The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "I inwented it."

"You, Mr. Bumble!"

"I, Mrs. Mann. We name our foundlings in alphabetical order. The last

was a S,--Swubble, I named him. This was a T,--Twist I named _him_.

The next one as comes will be Unwin, and the next Vilkins. I have got

names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it

again, when we come to Z."

"Why, you're quite a literary character, sir!" said Mrs. Mann.

"Well, well," said the beadle, evidently gratified with the compliment;

"perhaps I may be. But the boy Oliver being now too old to remain here,

the Board have determined to have him back into the house. I have come

out myself to take him there. So let me see him at once."

"I'll fetch him directly," said Mrs. Mann, leaving the room for that

purpose. And so Oliver, having had as much of the outer coat of dirt

which encrusted his face and hands removed as could be scrubbed off in

one washing, was presently led into the room.

"Make a bow to the gentleman, Oliver," said Mrs. Mann.

Oliver made a bow, which was divided between the beadle on the chair and

the cocked hat on the table.

"Will you go along with me, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble, in a majestic

voice.

Oliver was about to say that he would go along with anybody with great

readiness, when, glancing upwards, he caught sight of Mrs. Mann, who had

got behind the beadle's chair, and was shaking her fist at him with a

furious countenance. He took the hint at once, for the fist had been

too often impressed upon his body not to be deeply impressed upon his

memory.

"Will _she_ go with me?" he inquired.

"No, she can't," replied Mr. Bumble, "but she'll come and see you

sometimes."

This was no very great consolation to the child. Young as he was,

however, he had sense enough to pretend great regret at going away. It

was no very difficult matter for the boy to call the tears into his

eyes. Hunger and recent ill-usage are great assistants if you want to

cry; and Oliver cried very naturally indeed. Mrs. Mann gave him a

thousand embraces, and, what Oliver wanted a great deal more, a piece of

bread and butter, lest he should seem too hungry when he got to the

workhouse. With the slice of bread in his hand, and the little

brown-cloth parish cap on his head, the boy was then led away by Mr.

Bumble from the wretched home where one kind word or look had never

lighted the gloom of his infant years.

Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides, and little Oliver, firmly

grasping his gold-laced cuff, trotted beside him; inquiring at the end

of every quarter of a mile whether they were "nearly there." To these

interrogations Mr. Bumble returned very brief and snappish replies; for

was he not a beadle? But at last they were there, and the boy was

looking at his new home with interest not unmixed with dread.

Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an

hour, and had scarcely completed the slice of bread, when Mr. Bumble,

who had handed him over to the care of an old woman, returned, and,

telling him it was a board night, took him before that august body

forthwith.

"Bow to the Board," said Bumble. Oliver brushed away two or three tears

that were lingering in his eyes, and seeing no board but the table,

fortunately bowed to that.

"What's your name, boy?" said a gentleman in a high chair.

Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many fat, red-faced gentlemen,

and the beadle gave him another tap behind, which made him cry. These

two causes made him answer in a very low and hesitating voice; whereupon

a gentleman in a white waistcoat said he was a fool,--which was a

capital way of raising his spirits and putting him quite at his ease.

"Boy," said the gentleman in the high chair, "listen to me. You know

you're an orphan, I suppose?"

"What's that, sir?" inquired poor Oliver.

"The boy _is_ a fool--I thought he was," said the gentleman in the white

waistcoat.

"Hush!" said the gentleman who had spoken first. "You know you've got

no father or mother, and that you were brought up by the parish, don't

you?"

"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, weeping bitterly.

"What are you crying for?" inquired the gentleman in the white

waistcoat. And, to be sure, it was very extraordinary. What _could_

the boy be crying for?

"I hope you say your prayers every night," said another gentleman, in a

gruff voice, "and pray for the people who feed you, and take care of

you--like a Christian."

"Yes, sir," stammered the boy. The gentleman who spoke last was

unconsciously right. It would have been _very_ like a Christian, and a

marvellously good Christian too, if Oliver had prayed for the people who

fed and took care of _him_. But he hadn't, because nobody had taught

him.

