Oliver Twist Capitulo XXV

CHAPTER XXV

WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY

While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in the old

den--the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl--brooding over a dull,

smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with which he had apparently been

endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought;

and with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes,

abstractedly, on the rusty bars.

At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling: all

intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr.

Chitling. The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all

times, acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and his

attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion

served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play by the

result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold night, the Dodger

wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors. He also sustained a clay

pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it

necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready

filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.

Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable nature than

his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more frequently applied himself to

the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all

highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close

attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon

these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in extremely

good part; merely requesting his friend to be 'blowed,' or to insert his head in a sack, or

replying with some other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy

application of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It

was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the

circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest

amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and

protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.

'That's two doubles and the rub,' said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew

half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. 'I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win

everything. Even when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em.'

Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted

Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his

reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter.

'Matter, Fagin!' cried Charley. 'I wish you had watched the play. Tommy Chitling

hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the Artfull and dumb.'

'Ay, ay!' said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no

loss to understand the reason. 'Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em again.'

'No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling;

'I've had enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing again'

him.'

'Ha! ha! my dear,' replied the Jew, 'you must get up very early in the morning, to win

against the Dodger.'

'Morning!' said Charley Bates; 'you must put your boots on over-night, and have a

telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come

over him.'

Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered

to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a shilling at a time.

Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he

proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with

the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with

peculiar shrillness.

'How precious dull you are, Tommy!' said the Dodger, stopping short when there had

been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. 'What do you think he's thinking of,

Fagin?'

'How should I know, my dear?' replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows.

'About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he's just left, eh?

Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?'

'Not a bit of it,' replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling

was about to reply. 'What do YOU say, Charley?'

'_I_ should say,' replied Master Bates, with a grin, 'that he was uncommon sweet upon

Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy

Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!'

Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender

passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence, that he lost his

balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his

merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former

position, and began another laugh.

'Never mind him, my dear,' said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving Master

Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. 'Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to

her, Tom. Stick up to her.'

'What I mean to say, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, 'is, that that isn't

anything to anybody here.'

'No more it is,' replied the Jew; 'Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my dear; don't mind

him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.'

'So I DO do as she bids me,' replied Mr. Chitling; 'I shouldn't have been milled, if it

hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And

what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter

time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?'

'Ah, to be sure, my dear,' replied the Jew.

'You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you,' asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley

and the Jew, 'if Bet was all right?'

'I mean to say that I shouldn't,' replied Tom, angrily. 'There, now. Ah! Who'll say as

much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?'

'Nobody, my dear,' replied the Jew; 'not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 'em that

would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear.'

'I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?' angrily pursued the

poor half-witted dupe. 'A word from me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?'

'To be sure it would, my dear,' replied the Jew.

'But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?' demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with

great volubility.

'No, no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you were too

stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!'

'Perhaps I was,' rejoined Tom, looking round; 'and if I was, what's to laugh at, in that;

eh, Fagin?'

The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to assure him

that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the company, appealed to Master

Bates, the principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to

reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of

such a violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies,

rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being skilful in evading

pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the

merry old gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for

breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.

'Hark!' cried the Dodger at this moment, 'I heard the tinkler.'

Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.

The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in darkness. After

a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin mysteriously.

'What!' cried the Jew, 'alone?'

The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle with his

hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be

funny just then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's

face, and awaited his directions.

The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his face working

with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and feared to know the worst. At

length he raised his head.

'Where is he?' he asked.

The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave the room.

'Yes,' said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; 'bring him down.

Hush! Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!'

This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was softly and

immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout, when the Dodger

descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse

smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large

wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard,

unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.

'How are you, Faguey?' said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. 'Pop that shawl away in

my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that's the time of

day! You'll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now.'

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle, drew

a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.

'See there, Faguey,' he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots; 'not a drop of Day

and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don't look at

me in that way, man. All in good time. I can't talk about business till I've eat and

drank; so produce the sustainance, and let's have a quiet fill-out for the first time these

three days!'

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the table; and,

seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the conversation.

At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain

from its expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.

He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon his features

that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone,

unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of

impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room,

meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with

the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger

out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for

talking.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said Toby.

'Yes, yes!' interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare that the gin

was excellent; then placing his feet against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots

to about the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said the housebreaker, 'how's Bill?'

'What!' screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.

