\nThere was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon\nas hopeless any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care\nswagger, turned to Chitling and said,\n\n'When was Fagin took then?'\n\n'Just at dinner-time--two o'clock this afternoon.  Charley and I made\nour lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty\nwater-butt, head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that\nthey stuck out at the top, and so they took him too.'\n\n'And Bet?'\n\n'Poor Bet!  She went to see the Body, to speak to who it was,' replied\nChitling, his countenance falling more and more, 'and went off mad,\nscreaming and raving, and beating her head against the boards; so they\nput a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital--and there she\nis.'\n\n'Wot's come of young Bates?' demanded Kags.\n\n'He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here\nsoon,' replied Chitling.  'There's nowhere else to go to now, for the\npeople at the Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken--I\nwent up there and see it with my own eyes--is filled with traps.'\n\n'This is a smash,' observed Toby, biting his lips. 'There's more than\none will go with this.'\n\n'The sessions are on,' said Kags:  'if they get the inquest over, and\nBolter turns King's evidence:  as of course he will, from what he's\nsaid already:  they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and\nget the trial on on Friday, and he'll swing in six days from this, by\nG--!'\n\n'You should have heard the people groan,' said Chitling; 'the officers\nfought like devils, or they'd have torn him away.  He was down once,\nbut they made a ring round him, and fought their way along.  You should\nhave seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to\nthem as if they were his dearest friends.  I can see 'em now, not able\nto stand upright with the pressing of the mob, and draggin him along\namongst 'em; I can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and\nsnarling with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon\nhis hair and beard, and hear the cries with which the women worked\nthemselves into the centre of the crowd at the street corner, and swore\nthey'd tear his heart out!'\n\nThe horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his\nears, and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro,\nlike one distracted.\n\nWhile he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in silence with their\neyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs,\nand Sikes's dog bounded into the room.  They ran to the window,\ndownstairs, and into the street.  The dog had jumped in at an open\nwindow; he made no attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be\nseen.\n\n'What's the meaning of this?' said Toby when they had returned. 'He\ncan't be coming here.  I--I--hope not.'\n\n'If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog,' said Kags,\nstooping down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor.\n'Here!  Give us some water for him; he has run himself faint.'\n\n'He's drunk it all up, every drop,' said Chitling after watching the\ndog some time in silence.  'Covered with mud--lame--half blind--he must\nhave come a long way.'\n\n'Where can he have come from!' exclaimed Toby.  'He's been to the other\nkens of course, and finding them filled with strangers come on here,\nwhere he's been many a time and often.  But where can he have come from\nfirst, and how comes he here alone without the other!'\n\n'He'--(none of them called the murderer by his old name)--'He can't\nhave made away with himself.  What do you think?' said Chitling.\n\nToby shook his head.\n\n'If he had,' said Kags, 'the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he\ndid it.  No.  I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog\nbehind.  He must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so\neasy.'\n\nThis solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the\nright; the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep,\nwithout more notice from anybody.\n\nIt being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and\nplaced upon the table.  The terrible events of the last two days had\nmade a deep impression on all three, increased by the danger and\nuncertainty of their own position.  They drew their chairs closer\ntogether, starting at every sound.  They spoke little, and that in\nwhispers, and were as silent and awe-stricken as if the remains of the\nmurdered woman lay in the next room.\n\nThey had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried\nknocking at the door below.\n\n'Young Bates,' said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he\nfelt himself.\n\nThe knocking came again.  No, it wasn't he.  He never knocked like that.\n\nCrackit went to the window, and shaking all over, drew in his head.\nThere was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough.\nThe dog too was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.\n\n'We must let him in,' he said, taking up the candle.\n\n'Isn't there any help for it?' asked the other man in a hoarse voice.\n\n'None.  He _must_ come in.'\n\n'Don't leave us in the dark,' said Kags, taking down a candle from the\nchimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the\nknocking was twice repeated before he had finished.\n\nCrackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the\nlower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over\nhis head under his hat.  He drew them slowly off.  Blanched face,\nsunken eyes, hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh,\nshort thick breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.\n\nHe laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room,\nbut shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance\nover his shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall--as close as it\nwould go--and ground it against it--and sat down.\n\nNot a word had been exchanged.  He looked from one to another in\nsilence.  If an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly\naverted.  When his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started.\nThey seemed never to have heard its tones before.\n\n'How came that dog here?' he asked.\n\n'Alone.  Three hours ago.'\n\n'To-night's paper says that Fagin's took.  Is it true, or a lie?'\n\n'True.'\n\nThey were silent again.\n\n'Damn you all!' said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead.\n\n'Have you nothing to say to me?'\n\nThere was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.\n\n'You that keep this house,' said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit,\n'do you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till this hunt is over?'\n\n'You may stop here, if you think it safe,' returned the person\naddressed, after some hesitation.\n\nSikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him:  rather trying to\nturn his head than actually doing it:  and said, 'Is--it--the body--is\nit buried?'\n\nThey shook their heads.\n\n'Why isn't it!' he retorted with the same glance behind him. 'Wot do\nthey keep such ugly things above the ground for?--Who's that knocking?'\n\nCrackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that\nthere was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates\nbehind him.  Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy\nentered the room he encountered his figure.\n\n'Toby,' said the boy falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards\nhim, 'why didn't you tell me this, downstairs?'\n\nThere had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the\nthree, that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad.\nAccordingly he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him.\n\n'Let me go into some other room,' said the boy, retreating still\nfarther.\n\n'Charley!' said Sikes, stepping forward.  'Don't you--don't you know\nme?'\n\n'Don't come nearer me,' answered the boy, still retreating, and\nlooking, with horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face.  'You\nmonster!'\n\nThe man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's\neyes sunk gradually to the ground.\n\n'Witness you three,' cried the boy shaking his clenched fist, and\nbecoming more and more excited as he spoke. 'Witness you three--I'm not\nafraid of him--if they come here after him, I'll give him up; I will.\nI tell you out at once.  He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he\ndares, but if I am here I'll give him up.  I'd give him up if he was to\nbe boiled alive.  Murder! Help!  If there's the pluck of a man among\nyou three, you'll help me.  Murder!  Help!  Down with him!'\n\nPouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent\ngesticulation, the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the\nstrong man, and in the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of\nhis surprise, brought him heavily to the ground.\n\nThe three spectators seemed quite stupefied.  They offered no\ninterference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the\nformer, heedless of the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his\nhands tighter and tighter in the garments about the murderer's breast,\nand never ceasing to call for help with all his might.