"Well! You have come here to be educated, and taught a useful trade,"

said the red-faced gentleman in the high chair.

"So you'll begin to pick oakum to-morrow morning at six o'clock," added

the surly one in the white waistcoat.

For the combination of both these blessings in the one simple process of

picking oakum, Oliver bowed low, by the direction of the beadle, and was

hurried away to a large ward, where, on a rough hard bed, he sobbed

himself to sleep.

Poor Oliver! He little knew, as he fell asleep, that the Board had just

reached a sage decision in his and other cases. But they had, and this

was it. The members of this Board were very wise men, and when they

came to turn their attention to the work-house, they found out at once,

what ordinary folks would never have discovered--that the poor people

liked it!

"Oho!" said the Board, "we'll stop all this high living in no time!" So

they brought the diet down to the edge of starvation. They contracted

with the waterworks to lay on an unlimited supply of water, and with a

mill to supply small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of

thin gruel a day, and half a roll on Sundays.

For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was

in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence of

the increase in the undertaker's bill, and the necessity of taking in

the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted,

shrunken forms, after a week or two's gruel. But the number of workhouse

inmates got thin as well as the paupers, and the Board were delighted.

The room in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a

copper kettle at one end, out of which the master, dressed in an apron

for the purpose, and assisted by one or two women, ladled the gruel at

meal times. Of this festive composition each boy had one porringer, and

no more--except on occasions of great public rejoicing, when he had two

ounces and a quarter of bread besides. The bowls never wanted washing.

The boys polished them with their spoons till they shone again; and when

they had performed this operation (which never took very long, the

spoons being nearly as large as the bowls), they would sit staring at

the kettle, with eager eyes, as if they could have devoured the very

bricks of which it was composed; employing themselves, meanwhile, in

sucking their fingers, with the view of catching up any stray splashes

of gruel that might have been cast thereon.

[Illustration: OLIVER ASKS FOR MORE.]

Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist and his companions

suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three months, until at last

they got so voracious and wild with hunger that one boy, who was tall

for his age and hadn't been used to that sort of thing (for his father

had kept a small cook's shop), hinted darkly to his companions that

unless he had another basin of gruel, he was afraid he might eat the boy

who slept next him, who happened to be a weakly youth of tender age. He

had a wild hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him. A council was

held, and lots were cast to decide who should walk up to the master

after supper that evening and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver Twist.

The evening arrived, and the boys took their places. The master, in his

cook's uniform, stationed himself at the kettle; his pauper assistants

ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out, and a long grace

was said over the short rations. The gruel disappeared; the boys

whispered to each other, and winked at Oliver, while his next neighbors

nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger and reckless

with misery. He rose from the table and advancing to the master, basin

and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:

"Please, sir, I want some more."

The master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale. He gazed in

stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then

clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralyzed with

wonder; the boys with fear.

"What!" said the master at length, in a faint voice.

"Please, sir," replied Oliver, "I want some more."

The master aimed a blow at Oliver's head with the ladle, pinioned him in

his arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle.

The Board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into

the room in great excitement, and, addressing the gentleman in the high

chair, said:

"Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!"

There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.

"For _more_!" said Mr. Limbkins. "Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer

me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had

eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?"

"He did, sir," replied Bumble.

"That boy will be hung," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "I

know that boy will be hung."

Nobody disputed this opinion. An animated discussion took place.

Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was posted on

the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who

would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words,

five pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted

an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.

Oliver had a very narrow escape a few days later, as the result of this

bill, from a villanous-looking man who wanted a chimney-sweep. But

finally he became the apprentice of an undertaker named Sowerberry. His

life here was some improvement over the workhouse, but still hard

enough. Nevertheless he did get enough to eat, in the shape of broken

victuals, and he slept among the coffins in the shop.

Unfortunately there was another apprentice, a great overgrown fellow

named Noah Claypole, who delighted to bully Oliver in every way

possible. Oliver stood it as long as he could, but Noah mistook his

attitude for cowardice and added insults to rough usage. But, one day,

Noah spoke ill of the boy's dead mother.

"What did you say?" asked Oliver quickly.