'Why, you don't mean to say--' began Toby, turning pale.

'Mean!' cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. 'Where are they? Sikes and the

boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they hiding? Why have they

not been here?'

'The crack failed,' said Toby faintly.

'I know it,' replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and pointing to it.

'What more?'

'They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him between us--

straight as the crow flies--through hedge and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the

whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us.'

'The boy!'

'Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take him between

us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon our heels; every man

for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted company, and left the youngster

lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that's all I know about him.'

The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining his hands in his

hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.

Oliver Twist Capitulo XXIV

CHAPTER XXIV

TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT. BUT IS A SHORT ONE, AND MAY BE

FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY

It was no unfit messanger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron's room.

Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted into a

mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the

work of Nature's hand.

Alas! How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty! The

cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change hearts;

and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the

troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven's surface clear. It is a common thing for the

countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the longforgotten

expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of early life; so

calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew them in their happy

childhood, kneel by the coffin's side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered alone the passages, and up the stairs, muttering some indistinct

answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length compelled to pause for

breath, she gave the light into her hand, and remained behind to follow as she might:

while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. There was

another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary's apprentice was

standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.

'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.

'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a

curtsey as she spoke.

'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the apothecary's deputy,

breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker; 'these are not at all the sort

of thing for a cold night.'

'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least they could do, would

be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.'

The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had previously quite

forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.'

'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron.

'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised.' said the apothecary's apprentice,

intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a break-up of the system altogether. Is she

dozing, old lady?'

The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative.

'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said the young man.

'Put the light on the floor. She won't see it there.'

The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate that the

woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her seat by the side of the

other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress, with an expression of

impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.

The apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick,

planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or so: when

apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself

off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed, and

crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat. The flame threw

a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in

this position, they began to converse in a low voice.

'Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?' inquired the messenger.

'Not a word,' replied the other. 'She plucked and tore at her arms for a little time; but I

held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn't much strength in her, so I easily

kept her quiet. I ain't so weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no,

no!'

'Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?' demanded the first.

'I tried to get it down,' rejoined the other. 'But her teeth were tight set, and she clenched

the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it back again. So I drank it; and

it did me good!'

Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the two hags

cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

'I mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'when she would have done the same, and made

rare fun of it afterwards.'

'Ay, that she would,' rejoined the other; 'she had a merry heart.

A many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old

eyes have seen them--ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her,

scores of times.'

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook them

exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an old timediscoloured

tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm

of her companion, and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the

matron, who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from

her stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?

'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her face. 'We have none

of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be here soon enough for us all.'

'Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!' said the matron sternly.

'You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?'

'Often,' answered the first woman.

'But will never be again,' added the second one; 'that is, she'll never wake again but

once--and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!'

'Long or short,' said the matron, snappishly, 'she won't find me here when she does

wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. It's no part of my

duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won't--that's more. Mind that, you

impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant

you!'

She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the

bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright, and was

stretching her arms towards them.

'Who's that?' she cried, in a hollow voice.

'Hush, hush!' said one of the women, stooping over her. 'Lie down, lie down!'

'I'll never lie down again alive!' said the woman, struggling. 'I WILL tell her! Come

here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.'

She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was

about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending

forward in the attitude of eager listeners.

'Turn them away,' said the woman, drowsily; 'make haste! make haste!'

The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous lamentations

that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; and were uttering sundry

protestations that they would never leave her, when the superior pushed them from the

room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies

changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which,

indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by

the apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water

which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old

ladies themselves.

'Now listen to me,' said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort to revive one

latent spark of energy. 'In this very room--in this very bed--I once nursed a pretty

young creetur', that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with

walking, and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me

think--what was the year again!'

'Never mind the year,' said the impatient auditor; 'what about her?'

'Ay,' murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, 'what about

her?--what about--I know!' she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes

starting from her head--'I robbed her, so I did! She wasn't cold--I tell you she wasn't

cold, when I stole it!'

'Stole what, for God's sake?' cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for

help.

'IT!' replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. 'The only thing she

had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe, and

had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!'

'Gold!' echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. 'Go on, go

on--yest--what of it? Who was the mother?

When was it?'

'She charge me to keep it safe,' replied the woman with a groan, 'and trusted me as the

only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round

her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, is on me besides! They would have treated him

better, if they had known it all!'

