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 thought 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
remaining 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 garret-window.
‘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.