Capitulo XIV y XV Oliver Twist

CHAPTER XIV

COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER'S STAY AT MR.

BROWNLOW'S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR.

GRIMWIG

UTTERED CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow's abrupt

exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was carefully avoided, both by

the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation that ensued: which indeed

bore no reference to Oliver's history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as

might amuse without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but,

when he came down into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an

eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the beautiful lady.

His expectations were disappointed, however, for the picture had been removed.

'Ah!' said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. 'It is gone, you see.'

'I see it is ma'am,' replied Oliver. 'Why have they taken it away?'

'It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it seemed to worry

you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know,' rejoined the old lady.

'Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am,' said Oliver. 'I liked to see it. I quite loved

it.'

'Well, well!' said the old lady, good-humouredly; 'you get well as fast as ever you can,

dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you that! Now, let us talk about

something else.'

This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that time. As the

old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he endeavoured to think no more of the

subject just then; so he listened attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an

amiable and handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome

man, and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in the West

Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such dutiful letters home

four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her eyes to talk about them. When the

old lady had expatiated, a long time, on the excellences of her children, and the merits

of her kind good husband besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just

six-and-twenty years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver

cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game they played,

with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the invalid to have some warm wine

and water, with a slice of dry toast, and then to go cosily to bed.

They were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, and neat,

and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise and turbulence in the

midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like Heaven itself. He was no sooner

strong enough to put his clothes on, properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete

new suit, and a new cap, and a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver

was told that he might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant

who had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the money

for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of the parlour window,

and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away, he felt quite delighted to think

that they were safely gone, and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being

able to wear them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had

a new suit before.

One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was sitting talking to

Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt

pretty well, he should like to see him in his study, and talk to him a little while.

'Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely for you,

child,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Dear heart alive! If we had known he would have asked for

you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and made you as smart as sixpence!'

Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile,

that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he

looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage, that she

went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she

really didn't think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made

much difference in him for the better.

Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to

come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window,

looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the

window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed

the book away from him, and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver

complied; marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of

books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more

experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.

'There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?' said Mr. Brownlow, observing

the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the

ceiling.

'A great number, sir,' replied Oliver. 'I never saw so many.'

'You shall read them, if you behave well,' said the old gentleman kindly; 'and you will

like that, better than looking at the outsides,--that is, some cases; because there are

books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.'

'I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,' said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos,

with a good deal of gilding about the binding.

'Not always those,' said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he

did so; 'there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size. How should

you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?'

'I think I would rather read them, sir,' replied Oliver.

'What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer?' said the old gentleman.

Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it would be a much

better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and

declared he had said a very good thing. Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he

by no means knew what it was.

'Well, well,' said the old gentleman, composing his features. 'Don't be afraid! We won't

make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to

turn to.'

'Thank you, sir,' said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman

laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not

understanding, paid no very great attention to.

'Now,' said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same time in a

much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet, 'I want you to

pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. I shall talk to you without any

reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons

would be.'

'Oh, don't tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!' exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at

the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement! 'Don't turn me out of doors to

wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to

the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!'

'My dear child,' said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's sudden appeal;

'you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.'

'I never, never will, sir,' interposed Oliver.

'I hope not,' rejoined the old gentleman. 'I do not think you ever will. I have been

deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit; but I feel strongly

disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested in your behalf than I can

well account for, even to myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest

love, lie deep in their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie

buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my

best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.'

As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion:

and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.

'Well, well!' said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, 'I only say this,

because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and

sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an

orphan, without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm

the statement. Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and

how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not

be friendless while I live.'

Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the point of

beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and carried to the

workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the

street-door: and the servant, running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.

'Is he coming up?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'Yes, sir,' replied the servant. 'He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and,

when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.'

Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend

of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners; for he was a worthy

creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.

'Shall I go downstairs, sir?' inquired Oliver.

'No,' replied Mr. Brownlow, 'I would rather you remained here.'

At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick: a

stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped

waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides

turned up with green. A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a

very long steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it.

The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange;

the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description. He had

a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke; and of looking out of the

corners of his eyes at the same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a

parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and,

holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling,

discontented voice.

'Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I

can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon's friend on the

staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my

death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!'

This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly

every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, because, even

admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of scientific improvements being

brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of

his being so disposed, Mr. Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the

most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at

a sitting--to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder.

'I'll eat my head, sir,' repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. 'Hallo!

what's that!' looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.

'This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,' said Mr. Brownlow.

Oliver bowed.

'You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?' said Mr. Grimwig,

recoiling a little more. 'Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop--' continued Mr. Grimwig,

abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; 'that's the boy who

had the orange! If that's not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel

upon the staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too.'