'Known what?' asked the other. 'Speak!'

'The boy grew so like his mother,' said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the

question, 'that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl! poor girl! She was

so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; there's more to tell. I have not told you all,

have I?'

'No, no,' replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as they came more

faintly from the dying woman. 'Be quick, or it may be too late!'

'The mother,' said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; 'the mother,

when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was

born alive, and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced

to hear its poor young mother named. "And oh, kind Heaven!" she said, folding her thin

hands together, "whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled

world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!"'

'The boy's name?' demanded the matron.

'They CALLED him Oliver,' replied the woman, feebly. 'The gold I

stole was--'

'Yes, yes--what?' cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively,

as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then, clutching the

coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless

on the bed.

'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened.

'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.

The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their

dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering about the body.

Oliver Twist Capitulo XXIII

CHAPTER XXIII

WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION

BETWEEN

MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE

SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard thick crust, so

that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and corners were affected by the sharp

wind that howled abroad: which, as if expending increased fury on such prey as it

found, caught it savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,

scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and

fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the

homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close

their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they

may, can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mr. Corney, the matron of the

workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the birthplace of

Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced,

with no small degree of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of

corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal

that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea.

As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles

was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently increased,--

so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

'Well!' said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the

fire; 'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for! A great deal, if we did

but know it. Ah!'

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those

paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the

inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The black teapot,

being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising; and the

water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand.

'Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; 'a little

stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is it of, to anybody! Except,'

said Mrs. Corney, pausing, 'except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!'

With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow

on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup, had

awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more

than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.

'I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; 'I shall never get another--like

him.'

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain. It might

have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke; and took it up

afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the

room-door.

'Oh, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney, sharply. 'Some of the old women dying, I

suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, letting the cold air in,

don't. What's amiss now, eh?'

'Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice.

'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, 'is that Mr. Bumble?'

'At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his

shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance,

bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. 'Shall I shut the door,

ma'am?'

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an

interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the

hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it without permission.

'Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.

'Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle. 'Anti-porochial weather this, ma'am. We

have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves

and a cheese and a half, this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not

contented.'

'Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?' said the matron, sipping her tea.

'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble. 'Why here's one man that, in

consideraton of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good pound of

cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a copper farthing's

worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket

handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with

'em and then come back for more. That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a

apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as

brazen as alabaster.'

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle

went on.

'I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to. The day afore

yesterday, a man--you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I may mention it to

you--a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor),

goes to our overseer's door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he

must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very

much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. "My

heart!" says the ungrateful villain, "what's the use of THIS to me? You might as well

give me a pair of iron spectacles!' "Very good," says our overseer, taking 'em away

again, "you won't get anything else here." "Then I'll die in the streets!" says the vagrant.

"Oh no, you won't," says our overseer.'

'Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?' interposed the matron.

'Well, Mr. Bumble?'

'Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away; and he DID die in the streets. There's

a obstinate pauper for you!'

'It beats anything I could have believed,' observed the matron emphatically. 'But don't

you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble? You're a

gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.'

'Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior

information, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard.

The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't

want; and then they get tired of coming.'

'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney. 'Well, that is a good one, too!'

'Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr. Bumble, 'that's the great principle; and

that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers,

you'll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's

the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,' said the beadle,

stopping to unpack his bundle, 'these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of;

except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port

wine, ma'am, that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine;

only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!'

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr.

Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; folded the handkerchief in which

they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.

'You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.

'It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, 'enough to cut one's

ears off.'

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the

door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night, bashfully

inquired whether--whether he wouldn't take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a

chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at

the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and

slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down, her

eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured, and applied

herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. Bumble coughed--louder this time than

he had coughed yet.

'Sweet? Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

'Very sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as

he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that

moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a handkerchief

over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts, began to

eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which,

however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed

to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of

her family, was basking before the fire;

'and kittens too, I declare!'

'I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble,you can't think,' replied the matron. 'They're SO

happy, SO frolicsome, and SO cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.'

'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 'so very domestic.'

'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home too, that it's quite

a pleasure, I'm sure.'

'Mrs. Corney, ma'am, said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon,

'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma'am, and

NOT be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma'am.'

'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly flourishing the teaspoon

with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive; 'I would drown it

myself, with pleasure.'