"A regular right-down bad 'un, she was, Work'us," repeated Noah coolly.

Crimson with fury, Oliver started up, overthrew the chair and table,

seized Noah by the throat, shook him, in the violence of his rage, till

his teeth chattered in his head, and, collecting his whole force into

one heavy blow, felled him to the ground.

A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet, mild, dejected creature that

harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the

cruel insult had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved, and he

defied his tormentor with an energy he had never known before.

"He'll murder me!" blubbered Noah. "Charlotte! missis! Here's the new

boy a-murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver's gone mad! Char-lotte!"

His cries brought the fat maid-servant running to the scene.

"Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her

utmost force, which was about equal to that of a strong man in good

training. "Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-der-ous, hor-rid villain!"

And between every syllable Charlotte gave Oliver a blow with all her

might, accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of society.

Charlotte's fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be

effectual in calming Oliver's wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the

kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand while she scratched his

face with the other. In this favorable position of affairs Noah rose

from the ground and pommelled him behind.

This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all

three wearied out and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged

Oliver, struggling and shouting but nothing daunted, into the

dust-cellar, and there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry

sank into a chair and burst into tears.

"Oh, Charlotte!" she cried; "what a mercy we have not all been murdered

in our beds, with such a little villain in the house!"

And when Mr. Sowerberry presently came home, he gave Oliver a whipping

on his own account for good measure.

It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the

cellar that Oliver gave way to the feelings which the day's treatment

had awakened. 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.

For a long time Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle

was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed

cautiously round him and listened intently, he gently undid the

fastenings of the door and looked abroad.

It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy's eyes, farther

from the earth than he had ever seen them before. There was no wind,

and the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground looked

sepulchral and death-like, from being so still. He softly re-closed the

door. He resolved to run away in the early morning--to go to that great

city of London.

With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the

shutters, Oliver arose, and again 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 whither 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 footpath across the

fields, which he knew led out again into the road, struck into it and

walked quickly on.

He was then only ten years old.

*II. OLIVER FALLS FROM BAD TO WORSE*

It was seventy miles to London, and the poor boy made his way thither

only with great difficulty. Begging was not allowed in many of the

villages, and nearly everybody viewed him with doubt, or else shut the

door in his face.

Early on the seventh morning of his flight Oliver limped slowly into the

little town of Barnet, near the outskirts of London. The

window-shutters were closed, the street was empty, and the boy sank down

with bleeding feet and covered with dust upon a door-step.

By degrees the shutters were opened, the window-blinds were drawn up,

and people began passing to and fro. 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 relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came

there. He had no heart to beg, and there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for some time when he was roused by

observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before,

had returned, and was now surveying 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 of close observation 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 addressed this inquiry was about his own age, but one of the

queerest-looking fellows Oliver had ever seen. He was a snub-nosed,

flat-browed, common-faced boy enough, and as dirty as one would wish to

see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was

short of his age, with rather bow legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes.

He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned

the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the

sleeves, apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the

pockets of his corduroy trousers, for there he kept them. He was

altogether as swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six,

or something less, in his shoes.

"Hullo! my covey, what's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to

Oliver.

"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."

The boy looked at him narrowly, and asked him some questions. He took

Oliver for a vagrant or worse, but led him into a small tavern, and gave

him a feast of ham and bread; and Oliver, falling to at his new friend's

bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of 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?" asked Oliver.

"Yes, I do when I'm at home," replied the strange boy. "Want to go

along with me? I know an old gen'elman as lives there wot'll give you

lodgings for nothink."

The unexpected offer was too tempting to be resisted, especially when

Oliver was told that the old gentleman would doubtless get him a good

place without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and

confidential chat, in which Oliver learned that his new friend's name

was Jack Dawkins, commonly called "The Artful Dodger."

As Dawkins objected to entering London before nightfall, it was nearly

eleven o'clock before he piloted Oliver down some of the worst streets

of the city's worst section. Finally they entered a tumbledown

building, and groped their way up a rickety stairway. Then Dawkins

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 bottle, some pewter pots, bread and butter. Several rough

beds were huddled side by side upon the floor. Seated around the table

were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay

pipes and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. But the

chief figure was an old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous face was offset

by a mass of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown,

and was busily at work frying sausages over a fire.