'No, no, he has not had one,' said Mr. Brownlow, laughing.

'Come! Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.'

'I feel strongly on this subject, sir,' said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his

gloves. 'There's always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street; and I

KNOW it's put there by the surgeon's boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over

a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look

towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. "Don't go to him," I called out

of the window, "he's an assassin! A man-trap!" So he is. If he is not--' Here the

irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; which was

always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer, whenever it was not

expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening

a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of

Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.

'That's the boy, is it?' said Mr. Grimwig, at length.

'That's the boy,' replied Mr. Brownlow.

'How are you, boy?' said Mr. Grimwig.

'A great deal better, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

Mr Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say

something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were

ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the visitor's manner, he was very happy to

do.

'He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?' inquired Mr. Brownlow.

'I don't know,' replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.

'Don't know?'

'No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys.

Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.'

'And which is Oliver?'

'Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a

round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with a body and limbs that

appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and

the appetite of a wolf. I know him! The wretch!'

'Come,' said Mr. Brownlow, 'these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so

he needn't excite your wrath.'

'They are not,' replied Mr. Grimwig. 'He may have worse.'

Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the

most exquisite delight.

'He may have worse, I say,' repeated Mr. Grimwig. 'Where does he come from! Who is

he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not peculiar to good

peope; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven't they, eh? I knew a man

who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times; he

wasn't recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh! nonsense!'

Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. Grimwig was

strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner were unusually

prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for contradiction, sharpened on this occasion

by the finding of the orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate

to him whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose

his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet

return a satisfactory answer; and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver's

previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig

chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in

the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn't find a table-spoon or two

missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to--and so forth.

All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman:

knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea,

was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins, matters went on

very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease

than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman's presence.

'And when are you going to hear at full, true, and particular account of the life and

adventures of Oliver Twist?' asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the

meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject.

'To-morrow morning,' replied Mr. Brownlow. 'I would rather he was alone with me at

the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear.'

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused

by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at him.

'I'll tell you what,' whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow;

'he won't come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate.

He is deceiving you, my good friend.'

'I'll swear he is not,' replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.

'If he is not,' said Mr. Grimwig, 'I'll--' and down went the stick.

'I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!' said Mr.

Brownlow, knocking the table.

'And I for his falsehood with my head!' rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.

'We shall see,' said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.

'We will,' replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; 'we will.'

As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel

of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstallkeeper,

who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she

prepared to leave the room.

'Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!' said Mr. Brownlow; 'there is something to go back.'

'He has gone, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin.

'Call after him,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'it's particular. He is a poor man, and they are not

paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.'

The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; and Mrs.

Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight.

Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of

him.

'Dear me, I am very sorry for that,' exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; 'I particularly wished

those books to be returned to-night.'

'Send Oliver with them,' said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; 'he will be sure to

deliver them safely, you know.'

'Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,' said Oliver.

'I'll run all the way, sir.'

The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account;

when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should; and

that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of

his suspicions: on this head at least: at once.

'You SHALL go, my dear,' said the old gentleman. 'The books are on a chair by my

table. Fetch them down.'

Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle;

and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.

'You are to say,' said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; 'you are to say that

you have brought those books back; and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I

owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back, ten shillings

change.'

'I won't be ten minutes, sir,' said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up the bank-note in

his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful

bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many

directions about the nearest way, and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the

street: all of which Oliver said he clearly understood. Having superadded many

injunctions to be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to depart.

'Bless his sweet face!' said the old lady, looking after him. 'I can't bear, somehow, to let

him go out of my sight.'

At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner.

The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went back, to her

own room.

'Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,' said Mr. Brownlow, pulling

out his watch, and placing it on the table. 'It will be dark by that time.'

'Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?' inquired Mr.

Grimwig.

'Don't you?' asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.

The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast, at the moment; and it

was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile.

'No,' he said, smiting the table with his fist, 'I do not. The boy has a new suit of clothes

on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket.

He'll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this

house, sir, I'll eat my head.'

With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends sat, in

silent expectation, with the watch between them.

It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments,

and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that,

although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man, and though he would

have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived, he really

did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come

back.

It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible; but there the

two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.

CHAPTER XV

SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND

MISS

NANCY WERE

In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a

dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time; and

where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter

measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a

velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light no

experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes.

At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in

winking at his master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cut

on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.

'Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!' said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence.

Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog's winking, or

whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the

relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for

argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a kick and a curse,

bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.

Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their masters; but

Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring,

perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made no more ado but at

once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he retired,

growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at

his head.