'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her hand for the

beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.'

'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble. 'Hard?' Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without

another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; and inflicting two

open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a

very little morsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each

other, with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr.

Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance

between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will

doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr.

Bumble's part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give

utterance to certain soft nothings, which however well they may become the lips of the

light and thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land,

members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public

functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle: who

(as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best):

it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round

one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little, soon began to

diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel round

the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron

was seated.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by

the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a

discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained

where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the

matron's face; 'are YOU hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?'

'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, 'what a very curious question from a single man.

What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?'

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; whisked the crumbs

off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.

'Mr. Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great, that she

had quite lost her voice, 'Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!' Mr. Bumble made no reply; but

in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron's waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have screamed at

this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty

knocking at the door: which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much

agility, to the wine bottles, and began dusting them with great violence: while the

matron sharply demanded who was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise

in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her voice had quite recovered all its

official asperity.

'If you please, mistress,' said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly: putting her

head in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.'

'Well, what's that to me?' angrily demanded the matron. 'I can't keep her alive, can I?'

'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far beyond the reach of

help. I've seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when

death's a-coming, well enough. But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not

on her,--and that's not often, for she is dying very hard,--she says she has got something

to tell, which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till you come, mistress.'

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old

women who couldn't even die without purposely annoying their betters; and, muffling

herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to

stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger

walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room

with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the

closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely inspected a silver milkpot

to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on

these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four

distinct times round the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat

again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it, seemed to be

mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.

Oliver Twist Capitlu XXII

CHAPTER XXII

THE BURGLARY

'Hallo!' cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the passage.

'Don't make such a row,' said Sikes, bolting the door. 'Show a glim, Toby.'

'Aha! my pal!' cried the same voice. 'A glim, Barney, a glim!

Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.'

The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the person he

addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a wooden body, falling

violently, was heard; and then an indistinct muttering, as of a man between sleep and

awake.

'Do you hear?' cried the same voice. 'There's Bill Sikes in the passage with nobody to

do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took laudanum with your meals,

and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to

wake you thoroughly?'

A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the room, as this

interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the right hand; first, a feeble

candle: and next, the form of the same individual who has been heretofore described as

labouring under the infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at

the public-house on Saffron Hill.

'Bister Sikes!' exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy;

'cub id, sir; cub id.'

'Here! you get on first,' said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. 'Quicker! or I shall

tread upon your heels.'

Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and they entered

a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken chairs, a table, and a very old

couch: on which, with his legs much higher than his head, a man was reposing at full

length, smoking a long clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat,

with large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern

waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity of

hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured

into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,

ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle size, and

apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by no means detracted from his

own admiration of his top-boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation,

with lively satisfaction.

'Bill, my boy!' said this figure, turning his head towards the door, 'I'm glad to see you. I

was almost afraid you'd given it up: in which case I should have made a personal

wentur. Hallo!'

Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested on Oliver, Mr.

Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and demanded who that was.

'The boy. Only the boy!' replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.

'Wud of Bister Fagid's lads,' exclaimed Barney, with a grin.

'Fagin's, eh!' exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. 'Wot an inwalable boy that'll make, for

the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortin' to him.'

'There--there's enough of that,' interposed Sikes, impatiently; and stooping over his

recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed

immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of astonishment.

'Now,' said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, 'if you'll give us something to eat and drink

while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, at all events. Sit down by the

fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though

not very far off.'

Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to the fire, sat

with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing where he was, or what was

passing around him.

'Here,' said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and a bottle upon

the table, 'Success to the crack!' He rose to honour the toast; and, carefully depositing

his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank

off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the same.

'A drain for the boy,' said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass.

'Down with it, innocence.'

'Indeed,' said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face;

'indeed, I--'

'Down with it!' echoed Toby. 'Do you think I don't know what's good for you? Tell him

to drink it, Bill.'

'He had better!' said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. 'Burn my body, if he isn't

more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, you perwerse imp; drink it!'

Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily swallowed the

contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent fit of coughing: which

delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.

This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing but a small

crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid themselves down on

chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a

blanket, stretched himself on the floor: close outside the fender.

They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but Barney, who rose

once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell into a heavy doze: imagining

himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or wandering about the dark churchyard, or

retracing some one or other of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby

Crackit jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.