The boys crowded around Dawkins as he whispered a few words in the ear

of the Jew. Then they all turned, as did the Jew, and grinned at Oliver.

"This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend Oliver Twist."

The Jew made a low bow to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he

should have the honor of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the

young gentlemen with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands

very hard--especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One

young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another

was so obliging as to put his hands in Oliver's pockets, in order that,

as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them

himself when he went to bed.

"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."

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 afterwards, he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the

sacks, and then he sank into a deep sleep.

The next morning, Oliver watched the Jew, Dawkins, and Charley Bates,

another of the boys, play a curious game. The old man would place a

purse and other valuables in his pockets, whereupon the boys would try

to slip them out without his knowledge.

Oliver didn't understand in the least what it was all about, even when

Fagin gave him some lessons in the same game. But he was to learn with

a shock, a few days later, when Bates and Dawkins took him with them for

a walk about town.

They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square

in Clerkenwell, when the Dodger made a sudden stop, and, laying his

finger on his lip, drew his companions back again with the greatest

caution.

"What's the matter?" demanded Oliver.

"Hush!" replied the Dodger. "Do you see that old cove at the

book-stall?"

"The gentleman over the way?" said Oliver. "Yes, I see him."

"He'll do," said the Dodger.

"A prime plant," observed Master Charley Bates.

Oliver looked from one to the other with surprise, but he was not

permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily

across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman. Oliver

walked a few paces after them, and, not knowing whether to advance or

retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.

The gentleman was a very respectable-looking person who had taken up a

book from the stall and was reading away as hard as if he were in his

own study.

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 the gentleman's pocket, and draw from thence

a handkerchief; to see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally

to behold them both running away round the corner at full speed!

Oliver saw in a flash that they were pickpockets, and that he would be

classed among them! He turned to run--the worst possible thing to

do--for just then the gentleman missed his handkerchief and glanced

around in time to see Oliver scudding away for dear life; and shouting

"Stop thief!" made off after him, book in hand.

He was not alone in the cry, for Bates and Dawkins, willing to divert

attention from themselves, also shouted "Stop thief!" and joined in the

pursuit like good citizens.

"Stop thief! Stop thief!" There is a magic in the sound. The

tradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his wagon; the butcher

throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the

errand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles. Away they run,

pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash, tearing, yelling, screaming and

knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners.

"Stop thief! Stop thief!" The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and

the crowd accumulates at every turning. Away they fly, splashing

through the mud and rattling along the pavements. Up go the windows,

out run the people, and lend fresh vigor to the cry, "Stop thief! Stop

thief!"

Stopped at last! A well-aimed blow laid Oliver upon the pavement. Then

a policeman seized him by the collar and he was hustled off for trial

before a magistrate.

The magistrate was a surly boor who was in the habit of committing

prisoners to jail with the merest pretence of a trial. It did not take

him long to decide that Oliver was a hardened criminal, in spite of the

protests of the kindly old gentleman whose pocket had been picked; and

the boy was, in fact, being carried away in a fainting condition, when

the bookseller whose shop had been the scene of action and who had

witnessed the whole thing, rushed in and declared Oliver's innocence.

The poor child was thereupon released; and the old gentleman--Mr.

Brownlow by name--was so sorry for him, and so taken by his frank face,

that he took him to his own home and nursed him through a severe

illness, the result of all his early privations and recent trouble. Mr.

Brownlow even thought of adopting him, and, as soon as he was well

enough, let him have books to read out of his own well-stocked library,

greatly to the eager Oliver's delight.

[Illustration: SIKES HAD HIM BY THE COLLAR.]

It did indeed seem as though the sky had cleared for the boy, but

instead still darker days were threatening. Fagin the Jew heard of

Oliver's escape with fear and anger. He knew that it would never do for

the boy to tell what he knew about the thieves' den. Their one chance

of safety lay in seizing him again and making him a thief like

themselves, so that his mouth would be closed.