'You would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberately

opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. 'Come here,

you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?'

The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a very

harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having his

throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than before: at the

same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild

beast.

This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his knees, began

to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and from left to

right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust and swore, and struck and

blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other; when,

the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and

the clasp-knife in his hands.

There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes, being

disappointed of the dog's participation, at once transferred his share in the quarrel to the

new comer.

'What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?' said Sikes, with a fierce

gesture.

'I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,' replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new

comer.

'Didn't know, you white-livered thief!' growled Sikes. 'Couldn't you hear the noise?'

'Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill,' replied the Jew.

'Oh no! You hear nothing, you don't,' retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer. 'Sneaking in

and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin,

half a minute ago.'

'Why?' inquired the Jew with a forced smile.

'Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven't half the

pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,' replied Sikes, shutting up the knife

with a very expressive look; 'that's why.'

The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh at the

pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.

'Grin away,' said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage contempt;

'grin away. You'll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it's behind a nightcap.

I've got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d--me, I'll keep it. There! If I go, you go;

so take care of me.'

'Well, well, my dear,' said the Jew, 'I know all that; we--we--have a mutual interest,

Bill,--a mutual interest.'

'Humph,' said Sikes, as if he though the interest lay rather more on the Jew's side than

on his. 'Well, what have you got to say to me?'

'It's all passed safe through the melting-pot,' replied Fagin,

'and this is your share. It's rather more than it ought to be,

my dear; but as I know you'll do me a good turn another time,

and--'

'Stow that gammon,' interposed the robber, impatiently. 'Where is it? Hand over!'

'Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,' replied the Jew, soothingly. 'Here it is! All

safe!' As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from his breast; and

untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes,

snatching it from him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it

contained.

'This is all, is it?' inquired Sikes.

'All,' replied the Jew.

'You haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, have

you?' inquired Sikes, suspiciously. 'Don't put on an injured look at the question; you've

done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.'

These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It was answered

by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsive in appearance.

 

Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding the

hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagin, who raised

his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly

that the action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person. It

was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog

had torn. Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have

thought that it boded no good to him.

'Is anybody here, Barney?' inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes was looking

on, without raising his eyes from the ground.

'Dot a shoul,' replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart or not:

made their way through the nose.

'Nobody?' inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean that Barney

was at liberty to tell the truth.

'Dobody but Biss Dadsy,' replied Barney.

'Nancy!' exclaimed Sikes. 'Where? Strike me blind, if I don't honour that 'ere girl, for

her native talents.'

'She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,' replied Barney.

'Send her here,' said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. 'Send her here.'

Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew reamining silent, and not

lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently returned, ushering in Nancy;

who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.

'You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?' inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.

'Yes, I am, Bill,' replied the young lady, disposing of its

contents; 'and tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat's

been ill and confined to the crib; and--'

'Ah, Nancy, dear!' said Fagin, looking up.

Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eye-brows, and a half closing of

his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too communicative,

is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is,

that she suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes,

turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes' time, Mr. Fagin was

seized with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders,

and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of

her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together,

followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his

master was out of sight.

The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; looked after him as

we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a deep curse; and

then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table; where he was soon deeply

absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.

Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of

the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into

Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which was not exactly in his way;

but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way down it, and knowing it must

lead in the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back; and so marched

on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.

He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; and how

much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and beaten,

might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he was startled by a young woman

screaming out very loud. 'Oh, my dear brother!' And he had hardly looked up, to see

what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round

his neck.

'Don't,' cried Oliver, struggling. 'Let go of me. Who is it?

What are you stopping me for?'

The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman

who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door key in her hand.

'Oh my gracious!' said the young woman, 'I have found him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh

you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account! Come home, dear,

come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've found him!' With

these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying, and

got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked

a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also looking on,

whether he didn't think he had better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy:

who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought

not.

'Oh, no, no, never mind,' said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; 'I'm better now.

Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!'

'Oh, ma'am,' replied the young woman, 'he ran away, near a month ago, from his

parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a set of

thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart.'

'Young wretch!' said one woman.

'Go home, do, you little brute,' said the other.

'I am not,' replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. 'I don't know her. I haven't any sister, or

father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville.'

'Only hear him, how he braves it out!' cried the young woman.

'Why, it's Nancy!' exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started

back, in irrepressible astonishment.

'You see he knows me!' cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. 'He can't help

himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and

father, and break my heart!'

'What the devil's this?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his

heels; 'young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young dog! Come home

directly.'

'I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help! cried Oliver, struggling in the

man's powerful grasp.

'Help!' repeated the man. 'Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal!

What books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here.' With

these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.