In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively engaged in busy

preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks and chins in large dark

shawls, and drew on their great-coats; Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth

several articles, which he hastily crammed into the pockets.

'Barkers for me, Barney,' said Toby Crackit.

'Here they are,' replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols.

'You loaded them yourself.'

'All right!' replied Toby, stowing them away. 'The persuaders?'

'I've got 'em,' replied Sikes.

'Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies--nothing forgotten?' inquired Toby: fastening a small

crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.

'All right,' rejoined his companion. 'Bring them bits of timber, Barney. That's the time

of day.'

With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who, having delivered

another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on Oliver's cape.

'Now then!' said Sikes, holding out his hand.

Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the air, and the

drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand mechanically into that which Sikes

extended for the purpose.

'Take his other hand, Toby,' said Sikes. 'Look out, Barney.'

The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The two robbers

issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all fast, rolled himself up

as before, and was soon asleep again.

It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the early part

of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no rain fell, Oliver's hair

and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving the house, had become stiff with the

half-frozen moisture that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on

towards the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as

they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.

'Slap through the town,' whispered Sikes; 'there'll be nobody in the way, to-night, to see

us.'

Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little town, which at

that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at intervals from some bed-room

window; and the hoarse barking of dogs occasionally broke the silence of the night. But

there was nobody abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.

Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After walking about a

quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house surrounded by a wall: to the top

of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.

'The boy next,' said Toby. 'Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him.'

Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; and in three

or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed

directly. And they stole cautiously towards the house.

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, saw that

housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the expedition. He

clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror.

A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed

him; and he sank upon his knees.

'Get up!' murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from his pocket;

'Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass.'

'Oh! for God's sake let me go!' cried Oliver; 'let me run away and die in the fields. I will

never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have mercy on me, and do not make

me steal. For the love of all the bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon

me!'

The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked the

pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the boy's mouth, and

dragged him to the house.

'Hush!' cried the man; 'it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do your business

myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is quite as certain, and more

genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've

seen older hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night.'

Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver on such an

errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. After some delay, and some

assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.

It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the ground, at the back of

the house: which belonged to a scullery, or small brewing-place, at the end of the

passage. The aperture was so small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth

while to defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size,

nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art, sufficed to overcome the fastening

of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also.

'Now listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern from his pocket,

and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; 'I'm a going to put you through there. Take

this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street

door; unfasten it, and let us in.'

'There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach,' interposed Toby. 'Stand upon one

of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold

pitchfork on 'em: which is the old lady's arms.'

'Keep quiet, can't you?' replied Sikes, with a threatening look.

'The room-door is open, is it?'

'Wide,' repied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. 'The game of that is, that they

always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, who's got a bed in here, may walk up

and down the passage when he feels wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night.

So neat!'

Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed without noise,

Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to work. Toby complied, by

first producing his lantern, and placing it on the ground; then by planting himself firmly

with his head against the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as

to make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him,

put Oiver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving hold of his

collar, planted him safely on the floor inside.

'Take this lantern,' said Sikes, looking into the room. 'You see the stairs afore you?'

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, 'Yes.' Sikes, pointing to the street-door with

the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way;

and that if he faltered, he would fall dead that instant.

'It's done in a minute,' said Sikes, in the same low whisper.

'Directly I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!'

'What's that?' whispered the other man.

They listened intently.

'Nothing,' said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. 'Now!'

In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly resolved that,

whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the

hall, and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthiy.

'Come back!' suddenly cried Sikes aloud. 'Back! back!'

Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry

which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated--a light appeared--a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the

top of the stairs swam before his eyes--a flash--a loud noise--a smoke--a crash

somewhere, but where he knew not,--and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by the collar

before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol after the men, who were

already retreating; and dragged the boy up.

'Clasp your arm tighter,' said Sikes, as he drew him through the window. 'Give me a

shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!'

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms, and the

shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace.

And then, the noises grew confused in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over

the boy's heart; and he saw or heard no more.