So Fagin called to his aid a burglar, a big, brutal fellow named Bill

Sikes, who always went around with a knotted stick and a surly dog.

Nancy, a poor girl of the streets, was also put upon the search, and

soon their united efforts were successful.

One day after Oliver had begun to grow strong, he was sent by Mr.

Brownlow on an errand to a bookshop. He was well dressed in a new suit,

and had some books and a five-pound note of Mr. Brownlow's. It was not

far, but he accidentally turned down a by-street that was not exactly in

his way. He started to turn back, when he heard a girl's voice

screaming, "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 around 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

large key in her hand.

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

Oliver! Oh, you naughty boy, to make me suffer sich distress on your

account! Come home, dear, come! Oh, I've found him! Thank gracious

goodness heavins, I've found him!" With these exclamations the young

woman burst into another fit of crying.

"What's the matter, ma'am?" inquired a woman.

"Oh, ma'am," replied the girl, "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 the woman.

"I'm 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."

"Oh, only hear him, how he braves it out!" cried the young woman.

"Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver, who had known her at the Jew's, and

now saw her face for the first time.

"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 woman.

"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 from his recent illness and with no one in the idle crowd to

befriend him, poor Oliver could only suffer himself to be led away

sobbing. Bill Sikes saw his advantage, and pushed him rapidly down the

street. Then, turning to Oliver, he commanded him to take hold of

Nancy's hand.

"Do you hear?" growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.

They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.

Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He

held out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.

"Give me the other," said Sikes. "Here, Bull's-eye!"

The dog looked up and growled.

"See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat;

"if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind?"

The dog growled again, and, licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were

anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.

And in this fashion Oliver saw with unspeakable horror that he was being

taken back to the Jew. What would the trusting Mr. Brownlow think of

him? What, indeed! The hot tears blinded Oliver's eyes at the bare

thought.

Presently they arrived before the house but found it perfectly dark.

"Let's have a glim," said Sikes, "or we shall go breaking our necks, or

treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do! That's all."

"Stand still a moment, and I'll get you one," replied a voice. The

footsteps of the speaker were heard, and in another minute the form of

Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his

right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.

The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition

upon Oliver than a humorous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the

visitors to follow him. As they entered the low, dingy room, they were

received with a shout of laughter.

"Oh, my wig, my wig!" cried Charley Bates; "here he is! oh, cry, here he

is! Oh, Fagin, look at him; Fagin, do look at him! I can't bear it; it

is such a jolly game, I can't bear it! Hold me, somebody, while I laugh

it out."

With this, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor, and kicked

convulsively for five minutes, in an ecstasy of joy. Then jumping to

his feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger, and, advancing to

Oliver, viewed him round and round, while the Jew, taking off his

nightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The

Artful, meantime, who seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered

with business, rifled Oliver's pockets thoroughly.

"Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close to

his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at his

togs,--superfine cloth, and the heavy-swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a

game! And his books, too; nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!"

"Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear," said the Jew, bowing

with mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear,

for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, my

dear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm for

supper."

At this Master Bates roared again so loud that Fagin himself relaxed,

and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound

note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally or the discovery

awakened his merriment.

"Hallo! what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized

the note. "That's mine, Fagin."

"No, no, my dear," said the Jew. "Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the

books."

"They belong to Mr. Brownlow!" cried Oliver, wringing his hands. "Oh,

pray send them back! He'll think I stole them!"

"The boy's right," replied Fagin, with a sly wink. "He _will_ think

you've stole them!"

Oliver saw by his look that all chance of rescue was gone, and shrieking

wildly he made a dash for the door. But the dog arrested him with a

fierce growl, while a blow laid him upon the floor.

For several days Fagin kept him hid close, for fear of searching

parties. Then, resolving to get the boy deeply into crime as soon as

possible, he forced him to accompany Bill Sikes upon a house-breaking

expedition.

Accordingly, one raw evening they set forth--Oliver, Sikes, and another

burglar, Toby Crackit--the ruffians threatening to shoot the boy if he

so much as uttered one word. On account of his small size he was chosen

to creep through a little window of the house which was to be robbed.

