OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF HIS NEW
ASSOCIATES, AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A SHORT BUT
VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER IN THIS HISTORY.
FOR many days Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out
of the pocket-handkerchiefs, (of which a great number were brought
home,) and sometimes taking part in the game already described, which
the two boys and the Jew played regularly every morning. At length
he began to languish for the fresh air, and took many occasions of
earnestly entreating the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work
with his two companions.
Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what
he had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character.
Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night empty-handed,
he would expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and
lazy habits, and enforce upon them the necessity of an active life by
sending them supperless to bed. Upon one occasion, indeed, he even went
so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was
carrying out his virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.
At length one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly
sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon for two or three
days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were
reasons for the old gentleman’s giving his assent, but, whether they
were or no, he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint
guardianship of Charley Bates and his friend the Dodger.
The three boys sallied out: the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up
and his hat cocked as usual, Master Bates sauntering along with his
hands in his pockets, and Oliver between them, wondering where they
were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in
first.
The pace at which they went was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,
that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive
the old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a
vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small
boys and tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some
very loose notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering
divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and
thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that
they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction.
These things looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring
his intention of seeking his way back in the best way he could, when
his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel by a very
mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open
square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion
of terms, “The Green,” when the Dodger made a sudden stop, and, laying
his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again with the greatest
caution and circumspection.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.
“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the
book-stall?”
“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”
“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.
“A prime plant,” observed Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other with the greatest surprise, but was
not permitted to make any inquiries, for the two boys walked stealthily
across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom
his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them,
and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in
silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a
powdered head and gold spectacles; dressed in a bottle-green coat
with a black velvet collar, and white trousers, with a smart bamboo
cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and there
he stood, reading away as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair in his
own study. It was very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed;
for it was plain, from his utter abstraction, that he saw not the
book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but
the book itself, which he was reading straight through, turning over
the leaves when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top
line of the next one, and going regularly on with the greatest interest
and eagerness.
[Illustration: _Oliver amazed at the Dodger’s mode of “going to work.”_]
What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking
on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the
Dodger plunge his hand into this old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from
thence a handkerchief which he handed to Charley Bates, and with which
they both ran away round the corner at full speed!
In one instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches,
and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind. He stood
for a moment with the blood so tingling through all his veins from
terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused
and frightened, he took to his heels, and, not knowing what he did,
made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute’s space, and the very instant that Oliver
began to run, the old gentleman putting his hand to his pocket, and
missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding
away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the
depredator, and, shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might, made off
after him, book in hand.
But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the
hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public
attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the
very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and
saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they
issued forth with great promptitude, and, shouting “Stop thief!” too,
joined in the pursuit like good citizens.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was
not theoretically acquainted with their beautiful axiom that
self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps
he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however,
it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old
gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
“Stop thief!—stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound. The
tradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his waggon; the butcher
throws down his tray, the baker his basket, the milk-man his pail,
the errand-boy his parcels, the schoolboy his marbles, the paviour
his pick-axe, the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell,
helter-skelter, slap-dash, tearing, yelling, and screaming, knocking
down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and
astonishing the fowls; and streets, squares, and courts re-echo with
the sound.
“Stop thief!—stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and
the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through
the mud, and rattling along the pavements; up go the windows, out run
the people, onward bear the mob; a whole audience desert Punch in the
very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the
shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, “Stop thief!—stop thief!”
“Stop thief!—stop thief!” There is a passion _for hunting something_
deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child,
panting with exhaustion, terror in his looks, agony in his eye, large
drops of perspiration streaming down his face, strains every nerve to
make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain
upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with still
louder shouts, and whoop and scream with joy “Stop thief!”—Ay, stop
him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last. A clever blow that. He is down upon the pavement,
and the crowd eagerly gather round him; each new comer jostling and
struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!”—“Give
him a little air!”—“Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.”—“Where’s the
gentleman?”—“Here he is, coming down the street.”—“Make room there
for the gentleman!”—“Is this the boy, sir?”—“Yes.”
Oliver lay covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,
looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when
the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle
by the foremost of the pursuers, and made this reply to their anxious
inquiries.
“Yes,” said the gentleman in a benevolent voice, “I am afraid it is.”
“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good un.”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“_I_ did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward;
“and preciously I cut my knuckle gain’ his mouth. _I_ stopped him,
sir.”
The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his
pains; but the old gentleman eyeing him with an expression of disgust,
looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself:
which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus
afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally
the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way
through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar. “Come, get up,”
said the man roughly.
“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,” said
Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round: “they are
here somewhere.”
“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be ironical,
but it was true besides, for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off
down the first convenient court they came to. “Come, get up.”
“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman compassionately.
“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer, tearing his jacket
half off his back in proof thereof. “Come, I know you; it won’t do.
Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?”
Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself upon his
feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar at
a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side;
and as many of the crowd as could, got a little a-head, and stared back
at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph, and on they
went.