Oliver Twist Capitulo XXI

Oliver Twist

CHAPTER XXI

THE EXPEDITION

It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and raining hard; and

the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been very wet: large pools of water

had collected in the road: and the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint

glimmering of the coming day in the sky; but it rather aggrevated than relieved the

gloom of the scene: the sombre light only serving to pale that which the street lamps

afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet house-tops, and

dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the town; the

windows of the houses were all closely shut; and the streets through which they passed,

were noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly begun to

break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country waggons were

slowly toiling on, towards London; now and then, a stage-coach, covered with mud,

rattled briskly by: the driver bestowing, as he passed, and admonitory lash upon the

heavy waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered his

arriving at the office, a quarter of a minute after his time. The public-houses, with gaslights

burning inside, were already open. By degrees, other shops began to be unclosed,

and a few scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling groups of labourers

going to their work; then, men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkeycarts

laden with vegetables; chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole carcasses of

meat; milk-women with pails; an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with

various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the City, the

noise and traffic gradually increased; when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch

and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as light as it was

likely to be, till night came on again, and the busy morning of half the London

population had begun.

Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury square, Mr. Sikes

struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican: thence into Long Lane, and so into

Smithfield; from which latter place arose a tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver

Twist with amazement.

It was market-morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with filth and

mire; a thick steam, perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of the cattle, and

mingling with the fog, which seemd to rest upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above.

All the pens in the centre of the large area, and as many temporary pens as could be

crowded into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side

were long lines of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers,

hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled

together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking dogs, the bellowing and

plunging of the oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and squeaking of pigs, the cries

of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on all sides; the ringing of bells and roar

of voices, that issued from every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating,

whooping and yelling; the hideous and discordant dim that resounded from every corner

of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figues constantly running

to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng; rendered it a stunning and bewildering

scene, which quite confounded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest of the

crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and sounds, which so

astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a passing friend; and, resisting as

many invitations to take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward, until they were clear

of the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier Lane into Holborn.

'Now, young 'un!' said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew's Church, 'hard

upon seven! you must step out. Come, don't lag behind already, Lazy-legs!'

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion's wrist; Oliver,

quickening his pace into a kind of trot between a fast walk and a run, kept up with the

rapid strides of the house-breaker as well as he could.

They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park corner, and were on

their way to Kensington: when Sikes relaxed his pace, until an empty cart which was at

some little distance behind, came up. Seeing 'Hounslow' written on it, he asked the

driver with as much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as far as

Isleworth.

'Jump up,' said the man. 'Is that your boy?'

'Yes; he's my boy,' replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his hand

abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.

'Your father walks rather too quick for you, don't he, my man?' inquired the driver:

seeing that Oliver was out of breath.

'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes, interposing. 'He's used to it.

Here, take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!'

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, pointing to a heap of

sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.

As they passed the different mile-stones, Oliver wondered, more and more, where his

companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, Kew Bridge,

Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as if they had only just

begun their journey. At length, they came to a public-house called the Coach and

Horses; a little way beyond which, another road appeared to run off. And here, the cart

stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all the while; and

lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, and rapped the side-pocket

with his fist, in a significant manner.

'Good-bye, boy,' said the man.

'He's sulky,' replied Sikes, giving him a shake; 'he's sulky. A young dog! Don't mind

him.'

'Not I!' rejoined the other, getting into his cart. 'It's a fine day, after all.' And he drove

away.

Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might look about him if

he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.

They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then, taking a

right-hand road, walked on for a long time: passing many large gardens and gentlemen's

houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they

reached a town. Here against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large

letters, 'Hampton.' They lingered about, in the fields, for some hours. At length they

came back into the town; and, turning into an old public-house with a defaced signboard,

ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room; with a great beam across the middle of the

ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; on which were seated several

rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and smoking. They took no notice of Oliver; and

very little of Sikes; and, as Sikes took very little notice of the, he and his young

comrade sat in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. Sikes indulged

himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel quite certain they were not

going any further. Being much tired with the walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a

little at first; then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell

asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing himself

sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in close fellowship and

communication with a labouring man, over a pint of ale.

'So, you're going on to Lower Halliford, are you?' inquired Sikes.

'Yes, I am,' replied the man, who seemed a little the worse--or better, as the case might

be--for drinking; 'and not slow about it neither. My horse hasn't got a load behind him

going back, as he had coming up in the mornin'; and he won't be long a-doing of it.

Here's luck to him. Ecod! he's a good 'un!'

'Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?' demanded Sikes, pushing the ale

towards his new friend.

'If you're going directly, I can,' replied the man, looking out of the pot. 'Are you going

to Halliford?'

'Going on to Shepperton,' replied Sikes.