\n\nThe contest, however, was too unequal to last long.  Sikes had him\ndown, and his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with\na look of alarm, and pointed to the window.  There were lights gleaming\nbelow, voices in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried\nfootsteps--endless they seemed in number--crossing the nearest wooden\nbridge.  One man on horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there\nwas the noise of hoofs rattling on the uneven pavement.  The gleam of\nlights increased; the footsteps came more thickly and noisily on.\nThen, came a loud knocking at the door, and then a hoarse murmur from\nsuch a multitude of angry voices as would have made the boldest quail.\n\n'Help!' shrieked the boy in a voice that rent the air.\n\n'He's here!  Break down the door!'\n\n'In the King's name,' cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry\narose again, but louder.\n\n'Break down the door!' screamed the boy.  'I tell you they'll never\nopen it.  Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the\ndoor!'\n\nStrokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower\nwindow-shutters as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the\ncrowd; giving the listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of\nits immense extent.\n\n'Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching\nHell-babe,' cried Sikes fiercely; running to and fro, and dragging the\nboy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. 'That door.  Quick!'\nHe flung him in, bolted it, and turned the key.  'Is the downstairs\ndoor fast?'\n\n'Double-locked and chained,' replied Crackit, who, with the other two\nmen, still remained quite helpless and bewildered.\n\n'The panels--are they strong?'\n\n'Lined with sheet-iron.'\n\n'And the windows too?'\n\n'Yes, and the windows.'\n\n'Damn you!' cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and\nmenacing the crowd.  'Do your worst!  I'll cheat you yet!'\n\nOf all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could\nexceed the cry of the infuriated throng.  Some shouted to those who\nwere nearest to set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to\nshoot him dead.  Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on\nhorseback, who, throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting\nthrough the crowd as if he were parting water, cried, beneath the\nwindow, in a voice that rose above all others, 'Twenty guineas to the\nman who brings a ladder!'\n\nThe nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it.  Some\ncalled for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to\nand fro as if to seek them, and still came back and roared again; some\nspent their breath in impotent curses and execrations; some pressed\nforward with the ecstasy of madmen, and thus impeded the progress of\nthose below; some among the boldest attempted to climb up by the\nwater-spout and crevices in the wall; and all waved to and fro, in the\ndarkness beneath, like a field of corn moved by an angry wind:  and\njoined from time to time in one loud furious roar.\n\n'The tide,' cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and\nshut the faces out, 'the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a\nlong rope.  They're all in front.  I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and\nclear off that way.  Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders\nand kill myself.'\n\nThe panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the\nmurderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up\nto the house-top.\n\nAll the window in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up,\nexcept one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that\nwas too small even for the passage of his body.  But, from this\naperture, he had never ceased to call on those without, to guard the\nback; and thus, when the murderer emerged at last on the house-top by\nthe door in the roof, a loud shout proclaimed the fact to those in\nfront, who immediately began to pour round, pressing upon each other in\nan unbroken stream.\n\nHe planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose,\nso firmly against the door that it must be matter of great difficulty\nto open it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over\nthe low parapet.\n\nThe water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.\n\nThe crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his\nmotions and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it\nand knew it was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to\nwhich all their previous shouting had been whispers.  Again and again\nit rose.  Those who were at too great a distance to know its meaning,\ntook up the sound; it echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the\nwhole city had poured its population out to curse him.\n\nOn pressed the people from the front--on, on, on, in a strong\nstruggling current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch\nto lighten them up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion.\nThe houses on the opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the\nmob; sashes were thrown up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and\ntiers of faces in every window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging\nto every house-top.  Each little bridge (and there were three in sight)\nbent beneath the weight of the crowd upon it.  Still the current poured\non to find some nook or hole from which to vent their shouts, and only\nfor an instant see the wretch.\n\n'They have him now,' cried a man on the nearest bridge. 'Hurrah!'\n\nThe crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.\n\n'I will give fifty pounds,' cried an old gentleman from the same\nquarter, 'to the man who takes him alive.  I will remain here, till he\ncome to ask me for it.'\n\nThere was another roar.  At this moment the word was passed among the\ncrowd that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first\ncalled for the ladder had mounted into the room.  The stream abruptly\nturned, as this intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at\nthe windows, seeing those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their\nstations, and running into the street, joined the concourse that now\nthronged pell-mell to the spot they had left:  each man crushing and\nstriving with his neighbor, and all panting with impatience to get near\nthe door, and look upon the criminal as the officers brought him out.\nThe cries and shrieks of those who were pressed almost to suffocation,\nor trampled down and trodden under foot in the confusion, were\ndreadful; the narrow ways were completely blocked up; and at this time,\nbetween the rush of some to regain the space in front of the house, and\nthe unavailing struggles of others to extricate themselves from the\nmass, the immediate attention was distracted from the murderer,\nalthough the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible,\nincreased.\n\nThe man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the\ncrowd, and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change\nwith no less rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet,\ndetermined to make one last effort for his life by dropping into the\nditch, and, at the risk of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in\nthe darkness and confusion.\n\nRoused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within\nthe house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he\nset his foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the\nrope tightly and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong\nrunning noose by the aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second.  He\ncould let himself down by the cord to within a less distance of the\nground than his own height, and had his knife ready in his hand to cut\nit then and drop.\n\nAt the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to\nslipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman\nbefore-mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge\nas to resist the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly\nwarned those about him that the man was about to lower himself down--at\nthat very instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw\nhis arms above his head, and uttered a yell of terror.\n\n'The eyes again!' he cried in an unearthly screech.\n\nStaggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled\nover the parapet.  The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his\nweight, tight as a bow-string, and swift as the arrow it speeds.  He\nfell for five-and-thirty feet.  There was a sudden jerk, a terrific\nconvulsion of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife\nclenched in his stiffening hand.\n\nThe old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The\nmurderer swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside\nthe dangling body which obscured his view, called to the people to come\nand take him out, for God's sake.\n\nA dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on\nthe parapet with a dismal howl, and collecting himself for a spring,\njumped for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the\nditch, turning completely over as he went; and striking his head\nagainst a stone, dashed out his brains.