short. "I knew it! I felt from the very first that that terrible young
savage would come to be hung!"
"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr.
Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
"And his missis," interposed Noah.
"And his master, too. I think you said, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble.
"No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he
wanted to."
"Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the
white waistcoat.
"Yes, sir. And please, sir," replied Noah, "missis wants to know whether
Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog
him--'cause master's out."
"Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white
waistcoat, smiling benignly and patting Noah's head, which was about
three inches higher than his own. "You're a good boy--a very good boy.
Here's a penny for you. Bumble just step up to Sowerberry's with your
cane, and see what's to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble."
"No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle as he hurried away.
Meantime, Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigor, at the
cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mrs. Sowerberry
and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature that Mr. Bumble judged it
prudent to parley before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick
at the outside, by way of prelude; and then, putting his mouth to the
keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:
"Oliver!"
"Come, you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside.
"Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes," replied Oliver.
"Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while I speak, sir?"
said Mr. Bumble.
"No!" replied Oliver, boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to hear, and was in
the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little.
"Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No
boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you."
"It's not madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of
deep meditation. "It's meat."
"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
"Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've
overfed him, ma'am."
"Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to
the kitchen ceiling; "this comes of being liberal!"
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver had consisted in a bestowal
upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would eat.
"Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth
again; "the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave
him in the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and
then to take him out, and keep him on gruel all through his
apprenticeship. He comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs.
Sowerberry! Both the nurse and doctor said that that mother of his made
her way here, against difficulties and pain that would have killed any
well-disposed woman, weeks before."
At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to
know that some new allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced
kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible.
Sowerberry returned at this moment. Oliver's offense having been
explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best
calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling,
and dragged his rebellious apprentice out by the collar.
Oliver's clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face
was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The
angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of
his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
"Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry, giving
Oliver a shake and a box on the ear.
"He called my mother names," replied Oliver.
"Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs.
Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse."
"She didn't," said Oliver.
"She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry.
"It's a lie!" said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry nothing else to do; so he at
once gave Oliver a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry
herself. For the rest of the day he was shut up in the backs kitchen, in
company with a pump and a slice of bread; and, at night, Mrs.
Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means
kind to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the
jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him up-stairs to his
dismal bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the
gloomy workshop of the undertaker that Oliver gave way to the feelings
which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a
mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he
had borne the lash without a cry; for he felt that pride swelling in his
heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had
roasted him alive. But now, when there was none to see or hear him, he
fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands,
wept bitter tears and prayed in his bleeding heart that God would help
him to get away from these cruel people. There, upon his knees, Oliver
determined to run away, and, rising, tied up a few clothes in a
handkerchief and went to bed.
With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the
shutters, Oliver arose and unbarred the door. One timid look around--one
moment's pause of hesitation--he had closed it behind him, and was in
the open street.
He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain which way to fly. He
remembered to have seen the wagons, as they went out, toiling up the
hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a foot-path across the
fields, which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road,
struck into it, and walked quickly on.
Along this same foot-path, Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside
Mr. Bumble when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His
heart beat quickly when he bethought himself of this, and he half
resolved to turn back. He had come a long way though, and should lose a
great deal of time by doing so. Besides, it was so early that there was
very little fear of his being seen; so he walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of the people inside
stirring at that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden.
A child was weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his
pale face and disclosed the features of one of his former companions.
Oliver felt glad to see him before he went; for, though younger than
himself, he had been his little friend and playmate. They had been
beaten, and starved, and shut up together many and many a time.
"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his
thin arm between the rails to greet him. "Is anyone up?"
"Nobody but me," replied the child.
"You mustn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away.
They beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune some
long way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!"
"I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child, with a
faint smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't
stop!"
"Yes, yes, I will to say good-by to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see
you again, Dick. I know I shall. You will be well and happy!"
"I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know
the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of heaven and
angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said
the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms
around Oliver's neck: "Good-by, dear! God bless you!"
The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that
Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles
and sufferings, and troubles and changes of his after-life, he never
once forgot it.
Oliver soon got into the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he
was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the
hedges, by turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and
overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the mile-stone.
The stone by which he was seated had a sign on it which said that it was
just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new
train of ideas in the boy's mind, London!--that great large
place!--nobody--not even Mr. Bumble--could ever find him there! He had
often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit
need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast
city which those who had been bred in the country parts had no idea of.
It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets
unless some-one helped him. As these things passed through his
thoughts, he jumped upon his feet and again walked forward.
He had made the distance between himself and London less by full four
miles more, before he thought how much he must undergo ere he could hope
to reach the place toward which he was going. As this consideration
forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated
upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse
shirt, and two pairs of stockings in his bundle. He had a penny too--a
gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted
himself more than ordinarily well--in his pocket. "A clean shirt,"
thought Oliver, "is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of
darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a
sixty-five miles' walk in winter-time."