'I'm your man, as far as I go,' replied the other. 'Is all paid, Becky?'

'Yes, the other gentleman's paid,' replied the girl.

'I say!' said the man, with tipsy gravity; 'that won't do, you know.'

'Why not?' rejoined Sikes. 'You're a-going to accommodate us, and wot's to prevent my

standing treat for a pint or so, in return?'

The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; having done so,

he seized Sikes by the hand: and declared he was a real good fellow. To which Mr.

Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been sober, there would have been strong

reason to suppose he was.

After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company good-night, and

went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as they did so, and lounging out to

the door, with her hands full, to see the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing outside: ready

harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any further ceremony; and the

man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a minute or two 'to bear him up,' and to

defy the hostler and the world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler

was told to give the horse his head; and, his head being given him, he made a very

unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and running into the

parlour windows over the way; after performing those feats, and supporting himself for

a short time on his hind-legs, he started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town

right gallantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the marshy ground

about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing cold, too; all was gloomy

and black. Not a word was spoken; for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in

no mood to lead him into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the

cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange objects in the gaunt

trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the

desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in the ferryhouse

window opposite: which streamed across the road, and threw into more sombre

shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water

not far off; and the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like

quiet music for the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road. Two or three

miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by the hand, and they

once again walked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but still kept

walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over cold open wastes,

until they came within sight of the lights of a town at no great distance. On looking

intently forward, Oliver saw that the water was just below them, and that they were

coming to the foot of a bridge.

Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned suddenly down

a bank upon the left.

'The water!' thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. 'He has brought me to this lonely

place to murder me!'

He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his young life,

when he saw that they stood before a solitary house: all ruinous and decayed. There

was a window on each side of the dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no

light was visible. The house was dark, dismantled: and the all appearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver's hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the

latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together.

Oliver Twist Capitulo XX

CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN OLVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair

of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes

had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be

the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting

down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which

increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.

'To--to--stop there, sir?' asked Oliver, anxiously.

'No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,' replied the Jew. 'We shouldn't like to lose you.

Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won't be so

cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!'

The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked round as

he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be very

glad to get away if he could.

'I suppose,' said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, 'you want to know what you're going

to Bill's for---eh, my dear?'

Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts;

but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.

'Why, do you think?' inquired Fagin, parrying the question.

'Indeed I don't know, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Bah!' said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal

of the boy's face. 'Wait till Bill tells you, then.'

The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater curiosity on the

subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much

confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his own speculations, to make any

further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very

surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.

'You may burn a candle,' said the Jew, putting one upon the table. 'And here's a book

for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!'

'Good-night!' replied Oliver, softly.

The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly

stopping, he called him by his name.

Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so;

and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at

him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room.

'Take heed, Oliver! take heed!' said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a

warning manner. 'He's a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own is up. W

hatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!' Placing a strong

emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into

a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room.

Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered,

with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of the

Jew's admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and meaning.

He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not

be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long

time, concluded that he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for

the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He

was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to

bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained lost in thought for some

minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which

the Jew had left with him, began to read.

He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted

his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives and

trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read

of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been

committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and

wells: which would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at

last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror

they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here, too,

he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said)

and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh

creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid,

that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be

sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow murmers, by the spirits of the

dead.

In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then, falling

upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and rather to will that

he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, so fearful and appaling. By degrees,

he grew more calm, and besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued

from his present dangers; and that if any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy

who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might come to him now, when,

desolate and deserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.

He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when

a rustling noise aroused him.

'What's that!' he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the door.

'Who's there?'

'Me. Only me,' replied a tremulous voice.

Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It was Nancy.

'Put down the light,' said the girl, turning away her head. 'It hurts my eyes.'

Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. The girl threw

herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and wrung her hands; but made no

reply.

'God forgive me!' she cried after a while, 'I never thought of this.'

'Has anything happened?' asked Oliver. 'Can I help you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.'

She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling sound, gasped

for breath.

'Nancy!' cried Oliver, 'What is it?'

The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, suddenly

stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.

Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for a little time,

without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and looked round.

'I don't know what comes over me sometimes,' said she, affecting to busy herself in

arranging her dress; 'it's this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you

ready?'

'Am I to go with you?' asked Oliver.

'Yes. I have come from Bill,' replied the girl. 'You are to go with me.'

'What for?' asked Oliver, recoiling.