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LI\n\nAFFORDING AN EXPLANATION OF MORE MYSTERIES THAN ONE, AND COMPREHENDING\nA PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE WITH NO WORD OF SETTLEMENT OR PIN-MONEY\n\nThe events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when\nOliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a\ntravelling-carriage rolling fast towards his native town.  Mrs. Maylie,\nand Rose, and Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor were with him:  and Mr.\nBrownlow followed in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person\nwhose name had not been mentioned.\n\nThey had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of\nagitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting\nhis thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less\neffect on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree.\nHe and the two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr.\nBrownlow with the nature of the admissions which had been forced from\nMonks; and although they knew that the object of their present journey\nwas to complete the work which had been so well begun, still the whole\nmatter was enveloped in enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in\nendurance of the most intense suspense.\n\nThe same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously\nstopped all channels of communication through which they could receive\nintelligence of the dreadful occurrences that so recently taken place.\n'It was quite true,' he said, 'that they must know them before long,\nbut it might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be\nat a worse.'  So, they travelled on in silence:  each busied with\nreflections on the object which had brought them together:  and no one\ndisposed to give utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all.\n\nBut if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they\njourneyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the\nwhole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a\ncrowd of emotions were wakened up in his breast, when they turned into\nthat which he had traversed on foot:  a poor houseless, wandering boy,\nwithout a friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head.\n\n'See there, there!' cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose,\nand pointing out at the carriage window; 'that's the stile I came over;\nthere are the hedges I crept behind, for fear any one should overtake\nme and force me back!  Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to\nthe old house where I was a little child!  Oh Dick, Dick, my dear old\nfriend, if I could only see you now!'\n\n'You will see him soon,' replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands\nbetween her own.  'You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich\nyou have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great\nas the coming back to make him happy too.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' said Oliver, 'and we'll--we'll take him away from here, and\nhave him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place\nwhere he may grow strong and well,--shall we?'\n\nRose nodded 'yes,' for the boy was smiling through such happy tears\nthat she could not speak.\n\n'You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one,' said\nOliver.  'It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but\nnever mind, never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile\nagain--I know that too--to think how changed he is; you did the same\nwith me.  He said \"God bless you\" to me when I ran away,' cried the boy\nwith a burst of affectionate emotion; 'and I will say \"God bless you\"\nnow, and show him how I love him for it!'\n\nAs they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow\nstreets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy\nwithin reasonable bounds.  There was Sowerberry's the undertaker's just\nas it used to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he\nremembered it--there were all the well-known shops and houses, with\nalmost every one of which he had some slight incident connected--there\nwas Gamfield's cart, the very cart he used to have, standing at the old\npublic-house door--there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his\nyouthful days, with its dismal windows frowning on the street--there\nwas the same lean porter standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver\ninvoluntarily shrunk back, and then laughed at himself for being so\nfoolish, then cried, then laughed again--there were scores of faces at\nthe doors and windows that he knew quite well--there was nearly\neverything as if he had left it but yesterday, and all his recent life\nhad been but a happy dream.\n\nBut it was pure, earnest, joyful reality.  They drove straight to the\ndoor of the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe,\nand think a mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur\nand size); and here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing\nthe young lady, and the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as\nif he were the grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness,\nand not offering to eat his head--no, not once; not even when he\ncontradicted a very old postboy about the nearest road to London, and\nmaintained he knew it best, though he had only come that way once, and\nthat time fast asleep.  There was dinner prepared, and there were\nbedrooms ready, and everything was arranged as if by magic.\n\nNotwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was\nover, the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marked their\njourney down.  Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained\nin a separate room.  The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with\nanxious faces, and, during the short intervals when they were present,\nconversed apart.  Once, Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being\nabsent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping.\nAll these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets,\nnervous and uncomfortable.  They sat wondering, in silence; or, if they\nexchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to\nhear the sound of their own voices.\n\nAt length, when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they\nwere to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered\nthe room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost\nshrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother,\nand it was the same man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking\nin with Fagin at the window of his little room.  Monks cast a look of\nhate, which, even then, he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy,\nand sat down near the door.  Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand,\nwalked to a table near which Rose and Oliver were seated.\n\n'This is a painful task,' said he, 'but these declarations, which have\nbeen signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance\nrepeated here.  I would have spared you the degradation, but we must\nhear them from your own lips before we part, and you know why.'\n\n'Go on,' said the person addressed, turning away his face. 'Quick.  I\nhave almost done enough, I think.  Don't keep me here.'\n\n'This child,' said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his\nhand upon his head, 'is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your\nfather, my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who\ndied in giving him birth.'\n\n'Yes,' said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy:  the beating of whose\nheart he might have heard.  'That is the bastard child.'\n\n'The term you use,' said Mr. Brownlow, sternly, 'is a reproach to those\nlong since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects\ndisgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass.  He\nwas born in this town.'\n\n'In the workhouse of this town,' was the sullen reply. 'You have the\nstory there.'  He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.\n\n'I must have it here, too,' said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the\nlisteners.\n\n'Listen then!  You!' returned Monks.  'His father being taken ill at\nRome, was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long\nseparated, who went from Paris and took me with her--to look after his\nproperty, for what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor\nhe for her.  He knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he\nslumbered on till next day, when he died.  Among the papers in his\ndesk, were two, dated on the night his illness first came on, directed\nto yourself'; he addressed himself to Mr. Brownlow; 'and enclosed in a\nfew short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package\nthat it was not to be forwarded till after he was dead.  One of these\npapers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the other a will.'\n\n'What of the letter?' asked Mr. Brownlow.\n\n'The letter?--A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a\npenitent confession, and prayers to God to help her.  