'That's right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. 'That's the only way of bringing

him to his senses!'

'To be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garretwindow.

'It'll do him good!' said the two women.

'And he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man, administering another blow, and seizing

Oliver by the collar. 'Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy!

Mind him!'

Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the attack;

terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the man; overpowered by

the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the hardened little wretch he was

described to be; what could one poor child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low

neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was

dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace

which rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little

moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for

them, had they been ever so plain.

* * * * * * * * *

The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open door; the

servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver; and

still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch

between them.

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Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door.
The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!"
He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone.
The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man.
Again he said.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!" The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking.
So to make sure, I said interrogatively, "Count Dracula?" He bowed in a courtly was as he replied, "I am Dracula, and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest." As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage. He had carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested, but he insisted. "Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available.
Let me see to your comfort myself. "He insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily.
At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared.
The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight. For here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with another log fire, also added to but lately, for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the door.
"You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared."
The light and warmth and the Count's courteous welcome seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger. So making a hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

Robinson Crusoe

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Robinson Crusoe

I was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen, who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise, and leaving off his trade, lived afterwards at York, from whence he had married my mother, whose relations were named Robinson, a very good family in that country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but, by the usual corruption of words in England, we are now called - nay we call ourselves and write our name - Crusoe; and so my companions always called me.

I had two elder brothers, one of whom was lieutenant-colonel to an English regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the famous Colonel Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the Spaniards. What became of my second brother I never knew, any more than my father or mother knew what became of me.

Being the third son of the family and not bred to any trade, my head began to be filled very early with rambling thoughts. My father, who was very ancient, had given me a competent share of learning, as far as house-education and a country free school generally go, and designed me for the law; but I would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea; and my inclination to this led me so strongly against the will, nay, the commands of my father, and  against all the entreaties and persuasions of my mother and other friends, that there seemed to be something fatal in that propensity of nature, tending directly to the life of misery which was to befall me.

My father, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very warmly with me upon this subject. He asked me what reasons, more than a mere wandering inclination, I had for leaving father's house and my native country, where I might be well introduced, and had a prospect of raising my fortune by application and industry, with a life of ease and pleasure. He told me it was men of desperate fortunes on one hand, or of aspiring, superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise, and make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common road; that these things were all either too far above me or too far below me; that mine was the middle state, or what might be called the upper station of low life, which he had found, by long experience, was the best state in the world, the most suited to human happiness, not exposed to the miseries and hardships, the labour and sufferings of the mechanic part of mankind, and not embarrassed with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy of the upper part of mankind. He told me I might judge of the happiness of this state by this one thing - viz. that this was the state of life which all other people envied; that kings have frequently lamented the miserable consequence of being born to great things, and wished they had been placed in the middle of the two extremes, between the mean and the great; that the wise man gave his testimony to this, as the standard of felicity, when he prayed to have neither poverty nor riches.

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Dracula

Just as I had come to this conclusion I heard a heavy step approaching behind the great door, and saw through the chinks the gleam of a coming light. Then there was the sound of rattling chains and the clanking of massive bolts drawn back. A key was turned with the loud grating noise of long disuse, and the great door swung back.
Within, stood a tall old man, clean shaven save for a long white moustache, and clad in black from head to foot, without a single speck of colour about him anywhere. He held in his hand an antique silver lamp, in which the flame burned without a chimney or globe of any kind, throwing long quivering shadows as it flickered in the draught of the open door.
The old man motioned me in with his right hand with a courtly gesture, saying in excellent English, but with a strange intonation.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely and of your own free will!"
He made no motion of stepping to meet me, but stood like a statue, as though his gesture of welcome had fixed him into stone.
The instant, however, that I had stepped over the threshold, he moved impulsively forward, and holding out his hand grasped mine with a strength which made me wince, an effect which was not lessened by the fact that it seemed cold as ice, more like the hand of a dead than a living man.
Again he said.
"Welcome to my house! Enter freely. Go safely, and leave something of the happiness you bring!" The strength of the handshake was so much akin to that which I had noticed in the driver, whose face I had not seen, that for a moment I doubted if it were not the same person to whom I was speaking.
So to make sure, I said interrogatively, "Count Dracula?" He bowed in a courtly was as he replied, "I am Dracula, and I bid you welcome, Mr. Harker, to my house. Come in, the night air is chill, and you must need to eat and rest." As he was speaking, he put the lamp on a bracket on the wall, and stepping out, took my luggage. He had carried it in before I could forestall him. I protested, but he insisted. "Nay, sir, you are my guest. It is late, and my people are not available.
Let me see to your comfort myself. "He insisted on carrying my traps along the passage, and then up a great winding stair, and along another great passage, on whose stone floor our steps rang heavily.
At the end of this he threw open a heavy door, and I rejoiced to see within a well-lit room in which a table was spread for supper, and on whose mighty hearth a great fire of logs, freshly replenished, flamed and flared.
The Count halted, putting down my bags, closed the door, and crossing the room, opened another door, which led into a small octagonal room lit by a single lamp, and seemingly without a window of any sort. Passing through this, he opened another door, and motioned me to enter. It was a welcome sight. For here was a great bedroom well lighted and warmed with another log fire, also added to but lately, for the top logs were fresh, which sent a hollow roar up the wide chimney. The Count himself left my luggage inside and withdrew, saying, before he closed the door.
"You will need, after your journey, to refresh yourself by making your toilet. I trust you will find all you wish. When you are ready, come into the other room, where you will find your supper prepared."
The light and warmth and the Count's courteous welcome seemed to have dissipated all my doubts and fears. Having then reached my normal state, I discovered that I was half famished with hunger. So making a hasty toilet, I went into the other room.