'What for?' echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment they

encountered the boy's face. 'Oh! For no harm.'

'I don't believe it,' said Oliver: who had watched her closely.

'Have it your own way,' rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh.

'For no good, then.'

Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl's better feelings, and, for an

instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state. But, then, the

thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven o'clock; and that many people

were still in the streets: of whom surely some might be found to give credence to his

tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily,

that he was ready.

Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion. She eyed

him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which

sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in his thoughts.

'Hush!' said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she looked

cautiously round. 'You can't help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but all to no

purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to get loose from here, this

is not the time.'

Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surprise.

She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she

trembled with very earnestness.

'I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,' continued

the girl aloud; 'for those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far

more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet and silent; if you are not,

you will only do harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I

have borne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.'

She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued, with

great rapidity:

'Remember this! And don't let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I

would; but I have not the power. They don't mean to harm you; whatever they make

you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for me. Give me

your hand. Make haste! Your hand!

She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out the

light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some one

shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A

hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in

addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The

driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an

instant.

The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the

warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that

he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when to carriage

stopped at the house to which the Jew's steps had been directed on the previous evening.

For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for

help hung upon his lips. But the girl's voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such

tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated,

the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.

'This way,' said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time.

'Bill!'

'Hallo!' replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. 'Oh! That's the

time of day. Come on!'

This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome,

from a person of Mr. Sikes' temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby,

saluted him cordially.

'Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom,' observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. 'He'd have

been in the way.'

'That's right,' rejoined Nancy.

'So you've got the kid,' said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door

as he spoke.

'Yes, here he is,' replied Nancy.

'Did he come quiet?' inquired Sikes.

'Like a lamb,' rejoined Nancy.

'I'm glad to hear it,' said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; 'for the sake of his young

carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young 'un; and let me

read you a lectur', which is as well got over at once.'

Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw it into a

corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood

the boy in front of him.

'Now, first: do you know wot this is?' inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which

lay on the table.

Oliver replied in the affirmative.

'Well, then, look here,' continued Sikes. 'This is powder; that 'ere's a bullet; and this is a

little bit of a old hat for waddin'.'

Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes

proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.

'Now it's loaded,' said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.

'Yes, I see it is, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Well,' said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his

temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; 'if you

speak a word when you're out o' doors with me, except when I speak to you, that

loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you DO make up your mind to speak

without leave, say your prayers first.'

Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its effect, Mr.

Sikes continued.

'As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler arter you, if

you WAS disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of trouble to explain matters

to you, if it warn't for you own good. D'ye hear me?'

'The short and the long of what you mean,' said Nancy: speaking very emphatically,

and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious attention to her words: 'is,

that if you're crossed by him in this job you have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling

tales afterwards, by shooting him through the head, and will take your chance of

swinging for it, as you do for a great many other things in the way of business, every

month of your life.'

'That's it!' observed Mr. Sikes, approvingly; 'women can always put things in fewest

words.-- Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it out. And now that

he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get a snooze before starting.'

In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; disappearing for a few

minutes, she presently returned with a pot of porter and a dish of sheep's heads: which

gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the

singular coincidence of 'jemmies' being a can name, common to them, and also to an

ingenious implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman,

stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, was in great

spirits and good humour; in proof whereof, it may be here remarked, that he

humourously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not utter, on a rough calculation,

more than four-score oaths during the whole progress of the meal.

Supper being ended--it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it--

Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and water, and threw himself on the

bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations in case of failure, to call him at five

precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes, by command of the same authority,

on a mattress upon the floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to

rouse them at the appointed time.

For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy might seek that

opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl sat brooding over the fire,

without moving, save now and then to trim the light. Weary with watching and anxiety,

he at length fell asleep.

When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was thrusting various

articles into the pockets of his great-coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy

was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was

still burning, and it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the

window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.

'Now, then!' growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; 'half-past five! Look sharp, or you'll

get no breakfast; for it's late as it is.'

Oliver was not long in making his toilet; having taken some breakfast, he replied to a

surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite ready.

Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round his throat;

Sikes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders. Thus attired, he gave

his hand to the robber, who, merely pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that

he had that same pistol in a side-pocket of his great-coat, clasped it firmly in his, and,

exchanging a farewell with Nancy, led him away.

Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of meeting a look

from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat, perfectly

motionless before it.