CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT OLD GENTLEMAN,
AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS.
IT was late next morning when Oliver awoke from a sound, long sleep.
There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling
some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to
himself as he stirred it round and round with an iron spoon. He would
stop every now and then to listen when there was the least noise below;
and, when he had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and
stirring again as before.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly
awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you
dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half
conscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would
in five nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in
perfect unconsciousness. At such times, a mortal knows just enough of
what his mind is doing to form some glimmering conception of its mighty
powers, its bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed
from the restraint of its corporeal associate.
Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his
half-closed eyes, heard his low whistling, and recognised the sound of
the spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides; and yet the self-same
senses were mentally engaged at the same time in busy action with
almost everybody he had ever known.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob, and,
standing in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not
well know how to employ himself, turned round and looked at Oliver, and
called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearance
asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the
door, which he fastened; he then drew forth, as it seemed to Oliver,
from some trap in the floor, a small box, which he placed carefully
on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid and looked in.
Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down, and took from it a
magnificent gold watch, sparkling with diamonds.
“Aha!” said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every
feature with a hideous grin. “Clever dogs! clever dogs!—Staunch to the
last! Never told the old parson where they were; never peached upon old
Fagin. And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept
the drop up a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows!—fine fellows!”
With these and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the
Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least
half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and
surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and
other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials and costly
workmanship that Oliver had no idea even of their names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another, so small
that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very
minute inscription on it, for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and,
shading it with his hand, pored over it long and earnestly. At length
he put it down as if despairing of success, and, leaning back in his
chair, muttered—
“What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead
men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the
trade! Five of them sprung up in a row, and none left to play booty or
turn white-livered!”
As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes which had been
staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes
were fixed on his in mute curiosity, and, although the recognition was
only for an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly
be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been
observed. He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash, and, laying
his hand on a bread-knife which was on the table, started furiously up.
He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see
that the knife quivered in the air.
“What’s that?” said the Jew. “What do you watch me for? Why are you
awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life!”
“I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,” replied Oliver, meekly. “I am
very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.”
“You were not awake an hour ago?” said the Jew, scowling fiercely on
the boy.
“No—no, indeed, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Are you sure?” cried the Jew, with a still fiercer look than before,
and a threatening attitude.
“Upon my word I was not, sir,” replied Oliver, earnestly. “I was not,
indeed, sir.”
“Tush, tush, my dear!” said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner,
and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down, as if to
induce the belief that he had caught it up in mere sport. “Of course I
know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy.
Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver!” and the Jew rubbed his hands with
a chuckle, but looked uneasily at the box notwithstanding.
“Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?” said the Jew, laying
his hand upon it after a short pause.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Ah!” said the Jew, turning rather pale. “They—they’re mine, Oliver;
my little property. All I have to live upon in my old age. The folks
call me a miser, my dear—only a miser; that’s all.”
Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in
such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps
his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys cost him a good deal
of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he
might get up.
“Certainly, my dear—certainly,” replied the old gentleman. “Stay.
There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here,
and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.”
Oliver got up, walked across the room, and stooped for one instant to
raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
He had scarcely washed himself and made everything tidy by emptying
the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, than
the Dodger returned, accompanied by a very sprightly young friend whom
Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally
introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down to breakfast upon
the coffee and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home
in the crown of his hat.
“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself
to the Dodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears.”
“Hard,” replied the Dodger.
“As nails,” added Charley Bates.
“Good boys, good boys!” said the Jew. “What have _you_ got, Dodger!”
“A couple of pocket-books,” replied that young gentleman.
“Lined?” inquired the Jew with trembling eagerness.
“Pretty well,” replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books, one
green and the other red.
“Not so heavy as they might be,” said the Jew, after looking at the
insides carefully; “but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman,
ain’t he, Oliver?”
“Very, indeed, sir,” said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed
uproariously, very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to
laugh at, in anything that had passed.
“And what have you got, my dear?” said Fagin to Charley Bates.
“Wipes,” replied Master Bates: at the same time producing four
pocket-handkerchiefs.
“Well,” said the Jew, inspecting them closely; “They’re very good
ones—very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks
shall be picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it.
Shall us, Oliver, eh?—Ha! ha! ha!”
“If you please, sir,” said Oliver.
“You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley
Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?” said the Jew.
“Very much indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,” replied Oliver.
Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply
that he burst into another laugh; which laugh meeting the coffee he
was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly
terminated in his premature suffocation.
“He is so jolly green!” said Charley when he recovered, as an apology
to the company for his unpolite behaviour.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair down over
his eyes, and said he’d know better by-and-by; upon which the old
gentleman, observing Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the subject by
asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the execution that
morning. This made him wonder more and more, for it was plain from
the replies of the two boys that they had both been there, and Oliver
naturally wondered how they could possibly have found time to be so
very industrious.
When the breakfast was cleared away, the merry old gentleman and
the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was
performed in this way:—The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box
in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch
in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard chain round his neck,—and
sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt, buttoned his coat tight
round him, and, putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in the
pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of
the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets every hour
in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the fire-place, and sometimes at
the door, making belief that he was staring with all his might into
shop-windows. At such times he would look constantly round him for
fear of thieves, and keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see
that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner,
that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this time
the two boys followed him closely about, getting out of his sight so
nimbly every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow
their motions. At last the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon his
boot accidentally, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind;
and in that one moment they took from him with the most extraordinary
rapidity snuff-box, note case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin,
pocket-handkerchief,—even the spectacle-case. If the old gentleman
felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was, and
then the game began all over again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young
ladies came to see the young gentlemen; one of whom was called Bet, and
the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned
up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They
were not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour
in their faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably
free and agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice
girls indeed, as there is no doubt they were.
These visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in
consequence of one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her
inside, and the conversation took a very convivial and improving turn.
At length Charley Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad
the hoof, which it occurred to Oliver must be French for going out; for
directly afterwards, the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies,
went away together, having been kindly furnished with money to spend by
the amiable old Jew.
“There, my dear,” said Fagin, “that’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They
have gone out for the day.”
“Have they done work, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“Yes,” said the Jew; “that is, unless they should unexpectedly come
across any when they are out; and they won’t neglect it if they do, my
dear, depend upon it.”
“Make ’em your models, my dear, make ’em your models,” said the Jew,
tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words;
“do everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters,
especially the Dodger’s, my dear. He’ll be a great man himself, and
make you one too, if you take pattern by him. Is my handkerchief
hanging out of my pocket, my dear?” said the Jew, stopping short.
“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.
“See if you can take it out without my feeling it, as you saw them do,
when we were at play this morning.”
Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand as he had seen
the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with
the other.
“Is it gone?” cried the Jew.
“Here it is, sir,” said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
“You’re a clever boy, my dear,” said the playful old gentleman, patting
Oliver on the head approvingly; “I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a
shilling for you. If you go on in this way, you’ll be the greatest man
of the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks
out of the handkerchiefs.”
Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play had to
do with his chances of being a great man; but thinking that the Jew,
being so much his senior, must know best, followed him quietly to the
table, and was soon deeply involved in his new study.