He had palmed a\ntale on the girl that some secret mystery--to be explained one\nday--prevented his marrying her just then; and so she had gone on,\ntrusting patiently to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what\nnone could ever give her back.  She was, at that time, within a few\nmonths of her confinement.  He told her all he had meant to do, to hide\nher shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if he died, not to curse\nhis memory, or think the consequences of their sin would be visited on\nher or their young child; for all the guilt was his.  He reminded her\nof the day he had given her the little locket and the ring with her\nchristian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which he\nhoped one day to have bestowed upon her--prayed her yet to keep it, and\nwear it next her heart, as she had done before--and then ran on,\nwildly, in the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone\ndistracted.  I believe he had.'\n\n'The will,' said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast.\n\nMonks was silent.\n\n'The will,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, 'was in the same\nspirit as the letter.  He talked of miseries which his wife had brought\nupon him; of the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature\nbad passions of you his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and\nleft you, and your mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds.\nThe bulk of his property he divided into two equal portions--one for\nAgnes Fleming, and the other for their child, if it should be born\nalive, and ever come of age.  If it were a girl, it was to inherit the\nmoney unconditionally; but if a boy, only on the stipulation that in\nhis minority he should never have stained his name with any public act\nof dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong.  He did this, he said, to\nmark his confidence in the other, and his conviction--only strengthened\nby approaching death--that the child would share her gentle heart, and\nnoble nature.  If he were disappointed in this expectation, then the\nmoney was to come to you:  for then, and not till then, when both\nchildren were equal, would he recognise your prior claim upon his\npurse, who had none upon his heart, but had, from an infant, repulsed\nhim with coldness and aversion.'\n\n'My mother,' said Monks, in a louder tone, 'did what a woman should\nhave done.  She burnt this will.  The letter never reached its\ndestination; but that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever\ntried to lie away the blot.  The girl's father had the truth from her\nwith every aggravation that her violent hate--I love her for it\nnow--could add.  Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his\nchildren into a remote corner of Wales, changing his very name that his\nfriends might never know of his retreat; and here, no great while\nafterwards, he was found dead in his bed.  The girl had left her home,\nin secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, in\nevery town and village near; it was on the night when he returned home,\nassured that she had destroyed herself, to hide her shame and his, that\nhis old heart broke.'\n\nThere was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread\nof the narrative.\n\n'Years after this,' he said, 'this man's--Edward Leeford's--mother came\nto me.  He had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and\nmoney; gambled, squandered, forged, and fled to London:  where for two\nyears he had associated with the lowest outcasts.  She was sinking\nunder a painful and incurable disease, and wished to recover him before\nshe died.  Inquiries were set on foot, and strict searches made. They\nwere unavailing for a long time, but ultimately successful; and he went\nback with her to France.'\n\n'There she died,' said Monks, 'after a lingering illness; and, on her\ndeath-bed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her\nunquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved--though she\nneed not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before.  She\nwould not believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child\ntoo, but was filled with the impression that a male child had been\nborn, and was alive.  I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to\nhunt it down; never to let it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and\nmost unrelenting animosity; to vent upon it the hatred that I deeply\nfelt, and to spit upon the empty vaunt of that insulting will by\ndraggin it, if I could, to the very gallows-foot.  She was right. He\ncame in my way at last.  I began well; and, but for babbling drabs, I\nwould have finished as I began!'\n\nAs the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on\nhimself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the\nterrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been\nhis old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver\nensnared:  of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his\nbeing rescued:  and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit\nto the country house for the purpose of identifying him.\n\n'The locket and ring?' said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks.\n\n'I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them\nfrom the nurse, who stole them from the corpse,' answered Monks without\nraising his eyes.  'You know what became of them.'\n\nMr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great\nalacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her\nunwilling consort after him.\n\n'Do my hi's deceive me!' cried Mr. Bumble, with ill-feigned enthusiasm,\n'or is that little Oliver?  Oh O-li-ver, if you know'd how I've been\na-grieving for you--'\n\n'Hold your tongue, fool,' murmured Mrs. Bumble.\n\n'Isn't natur, natur, Mrs. Bumble?' remonstrated the workhouse master.\n'Can't I be supposed to feel--_I_ as brought him up porochially--when I\nsee him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest\ndescription!  I always loved that boy as if he'd been my--my--my own\ngrandfather,' said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison.\n'Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the\nwhite waistcoat?  Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with\nplated handles, Oliver.'\n\n'Come, sir,' said Mr. Grimwig, tartly; 'suppress your feelings.'\n\n'I will do my endeavours, sir,' replied Mr. Bumble.  'How do you do,\nsir?  I hope you are very well.'\n\nThis salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to\nwithin a short distance of the respectable couple.  He inquired, as he\npointed to Monks,\n\n'Do you know that person?'\n\n'No,' replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.\n\n'Perhaps _you_ don't?' said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse.\n\n'I never saw him in all my life,' said Mr. Bumble.\n\n'Nor sold him anything, perhaps?'\n\n'No,' replied Mrs. Bumble.\n\n'You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?' said Mr.\nBrownlow.\n\n'Certainly not,' replied the matron.  'Why are we brought here to\nanswer to such nonsense as this?'\n\nAgain Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman\nlimped away with extraordinary readiness.  But not again did he return\nwith a stout man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women,\nwho shook and tottered as they walked.\n\n'You shut the door the night old Sally died,' said the foremost one,\nraising her shrivelled hand, 'but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor\nstop the chinks.'\n\n'No, no,' said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless\njaws.  'No, no, no.'\n\n'We heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper\nfrom her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker's\nshop,' said the first.\n\n'Yes,' added the second, 'and it was a \"locket and gold ring.\" We found\nout that, and saw it given you.  We were by.  Oh! we were by.'\n\n'And we know more than that,' resumed the first, 'for she told us\noften, long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she\nshould never get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was\ntaken ill, to die near the grave of the father of the child.'\n\n'Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?' asked Mr. Grimwig with\na motion towards the door.\n\n'No,' replied the woman; 'if he--she pointed to Monks--'has been coward\nenough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags\ntill you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say.  I\n_did_ sell them, and they're where you'll never get them.  What then?'\n\n'Nothing,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'except that it remains for us to take\ncare that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again.\nYou may leave the room.'\n\n'I hope,' said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as\nMr. Grimwig disappeared with the two old women: 'I hope that this\nunfortunate little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial\noffice?'\n\n'Indeed it will,' replied Mr. Brownlow.  'You may make up your mind to\nthat, and think yourself well off besides.'\n\n'It was all Mrs. Bumble.  