Capitulo XIII Oliver Twist

CHAPTER XIII

SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT

READER,

CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED,

APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY

'Where's Oliver?' said the Jew, rising with a menacing look.

'Where's the boy?'

The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence; and

looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.

'What's become of the boy?' said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar, and

threatening him with horrid imprecations. 'Speak out, or I'll throttle you!'

Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it prudent in

all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no means improbable that it

might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud,

well-sustained, and continuous roar--something between a mad bull and a speaking

trumpet.

'Will you speak?' thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in

the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.

'Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it,' said the Dodger, sullenly. 'Come,

let go o' me, will you!' And, swinging himself, at one jerk, clean out of the big coat,

which he left in the Jew's hands, the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a

pass at the merry old gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let

a little more merriment out, than could have been easily replaced.

The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have been

anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to

hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by

a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that

young gentleman.

'Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!' growled a deep voice. 'Who pitched that 'ere

at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit me, or I'd have settled somebody. I

might have know'd, as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew

could afford to throw away any drink but water--and not that, unless he done the River

Company every quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D--me, if my neck-handkercher an't

lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping outside for, as if

you was ashamed of your master! Come in!'

The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-andthirty,

in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up half boots, and grey

cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, with large swelling calves;--the

kind of legs, which in such costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state

without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty

belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared

the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy

countenance with a beard of three days' growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which

displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.

'Come in, d'ye hear?' growled this engaging ruffian.

A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places, skulked

into the room.

'Why didn't you come in afore?' said the man. 'You're getting too proud to own me

afore company, are you? Lie down!'

This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the other end of

the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled himself up in a corner

very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty

times in a minute, appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.

'What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-ti-a-ble old

fence?' said the man, seating himself deliberately. 'I wonder they don't murder you! I

would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, I'd have done it long ago, and--no, I

couldn't have sold you afterwards, for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity

of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough.'

'Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,' said the Jew, trembling; 'don't speak so loud!'

'None of your mistering,' replied the ruffian; 'you always mean mischief when you come

that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it when the time comes.'

'Well, well, then--Bill Sikes,' said the Jew, with abject humility. 'You seem out of

humour, Bill.'

'Perhaps I am,' replied Sikes; 'I should think you was rather out

of sorts too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw

pewter pots about, as you do when you blab and--'

'Are you mad?' said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing towards the

boys.

Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear, and jerking

his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to

understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, with which his whole conversation was

plentifully besprinkled, but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded

here, demanded a glass of liquor.

'And mind you don't poison it,' said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the table.

This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew

bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution

not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller's

ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman's merry heart.

After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to take some

notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a conversation, in which the

cause and manner of Oliver's capture were circumstantially detailed, with such

alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable

under the circumstances.

'I'm afraid,' said the Jew, 'that he may say something which will get us into trouble.'

'That's very likely,' returned Sikes with a malicious grin.

'You're blowed upon, Fagin.'

'And I'm afraid, you see, added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed the

interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so,--'I'm afraid that, if the game

was up with us, it might be up with a good many more, and that it would come out

rather worse for you than it would for me, my dear.'

The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's shoulders

were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring on the opposite wall.

There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared plunged in

his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain malicious licking of his lips

seemed to be meditating an attack upon the legs of the first gentleman or lady he might

encounter in the streets when he went out.

'Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office,' said Mr.

Sikes in a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.

The Jew nodded assent.

'If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out again,' said Mr.

Sikes, 'and then he must be taken care on. You must get hold of him somehow.'

Again the Jew nodded.