Thus day after day the weary but plucky little boy walked on, and early
on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped
slowly into the little town of Barnet, and sat down on a doorstep to
rest. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned
round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none helped him, or
troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to
beg. And there he sat for some time when he was roused by observing
that a boy was watching him most earnestly from the opposite side of the
way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the
same attitude so long that Oliver raised his head and returned his
steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over, and, walking close up to
Oliver, said:
"Hullo, my covey! What's the row?"
The boy who had spoken to the young wayfarer was about his own age: but
one of the queerest-looking boys that Oliver had ever seen. He was a
snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a youth
as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners
of a man. He was short for his age; with rather bow-legs, and little,
sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly
that it threatened to fall off every moment. He wore a man's coat, which
reached nearly to his heels.
"Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said the stranger.
"I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his
eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these
seven days."
"Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's
order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I
suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on."
Oliver mildly replied that he had always heard a bird's mouth described
by the word beak.
"My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a
madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight
forerd.
"But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have
it. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then!"
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to a near by
grocery store, where he bought a supply of ready-dressed ham and a
half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!"
Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small
public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises.
Here a pot of beer was brought in by direction of the mysterious youth;
and Oliver, falling to at his new friend's bidding, made a long and
hearty meal, during which the strange boy eyed him from time to time
with great attention.
"Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length
concluded.
"Yes."
"Got any lodgings?"
"No."
"Money?"
"No."
The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as
the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
"Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver.
"Yes, I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some
place to sleep in to-night, don't you?"
"I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I
left the country."
"Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've
got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old genelman as
lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the
change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he
know me? Oh, no! not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" which
was his queer way of saying he and the old gentleman were good friends.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted,
especially as it was immediately followed up by the assurance that the
old gentleman referred to would doubtless provide Oliver with a
comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and
free talk, from which Oliver learned that his friend's name was Jack
Dawkins--among his intimate friends better known as the "Artful
Dodger"--and that he was a peculiar pet of the elderly gentleman before
mentioned.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it
was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the small city street, along
which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow
close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of
his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either
side of the way as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he
had never seen.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they
reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm,
pushed open the door of a house, and, drawing him into the passage,
closed it behind them.
"Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the
Dodger.
"Plummy and slam!" was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the
light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the
passage, and a man's face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old
kitchen staircase had been broken away.
"There's two of you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out,
and shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?"
"A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
"Where did he come from?"
"Greenland. Is Fagin up-stairs?"
"Yes; he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!" The candle was drawn back,
and the face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly
grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and
broken stairs; which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition
that showed he was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door of
a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and
dirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candle
stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter-pots, a loaf and
butter, and a plate. Seated round the table were four or five boys,
none older than the Dodger, smoking clay pipes and drinking spirits,
with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their friend as
he whispered a few words to the Jewish proprietor; and then turned round
and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
"This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend, Oliver Twist."
The Jew grinned, and, making a low bow to Oliver, took him by the hand,
and hoped he should have the honor of a closer acquaintance. Upon this,
the young gentlemen with the pipes came round him and shook both his
hands very hard.
"We are very glad to see you. Oliver, very," said the Jew. "Dodger, take
off the sausages, and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah! you're
a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear! There are a good
many of 'em, ain't there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash:
that's all, Oliver--that's all. Ha! ha! ha!"
The latter part of this speech was hailed by a noisy shout from all the
pupils of the merry old gentleman; in the midst of which they went to
supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin and
water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because another
gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately
afterward he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then
he sunk into a deep sleep.
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.
Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his
half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognized the sound of
the spoon grating against the saucepan's sides.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob, 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 jewels.
"Aha!" said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders and distorting every
feature with a hideous grin. "Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Stanch 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 remarks of the like nature, the Jew once
more laid the watch in its place of safety. At least half a dozen more
were severally drawn forth from the same box, and looked at with equal
pleasure; besides rings, bracelets, and other articles of jewelry, of
such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no
idea even of their names.
As the Jew looked up, his bright dark eyes, which had been staring at
the jewelry, 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, 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.
"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.
"No! No, indeed!" 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.
"Tush, tush, my dear!" said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner,
and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; to make
Oliver think 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!" The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle,
but glanced 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 looked kindly at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly," replied the old gentleman. "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 an 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, when 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 on
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_, Dodger?"
"A couple of pocket-books," replied that young gentleman.
"Lined?" inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
"Pretty well," replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books.
"Not so heavy as they might be," said the Jew, after looking at the
insides carefully; "but very neat and nicely made. A good 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 burst into another laugh.
"He is so jolly green!" said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to
the company for his impolite behavior.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver's hair over his eyes,
and said he'd know better by-and-by.
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 around him, and putting his
spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the
room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen
walk about the streets any hour in the day.