She _would_ do it,' urged Mr. Bumble; first\nlooking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room.\n\n'That is no excuse,' replied Mr. Brownlow.  'You were present on the\noccasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more\nguilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that\nyour wife acts under your direction.'\n\n'If the law supposes that,' said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat\nemphatically in both hands, 'the law is a ass--a idiot.  If that's the\neye of the law, the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is,\nthat his eye may be opened by experience--by experience.'\n\nLaying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble\nfixed his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets,\nfollowed his helpmate downstairs.\n\n'Young lady,' said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, 'give me your hand.\nDo not tremble.  You need not fear to hear the few remaining words we\nhave to say.'\n\n'If they have--I do not know how they can, but if they have--any\nreference to me,' said Rose, 'pray let me hear them at some other time.\nI have not strength or spirits now.'\n\n'Nay,' returned the old gentlman, drawing her arm through his; 'you\nhave more fortitude than this, I am sure.  Do you know this young lady,\nsir?'\n\n'Yes,' replied Monks.\n\n'I never saw you before,' said Rose faintly.\n\n'I have seen you often,' returned Monks.\n\n'The father of the unhappy Agnes had _two_ daughters,' said Mr.\nBrownlow.  'What was the fate of the other--the child?'\n\n'The child,' replied Monks, 'when her father died in a strange place,\nin a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that\nyielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be\ntraced--the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it\nas their own.'\n\n'Go on,' said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. 'Go on!'\n\n'You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired,' said\nMonks, 'but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way.  My\nmother found it, after a year of cunning search--ay, and found the\nchild.'\n\n'She took it, did she?'\n\n'No.  The people were poor and began to sicken--at least the man\ndid--of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a\nsmall present of money which would not last long, and promised more,\nwhich she never meant to send.  She didn't quite rely, however, on\ntheir discontent and poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the\nhistory of the sister's shame, with such alterations as suited her;\nbade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood; and\ntold them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong at one time or\nother.  The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed\nit; and there the child dragged on an existence, miserable enough even\nto satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at Chester, saw the\ngirl by chance, pitied her, and took her home.  There was some cursed\nspell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she\nremained there and was happy.  I lost sight of her, two or three years\nago, and saw her no more until a few months back.'\n\n'Do you see her now?'\n\n'Yes.  Leaning on your arm.'\n\n'But not the less my niece,' cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting\ngirl in her arms; 'not the less my dearest child.  I would not lose her\nnow, for all the treasures of the world.  My sweet companion, my own\ndear girl!'\n\n'The only friend I ever had,' cried Rose, clinging to her. 'The\nkindest, best of friends.  My heart will burst.  I cannot bear all\nthis.'\n\n'You have borne more, and have been, through all, the best and gentlest\ncreature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew,' said Mrs.\nMaylie, embracing her tenderly. 'Come, come, my love, remember who this\nis who waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child!  See here--look,\nlook, my dear!'\n\n'Not aunt,' cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; 'I'll never\ncall her aunt--sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my\nheart to love so dearly from the first!  Rose, dear, darling Rose!'\n\nLet the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in\nthe long close embrace between the orphans, be sacred.  A father,\nsister, and mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment.  Joy and\ngrief were mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears:  for\neven grief itself arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and\ntender recollections, that it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all\ncharacter of pain.\n\nThey were a long, long time alone.  A soft tap at the door, at length\nannounced that some one was without.  Oliver opened it, glided away,\nand gave place to Harry Maylie.\n\n'I know it all,' he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. 'Dear\nRose, I know it all.'\n\n'I am not here by accident,' he added after a lengthened silence; 'nor\nhave I heard all this to-night, for I knew it yesterday--only\nyesterday.  Do you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?'\n\n'Stay,' said Rose.  'You _do_ know all.'\n\n'All.  You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the\nsubject of our last discourse.'\n\n'I did.'\n\n'Not to press you to alter your determination,' pursued the young man,\n'but to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of\nstation or fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still\nadhered to your former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or\nact, to seek to change it.'\n\n'The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now,'\nsaid Rose firmly.  'If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her,\nwhose goodness saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when\nshould I ever feel it, as I should to-night?  It is a struggle,' said\nRose, 'but one I am proud to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall\nbear.'\n\n'The disclosure of to-night,'--Harry began.\n\n'The disclosure of to-night,' replied Rose softly, 'leaves me in the\nsame position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before.'\n\n'You harden your heart against me, Rose,' urged her lover.\n\n'Oh Harry, Harry,' said the young lady, bursting into tears; 'I wish I\ncould, and spare myself this pain.'\n\n'Then why inflict it on yourself?' said Harry, taking her hand. 'Think,\ndear Rose, think what you have heard to-night.'\n\n'And what have I heard!  What have I heard!' cried Rose. 'That a sense\nof his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned\nall--there, we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough.'\n\n'Not yet, not yet,' said the young man, detaining her as she rose.  'My\nhopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling:  every thought in life except my\nlove for you:  have undergone a change.  I offer you, now, no\ndistinction among a bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice\nand detraction, where the blood is called into honest cheeks by aught\nbut real disgrace and shame; but a home--a heart and home--yes, dearest\nRose, and those, and those alone, are all I have to offer.'\n\n'What do you mean!' she faltered.\n\n'I mean but this--that when I left you last, I left you with a firm\ndetermination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me;\nresolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine;\nthat no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn\nfrom it.  This I have done.  Those who have shrunk from me because of\nthis, have shrunk from you, and proved you so far right.  Such power\nand patronage:  such relatives of influence and rank:  as smiled upon\nme then, look coldly now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees\nin England's richest county; and by one village church--mine, Rose, my\nown!--there stands a rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of,\nthan all the hopes I have renounced, measured a thousandfold.  This is\nmy rank and station now, and here I lay it down!'\n\n      *      *      *      *      *\n\n'It's a trying thing waiting supper for lovers,' said Mr. Grimwig,\nwaking up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.\n\nTruth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time.\nNeither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together),\ncould offer a word in extenuation.\n\n'I had serious thoughts of eating my head to-night,' said Mr. Grimwig,\n'for I began to think I should get nothing else.  I'll take the\nliberty, if you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be.'\n\nMr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the\nblushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by\nthe doctor and Mr. Brownlow:  some people affirm that Harry Maylie had\nbeen observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the\nbest authorities consider this downright scandal:  he being young and a\nclergyman.\n\n'Oliver, my child,' said Mrs. Maylie, 'where have you been, and why do\nyou look so sad?  There are tears stealing down your face at this\nmoment.  What is the matter?'\n\nIt is a world of disappointment:  often to the hopes we most cherish,\nand hopes that do our nature the greatest honour.\n\nPoor Dick was dead!