The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, unfortunately, there was

one very strong objection to its being adopted. This was, that the Dodger, and Charley

Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent

and deeply-rooted antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext

whatever.

How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of uncertainty not the

most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It is not necessary to make any guesses

on the subject, however; for the sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver

had seen on a former occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.

'The very thing!' said the Jew. 'Bet will go; won't you, my dear?'

'Wheres?' inquired the young lady.

'Only just up to the office, my dear,' said the Jew coaxingly.

It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that she would not,

but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire to be 'blessed' if she

would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request, which shows the young lady to have

been possessed of that natural good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellowcreature,

the pain of a direct and pointed refusal.

The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, not to say

gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-papers, to the other

female.

'Nancy, my dear,' said the Jew in a soothing manner, 'what do YOU say?'

'That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin,' replied Nancy.

'What do you mean by that?' said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.

'What I say, Bill,' replied the lady collectedly.

'Why, you're just the very person for it,' reasoned Mr. Sikes:

'nobody about here knows anything of you.'

'And as I don't want 'em to, neither,' replied Nancy in the same composed manner, 'it's

rather more no than yes with me, Bill.'

'She'll go, Fagin,' said Sikes.

'No, she won't, Fagin,' said Nancy.

'Yes, she will, Fagin,' said Sikes.

And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and bribes, the lady in

question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the commission. She was not,

indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her agreeable friend; for, having recently

removed into the neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of

Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her

numerous acquaintance.

Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-papers tucked

up under a straw bonnet,--both articles of dress being provided from the Jew's

inexhaustible stock,--Miss Nancy prepared to issue forth on her errand.

'Stop a minute, my dear,' said the Jew, producing, a little covered basket. 'Carry that in

one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.'

'Give her a door-key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin,' said Sikes; 'it looks real and

genivine like.'

'Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,' said the Jew, hanging a large street-door key on the

forefinger of the young lady's right hand.

'There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!' said the Jew, rubbing his hands.

'Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!' exclaimed Nancy,

bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street-door key in an agony of

distress. 'What has become of him! Where have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity,

and tell me what's been done with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you

please, gentlemen!'

Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to the

immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the company,

nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.

'Ah, she's a clever girl, my dears,' said the Jew, turning round to his young friends, and

shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to them to follow the bright example

they had just beheld.

'She's a honour to her sex,' said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and smiting the table with

his enormous fist. 'Here's her health, and wishing they was all like her!'

While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the accomplished

Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-office; whither,

notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon walking through the streets

alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.

Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell-doors, and

listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and listened again. Still there

was no reply: so she spoke.

'Nolly, dear?' murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; 'Nolly?'

There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been taken up for

playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having been clearly proved, had

been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the House of Correction for one month;

with the appropriate and amusing remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it

would be more wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument.

He made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had

been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on to the next cell, and

knocked there.

'Well!' cried a faint and feeble voice.

'Is there a little boy here?' inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.

'No,' replied the voice; 'God forbid.'

This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for NOT playing the flute; or,

in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing nothing for his livelihood. In the

next cell was another man, who was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans

without license; thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.

But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew anything

about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the striped waistcoat; and with

the most piteous wailings and lamentations, rendered more piteous by a prompt and

efficient use of the street-door key and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.

'I haven't got him, my dear,' said the old man.

'Where is he?' screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.

'Why, the gentleman's got him,' replied the officer.

'What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?' exclaimed Nancy.

In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the

deeply affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and discharged in

consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have been committed by another

boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had carried him away, in an insensible

condition, to his own residence: of and concerning which, all the informant knew was,

that it was somewhere in Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the

directions to the coachman.

In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman staggered to the

gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift run, returned by the most

devious and complicated route she could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.

Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, than he very

hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat, expeditiously departed: without

devoting any time to the formality of wishing the company good-morning.

'We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,' said the Jew greatly excited.

'Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home some news of him! Nancy,

my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my dear,--to you and the Artful for

everything! Stay, stay,' added the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; 'there's

money, my dears. I shall shut up this shop to-night. You'll know where to find me!

Don't stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!'

With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-locking and

barring the door behind them, drew from its place of concealment the box which he had

unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches

and jewellery beneath his clothing.

A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. 'Who's there?' he cried in a shrill tone.

'Me!' replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.

'What now?' cried the Jew impatiently.

'Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?' inquired the Dodger.

'Yes,' replied the Jew, 'wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him out, that's

all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.'

The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his

companions.

'He has not peached so far,' said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. 'If he means to

blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet.'

Oliver Twist Capitulo XII

CHAPTER XII

IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER WAS

BEFORE.

AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD

GENTLEMAN AND

HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.

The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed

when he first entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way

when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet

shady street near Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which

Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and here, he

was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.

But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his new friends.

The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the

boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat

of fever. The worm does not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow

creeping fire upon the living frame.

Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been a long and

troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head resting on his

trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.

'What room is this? Where have I been brought to?' said Oliver.

'This is not the place I went to sleep in.'

He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but they were

overheard at once. The curtain at the bed's head was hastily drawn back, and a motherly

old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair

close by, in which she had been sitting at needle-work.

'Hush, my dear,' said the old lady softly. 'You must be very quiet, or you will be ill

again; and you have been very bad,--as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down

again; there's a dear!' With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head

upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and

loving in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and

drawing it round his neck.

'Save us!' said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. 'What a grateful little dear it is.

Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could

see him now!'

'Perhaps she does see me,' whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; 'perhaps she

has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.'

'I suppose it was,' replied Oliver, 'because heaven is a long way off; and they are too

happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she

must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't

know anything about me though,' added Oliver after a moment's silence. 'If she had

seen me hurt, it would have made here sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet

and happy, when I have dreamed of her.'

The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which

lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features,

brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him

he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.

So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind old lady in all

things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he

had already said. He soon fell into a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the

light of a candle: which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a

very large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a

great deal better.

'You ARE a great deal better, are you not, my dear?' said the gentleman.

'Yes, thank you, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Yes, I know you are,' said the gentleman: 'You're hungry too, an't you?'

'No, sir,' answered Oliver.

'Hem!' said the gentleman. 'No, I know you're not. He is not hungry, Mrs. Bedwin,'

said the gentleman: looking very wise.

The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say that she

thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much of the same

opinion himself.

'You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?' said the doctor.

'No, sir,' replied Oliver.

'No,' said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look.

'You're not sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?'

'Yes, sir, rather thirsty,' answered Oliver.

'Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,' said the doctor. 'It's very natural that he should be

thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma'am, and some dry toast without any butter.

Don't keep him too warm, ma'am; but be careful that you don't let him be too cold; will

you have the goodness?'

The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, and expressing

a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots creaking in a very important and

wealthy manner as he went downstairs.

Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly twelve o'clock.

The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly afterwards, and left him in charge of

a fat old woman who had just come: bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer

Book and a large nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the

old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew her chair

close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps, chequered at frequent intervals

with sundry tumblings forward, and divers moans and chokings. These, however, had

no worse effect than causing her to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.

And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, counting the little

circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or

tracing with his languid eyes the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness

and the deep stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy's mind

'That was the fever, my dear,' said the old lady mildly.

the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and nights, and might yet

fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he turned his face upon the

pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.

Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent suffering alone

imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to wake from. Who, if this were

death, would be roused again to all the struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for

the present; its anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the past!

It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt cheerful and

happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged to the world again.

In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up with pillows;

and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him carried downstairs into the

little housekeeper's room, which belonged to her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side,

the good old lady sat herself down too; and, being in a state of considerable delight at

seeing him so much better, forthwith began to cry most violently.

'Never mind me, my dear,' said the old lady; 'I'm only having a regular good cry. There;

it's all over now; and I'm quite comfortable.'

'You're very, very kind to me, ma'am,' said Oliver.

'Well, never you mind that, my dear,' said the old lady; 'that's got nothing to do with

your broth; and it's full time you had it; for the doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in

to see you this morning; and we must get up our best looks, because the better we look,

the more he'll be pleased.' And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in

a little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to furnish an

ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three hundred and fifty

paupers, at the lowest computation.

'Are you fond of pictures, dear?' inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver had fixed his

eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the wall; just opposite his chair.

'I don't quite know, ma'am,' said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the canvas; 'I have

seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face that lady's is!'

'Ah!' said the old lady, 'painters always make ladies out prettier than they are, or they

wouldn't get any custom, child. The man that invented the machine for taking

likenesses might have known that would never succeed; it's a deal too honest. A deal,'

said the old lady, laughing very heartily at her own acuteness.

'Is--is that a likeness, ma'am?' said Oliver.

'Yes,' said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth;

'that's a portrait.'

'Whose, ma'am?' asked Oliver.

'Why, really, my dear, I don't know,' answered the old lady in a good-humoured

manner. 'It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I expect. It seems to strike

your fancy, dear.'

'It is so pretty,' replied Oliver.

'Why, sure you're not afraid of it?' said the old lady: observing in great surprise, the look

of awe with which the child regarded the painting.

'Oh no, no,' returned Oliver quickly; 'but the eyes look so sorrowful; and where I sit,

they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,' added Oliver in a low voice, 'as if it

was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but couldn't.'