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LII\n\nFAGIN'S LAST NIGHT ALIVE\n\nThe court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive\nand eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before\nthe dock, away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the\ngalleries, all looks were fixed upon one man--Fagin.  Before him and\nbehind:  above, below, on the right and on the left:  he seemed to\nstand surrounded by a firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes.\n\nHe stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand\nresting on the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and\nhis head thrust forward to enable him to catch with greater\ndistinctness every word that fell from the presiding judge, who was\ndelivering his charge to the jury.  At times, he turned his eyes\nsharply upon them to observe the effect of the slightest featherweight\nin his favour; and when the points against him were stated with\nterrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute appeal that\nhe would, even then, urge something in his behalf.  Beyond these\nmanifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot.  He had\nscarcely moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to\nspeak, he still remained in the same strained attitude of close\nattention, with his gaze bent on him, as though he listened still.\n\nA slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself.  Looking round,\nhe saw that the juryman had turned together, to consider their verdict.\nAs his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising\nabove each other to see his face:  some hastily applying their glasses\nto their eyes:  and others whispering their neighbours with looks\nexpressive of abhorrence.  A few there were, who seemed unmindful of\nhim, and looked only to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could\ndelay.  But in no one face--not even among the women, of whom there\nwere many there--could he read the faintest sympathy with himself, or\nany feeling but one of all-absorbing interest that he should be\ncondemned.\n\nAs he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the deathlike stillness\ncame again, and looking back he saw that the jurymen had turned towards\nthe judge.  Hush!\n\nThey only sought permission to retire.\n\nHe looked, wistfully, into their faces, one by one when they passed\nout, as though to see which way the greater number leant; but that was\nfruitless.  The jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed\nmechanically to the end of the dock, and sat down on a chair.  The man\npointed it out, or he would not have seen it.\n\nHe looked up into the gallery again.  Some of the people were eating,\nand some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place\nwas very hot.  There was one young man sketching his face in a little\nnote-book.  He wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the\nartist broke his pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any\nidle spectator might have done.\n\nIn the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind\nbegan to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost,\nand how he put it on.  There was an old fat gentleman on the bench,\ntoo, who had gone out, some half an hour before, and now come back.  He\nwondered within himself whether this man had been to get his dinner,\nwhat he had had, and where he had had it; and pursued this train of\ncareless thought until some new object caught his eye and roused\nanother.\n\nNot that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one\noppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it\nwas ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could\nnot fix his thoughts upon it.  Thus, even while he trembled, and turned\nburning hot at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron\nspikes before him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken\noff, and whether they would mend it, or leave it as it was.  Then, he\nthought of all the horrors of the gallows and the scaffold--and stopped\nto watch a man sprinkling the floor to cool it--and then went on to\nthink again.\n\nAt length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all\ntowards the door.  The jury returned, and passed him close. He could\nglean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of stone.\nPerfect stillness ensued--not a rustle--not a breath--Guilty.\n\nThe building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another,\nand then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled\nout, like angry thunder.  It was a peal of joy from the populace\noutside, greeting the news that he would die on Monday.\n\nThe noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why\nsentence of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his\nlistening attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the\ndemand was made; but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it,\nand then he only muttered that he was an old man--an old man--and so,\ndropping into a whisper, was silent again.\n\nThe judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the\nsame air and gesture.  A woman in the gallery, uttered some\nexclamation, called forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up\nas if angry at the interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively.\nThe address was solemn and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear.\nBut he stood, like a marble figure, without the motion of a nerve.  His\nhaggard face was still thrust forward, his under-jaw hanging down, and\nhis eyes staring out before him, when the jailer put his hand upon his\narm, and beckoned him away.  He gazed stupidly about him for an\ninstant, and obeyed.\n\nThey led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners\nwere waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their\nfriends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard.\nThere was nobody there to speak to _him_; but, as he passed, the\nprisoners fell back to render him more visible to the people who were\nclinging to the bars:  and they assailed him with opprobrious names,\nand screeched and hissed.  He shook his fist, and would have spat upon\nthem; but his conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage\nlighted by a few dim lamps, into the interior of the prison.\n\nHere, he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of\nanticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of\nthe condemned cells, and left him there--alone.\n\nHe sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat\nand bedstead; and casting his blood-shot eyes upon the ground, tried to\ncollect his thoughts. After awhile, he began to remember a few\ndisjointed fragments of what the judge had said: though it had seemed\nto him, at the time, that he could not hear a word.  These gradually\nfell into their proper places, and by degrees suggested more:  so that\nin a little time he had the whole, almost as it was delivered.  To be\nhanged by the neck, till he was dead--that was the end.  To be hanged\nby the neck till he was dead.\n\nAs it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known\nwho had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means.  They\nrose up, in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them.  He\nhad seen some of them die,--and had joked too, because they died with\nprayers upon their lips.  With what a rattling noise the drop went\ndown; and how suddenly they changed, from strong and vigorous men to\ndangling heaps of clothes!\n\nSome of them might have inhabited that very cell--sat upon that very\nspot.  It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light?  The cell had\nbeen built for many years.  Scores of men must have passed their last\nhours there.  It was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead\nbodies--the cap, the noose, the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew,\neven beneath that hideous veil.--Light, light!\n\nAt length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door\nand walls, two men appeared:  one bearing a candle, which he thrust\ninto an iron candlestick fixed against the wall:  the other dragging in\na mattress on which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left\nalone no more.\n\nThen came the night--dark, dismal, silent night.  Other watchers are\nglad to hear this church-clock strike, for they tell of life and coming\nday.  To him they brought despair.  The boom of every iron bell came\nladen with the one, deep, hollow sound--Death. What availed the noise\nand bustle of cheerful morning, which penetrated even there, to him?\nIt was another form of knell, with mockery added to the warning.\n\nThe day passed off.  Day?  There was no day; it was gone as soon as\ncome--and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in\nits dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours.  At one time he\nraved and blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair.\nVenerable men of his own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he\nhad driven them away with curses.  They renewed their charitable\nefforts, and he beat them off.\n\nSaturday night.  He had only one night more to live.  And as he thought\nof this, the day broke--Sunday.