'Lord save us!' exclaimed the old lady, starting; 'don't talk in that way, child. You're

weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair round to the other side;

and then you won't see it. There!' said the old lady, suiting the action to the word; 'you

don't see it now, at all events.'

Oliver DID see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not altered his position; but

he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so he smiled gently when she looked

at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits

of toasted bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation.

Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely swallowed the last

spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the door. 'Come in,' said the old lady; and in

walked Mr. Brownlow.

Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner raised his

spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the skirts of his dressing-gown

to take a good long look at Oliver, than his countenance underwent a very great variety

of odd contortions. Oliver looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an

ineffectual attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his

sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be told, that Mr.

Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary old gentlemen of humane

disposition, forced a supply of tears into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we

are not sufficiently philosophical to be in a condition to explain.

'Poor boy, poor boy!' said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. 'I'm rather hoarse this

morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold.'

'I hope not, sir,' said Mrs. Bedwin. 'Everything you have had, has been well aired, sir.'

'I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'I rather think I had a damp

napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you feel, my dear?'

'Very happy, sir,' replied Oliver. 'And very grateful indeed, sir, for your goodness to

me.'

'Good by,' said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. 'Have you given him any nourishment, Bedwin?

Any slops, eh?'

'He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,' replied Mrs. Bedwin: drawing

herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the last word: to intimate that

between slops, and broth will compounded, there existed no affinity or connection

whatsoever.

'Ugh!' said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; 'a couple of glasses of port wine

would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom White, eh?'

'My name is Oliver, sir,' replied the little invalid: with a look of great astonishment.

'Oliver,' said Mr. Brownlow; 'Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?'

'No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.'

'Queer name!' said the old gentleman. 'What made you tell the magistrate your name

was White?'

'I never told him so, sir,' returned Oliver in amazement.

This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat sternly in

Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth in every one of its thin

and sharpened lineaments.

'Some mistake,' said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking steadily at

Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance between his features and some

familiar face came upon him so strongly, that he could not withdraw his gaze.

'I hope you are not angry with me, sir?' said Oliver, raising his eyes beseechingly.

'No, no,' replied the old gentleman. 'Why! what's this? Bedwin, look there!'

As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver's head, and then to the boy's

face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the mouth; every feature was the

same. The expression was, for the instant, so precisely alike, that the minutest line

seemed copied with startling accuracy!

Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong enough to

bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his part, which affords the

narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader from suspense, in behalf of the two

young pupils of the Merry Old Gentleman; and of recording--

That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in the hueand-

cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their executing an illegal

conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as has been already described, they

were actuated by a very laudable and becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch

as the freedom of the subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and

proudest boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to

observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and

patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their anxiety for their

own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and confirm the little code of laws

which certain profound and sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the mainsprings

of all Nature's deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the

good lady's proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very neat and pretty

compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of sight any

considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally

beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the

numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her sex.

If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the conduct of these

young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I should at once find it in the fact

(also recorded in a foregoing part of this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when

the general attention was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by

the shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually the practice

of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any great conclusion (their course

indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by various circumlocations and discursive

staggerings, like unto those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty

flow of ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it

is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to

evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against every possible contingency

which can be supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you

may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be attained, will

justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction

between the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled and

determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.

It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a most intricate

maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to halt beneath a low and dark

archway. Having remained silent here, just long enough to recover breath to speak,

Master Bates uttered an exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an

uncontrollable fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a

transport of mirth.

'What's the matter?' inquired the Dodger.

'Ha! ha! ha!' roared Charley Bates.

'Hold your noise,' remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. 'Do you want to

be grabbed, stupid?'

'I can't help it,' said Charley, 'I can't help it! To see him splitting away at that pace, and

cutting round the corners, and knocking up again' the posts, and starting on again as if

he was made of iron as well as them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out

arter him--oh, my eye!' The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene

before him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon

the door-step, and laughed louder than before.

'What'll Fagin say?' inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next interval of

breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the question.

'What?' repeated Charley Bates.

'Ah, what?' said the Dodger.

'Why, what should he say?' inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his

merriment; for the Dodger's manner was impressive. 'What should he say?'

Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, scratched his

head, and nodded thrice.

'What do you mean?' said Charley.

'Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't, and high cockolorum,'

said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.

This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and again said, 'What

do you mean?'

The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the skirts of his

long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his cheek, slapped the bridge of his

nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his

heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.

The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the occurrence of this

conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and

a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet.

There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out

from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.

'Why, how's this?' muttered the Jew: changing countenance; 'only two of 'em? Where's

the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!'

The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was slowly

opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind them.