\n\nIt was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering\nsense of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon\nhis blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive\nhope of mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than\nthe dim probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either of\nthe two men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and\nthey, for their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention.  He had\nsat there, awake, but dreaming.  Now, he started up, every minute, and\nwith gasping mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such a\nparoxysm of fear and wrath that even they--used to such\nsights--recoiled from him with horror.  He grew so terrible, at last,\nin all the tortures of his evil conscience, that one man could not bear\nto sit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two kept watch together.\n\nHe cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had\nbeen wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his\ncapture, and his head was bandaged with a linen cloth.  His red hair\nhung down upon his bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into\nknots; his eyes shone with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh\ncrackled with the fever that burnt him up. Eight--nine--then.  If it\nwas not a trick to frighten him, and those were the real hours treading\non each other's heels, where would he be, when they came round again!\nEleven!  Another struck, before the voice of the previous hour had\nceased to vibrate.  At eight, he would be the only mourner in his own\nfuneral train; at eleven--\n\nThose dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and\nsuch unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and\ntoo long, from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as\nthat.  The few who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man\nwas doing who was to be hanged to-morrow, would have slept but ill that\nnight, if they could have seen him.\n\nFrom early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two\nand three presented themselves at the lodge-gate, and inquired, with\nanxious faces, whether any reprieve had been received.  These being\nanswered in the negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to\nclusters in the street, who pointed out to one another the door from\nwhich he must come out, and showed where the scaffold would be built,\nand, walking with unwilling steps away, turned back to conjure up the\nscene.  By degrees they fell off, one by one; and, for an hour, in the\ndead of night, the street was left to solitude and darkness.\n\nThe space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers,\npainted black, had been already thrown across the road to break the\npressure of the expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared\nat the wicket, and presented an order of admission to the prisoner,\nsigned by one of the sheriffs.  They were immediately admitted into the\nlodge.\n\n'Is the young gentleman to come too, sir?' said the man whose duty it\nwas to conduct them.  'It's not a sight for children, sir.'\n\n'It is not indeed, my friend,' rejoined Mr. Brownlow; 'but my business\nwith this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has\nseen him in the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as\nwell--even at the cost of some pain and fear--that he should see him\nnow.'\n\nThese few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver.\nThe man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiousity,\nopened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and\nled them on, through dark and winding ways, towards the cells.\n\n'This,' said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of\nworkmen were making some preparations in profound silence--'this is the\nplace he passes through.  If you step this way, you can see the door he\ngoes out at.'\n\nHe led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the\nprison food, and pointed to a door.  There was an open grating above\nit, through which came the sound of men's voices, mingled with the\nnoise of hammering, and the throwing down of boards.  There were\nputting up the scaffold.\n\nFrom this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by\nother turnkeys from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard,\nascended a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row\nof strong doors on the left hand.  Motioning them to remain where they\nwere, the turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The\ntwo attendants, after a little whispering, came out into the passage,\nstretching themselves as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned\nthe visitors to follow the jailer into the cell.  They did so.\n\nThe condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side\nto side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the\nface of a man.  His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for\nhe continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence\notherwise than as a part of his vision.\n\n'Good boy, Charley--well done--' he mumbled.  'Oliver, too, ha! ha! ha!\nOliver too--quite the gentleman now--quite the--take that boy away to\nbed!'\n\nThe jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver; and, whispering him not\nto be alarmed, looked on without speaking.\n\n'Take him away to bed!' cried Fagin.  'Do you hear me, some of you?  He\nhas been the--the--somehow the cause of all this.  It's worth the money\nto bring him up to it--Bolter's throat, Bill; never mind the\ngirl--Bolter's throat as deep as you can cut.  Saw his head off!'\n\n'Fagin,' said the jailer.\n\n'That's me!' cried the Jew, falling instantly, into the attitude of\nlistening he had assumed upon his trial.  'An old man, my Lord; a very\nold, old man!'\n\n'Here,' said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him\ndown.  'Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I\nsuppose.  Fagin, Fagin!  Are you a man?'\n\n'I shan't be one long,' he replied, looking up with a face retaining no\nhuman expression but rage and terror.  'Strike them all dead!  What\nright have they to butcher me?'\n\nAs he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to\nthe furthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted\nthere.\n\n'Steady,' said the turnkey, still holding him down.  'Now, sir, tell\nhim what you want.  Quick, if you please, for he grows worse as the\ntime gets on.'\n\n'You have some papers,' said Mr. Brownlow advancing, 'which were placed\nin your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.'\n\n'It's all a lie together,' replied Fagin.  'I haven't one--not one.'\n\n'For the love of God,' said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, 'do not say that\nnow, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are.  You\nknow that Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no\nhope of any further gain.  Where are those papers?'\n\n'Oliver,' cried Fagin, beckoning to him.  'Here, here! Let me whisper\nto you.'\n\n'I am not afraid,' said Oliver in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr.\nBrownlow's hand.\n\n'The papers,' said Fagin, drawing Oliver towards him, 'are in a canvas\nbag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front-room.  I\nwant to talk to you, my dear.  I want to talk to you.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' returned Oliver.  'Let me say a prayer.  Do!  Let me say\none prayer.  Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk\ntill morning.'\n\n'Outside, outside,' replied Fagin, pushing the boy before him towards\nthe door, and looking vacantly over his head. 'Say I've gone to\nsleep--they'll believe you.  You can get me out, if you take me so.\nNow then, now then!'\n\n'Oh!  God forgive this wretched man!' cried the boy with a burst of\ntears.\n\n'That's right, that's right,' said Fagin.  'That'll help us on. This\ndoor first.  If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you\nmind, but hurry on.  Now, now, now!'\n\n'Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?' inquired the turnkey.\n\n'No other question,' replied Mr. Brownlow.  'If I hoped we could recall\nhim to a sense of his position--'\n\n'Nothing will do that, sir,' replied the man, shaking his head. 'You\nhad better leave him.'\n\nThe door of the cell opened, and the attendants returned.\n\n'Press on, press on,' cried Fagin.  'Softly, but not so slow. Faster,\nfaster!'\n\nThe men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp,\nheld him back.  He struggled with the power of desperation, for an\ninstant; and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those\nmassive walls, and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.\n\nIt was some time before they left the prison.  Oliver nearly swooned\nafter this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more,\nhe had not the strength to walk.\n\nDay was dawning when they again emerged.  A great multitude had already\nassembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing\ncards to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking.\nEverything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects\nin the centre of all--the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and\nall the hideous apparatus of death.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER LIII\n\nAND LAST\n\nThe fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed.\nThe little that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few\nand simple words.\n\nBefore three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were\nmarried in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of\nthe young clergyman's labours; on the same day they entered into\npossession of their new and happy home.\n\nMrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to\nenjoy, during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity\nthat age and worth can know--the contemplation of the happiness of\nthose on whom the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a\nwell-spent life, have been unceasingly bestowed.\n\nIt appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of\nproperty remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered\neither in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided\nbetween himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than\nthree thousand pounds.  By the provisions of his father's will, Oliver\nwould have been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to\ndeprive the elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices\nand pursuing an honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to\nwhich his young charge joyfully acceded.\n\nMonks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a\ndistant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he\nonce more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long\nconfinement for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sunk\nunder an attack of his old disorder, and died in prison.  As far from\nhome, died the chief remaining members of his friend Fagin's gang.\n\nMr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son.  Removing with him and the old\nhousekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage-house, where his dear\nfriends resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm\nand earnest heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose\ncondition approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever\nbe known in this changing world.\n\nSoon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned\nto Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would\nhave been discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a\nfeeling; and would have turned quite peevish if he had known how.  For\ntwo or three months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared\nthe air began to disagree with him; then, finding that the place really\nno longer was, to him, what it had been, he settled his business on his\nassistant, took a bachelor's cottage outside the village of which his\nyoung friend was pastor, and instantaneously recovered.  Here he took\nto gardening, planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other\npursuits of a similar kind:  all undertaken with his characteristic\nimpetuosity.  In each and all he has since become famous throughout the\nneighborhood, as a most profound authority.\n\nBefore his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for\nMr. Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated.  He\nis accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course\nof the year.  On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and\ncarpenters, with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and\nunprecedented manner, but always maintaining with his favourite\nasseveration, that his mode is the right one.  On Sundays, he never\nfails to criticise the sermon to the young clergyman's face:  always\ninforming Mr. Losberne, in strict confidence afterwards, that he\nconsiders it an excellent performance, but deems it as well not to say\nso.  It is a standing and very favourite joke, for Mr. Brownlow to\nrally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to remind him of\nthe night on which they sat with the watch between them, waiting his\nreturn; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, and, in\nproof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come back after all; which\nalways calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good humour.\n\nMr. Noah Claypole:  receiving a free pardon from the Crown in\nconsequence of being admitted approver against Fagin:  and considering\nhis profession not altogether as safe a one as he could wish:  was, for\nsome little time, at a loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened\nwith too much work.  After some consideration, he went into business as\nan Informer, in which calling he realises a genteel subsistence.  His\nplan is, to walk out once a week during church time attended by\nCharlotte in respectable attire.  The lady faints away at the doors of\ncharitable publicans, and the gentleman being accommodated with\nthree-penny worth of brandy to restore her, lays an information next\nday, and pockets half the penalty.  Sometimes Mr. Claypole faints\nhimself, but the result is the same.\n\nMr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually\nreduced to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in\nthat very same workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others.\nMr. Bumble has been heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation,\nhe has not even spirits to be thankful for being separated from his\nwife.\n\nAs to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts,\nalthough the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey.  They\nsleep at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among\nits inmates, and Oliver and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to\nthis day the villagers have never been able to discover to which\nestablishment they properly belong.\n\nMaster Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of\nreflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best.\nArriving at the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back\nupon the scenes of the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of\naction.  He struggled hard, and suffered much, for some time; but,\nhaving a contented disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the\nend; and, from being a farmer's drudge, and a carrier's lad, he is now\nthe merriest young grazier in all Northamptonshire.\n\nAnd now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches\nthe conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space,\nthe thread of these adventures.\n\nI would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long\nmoved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it.  I would\nshow Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood,\nshedding on her secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell\non all who trod it with her, and shone into their hearts.  I would\npaint her the life and joy of the fire-side circle and the lively\nsummer group; I would follow her through the sultry fields at noon, and\nhear the low tones of her sweet voice in the moonlit evening walk; I\nwould watch her in all her goodness and charity abroad, and the smiling\nuntiring discharge of domestic duties at home; I would paint her and\nher dead sister's child happy in their love for one another, and\npassing whole hours together in picturing the friends whom they had so\nsadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those joyous little\nfaces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their merry prattle;\nI would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up the\nsympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye.  These, and a\nthousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech--I would\nfain recall them every one.\n\nHow Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his\nadopted child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him,\nmore and more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving\nseeds of all he wished him to become--how he traced in him new traits\nof his early friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances,\nmelancholy and yet sweet and soothing--how the two orphans, tried by\nadversity, remembered its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love,\nand fervent thanks to Him who had protected and preserved them--these\nare all matters which need not to be told.  I have said that they were\ntruly happy; and without strong affection and humanity of heart, and\ngratitude to that Being whose code is Mercy, and whose great attribute\nis Benevolence to all things that breathe, happiness can never be\nattained.\n\nWithin the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble\ntablet, which bears as yet but one word:  'AGNES.'  There is no coffin\nin that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another name is\nplaced above it!  But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to\nearth, to visit spots hallowed by the love--the love beyond the\ngrave--of those whom they knew in life, I believe that the shade of\nAgnes sometimes hovers round that solemn nook. I believe it none the\nless because that nook is in a Church, and she was weak and erring."