The opening was about five feet from the ground, and so small that the

inmates did not think it worth while to defend it securely. But it was

large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless.

"Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark-lantern

from his pocket and throwing the glare full in Oliver's face: "I'm going

to put you through there. Take this light and go softly up the steps

straight afore you, and along the little hall to the street door.

Unfasten it and let us in."

So saying, the burglar boosted Oliver up on his back, and put him

through the window.

"You see the stairs, don't you?"

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out "Yes." Sikes pointed the

pistol at him, and advised him to take notice that he was within shot

all the way. Nevertheless, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he

died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs

from the hall and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced

at once, but stealthily.

"Come back!" suddenly cried Sikes aloud. "Back! back!"

Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by

a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not

whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated--a light appeared--a vision of two terrified

half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes--a

flash--a loud noise--a smoke--a crash somewhere, but where he knew

not,--and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again and had him by

the collar before the smoke had cleared away.

He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating, and

dragged the boy up.

"Clasp your arm tighter," said Sikes, as he drew him through the window.

"Give me a shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!"

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of

firearms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over

uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in

the distance. A cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart, and he

saw or heard no more.

*III. OLIVER MAKES HIS WAY INTO GOOD SOCIETY*

Bill Sikes and Toby Crackit were so hard pressed that they were soon

forced to leave Oliver lying in a ditch. The hue and cry passed him to

one side, leaving him alone and unconscious through the long cold night.

Morning drew on apace. The rain came down thick and fast, but Oliver

felt it not as it beat against him.

At length a low cry of pain broke the stillness; and uttering it, the

boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and

useless at his side; and the bandage was saturated with blood. He was

so weak that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture.

When he had at last done so, he looked feebly round for help, and

groaned with agony. Trembling in every joint from cold and exhaustion,

he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot,

fell prostrate on the ground.

After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged,

Oliver got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and

he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up,

nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went

stumbling onward, he knew not whither.

The rain was falling heavily now, but the cold drops roused him like

whiplashes. He pressed forward with the last ounce of his strength,

feeling that if he stopped he must surely die, and by chance reached the

same house of the attempted burglary. He knew the place at once, but

his strength was at an end, and he sank exhausted on the little portico

by the door.

The servants who presently opened the door were immensely surprised to

find the wounded boy; and two of them were certain he was the same who

had broken into the house. But in his pitiful condition they put him to

bed and sent for a surgeon.

A very kind-hearted lady, Mrs. Maylie, and her adopted niece Rose, lived

here. They cared for Oliver tenderly; for, like his lost friend, Mr.

Brownlow, they were greatly taken by his open face, and believed in him

despite the strange story which he presently found strength to tell.

With the aid of their friend the surgeon, they convinced the servants

that a mistake had been made, and so Oliver was not taken to jail.

Instead, he was received into this kindly home, and it really seemed

that now his dark days were over at last.

Oliver resumed the study of his beloved books, which he had begun with

Mr. Brownlow. But he also spent much time in the open fields, and soon

grew sturdy and strong, with the brown look of health in his face.

Between him and Rose Maylie a tender affection sprang up. He was, in

fact, her devoted knight.

One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning

to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at his window, intent upon his

books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had

been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, by slow

degrees he fell asleep.

There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it

holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things

about it, or enable it to ramble at its pleasure.

Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that

his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was

stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep.

Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he

thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again.

There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at

him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat

beside him.

"Hush, my dear!" he thought he heard the Jew say; "it is he, sure

enough. Come away."

"He!" the other man seemed to answer; "could I mistake him, think you?

If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he

stood among them, there is something that would tell me how to point him

out!"

The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke

with the fear and started up.

Good Heaven! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart,

and deprived him of his voice and of power to move! There--there--at the

window--close before him--so close that he could have almost touched him

before he started back--with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting

his--there stood the Jew! And beside him were the scowling features of

a dark man whom Oliver had seen only once, but had instinctively learned

to fear.

It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes, and they were

gone. But they had recognized him, and he them. He knew they were once

again lying in wait to seize him, and that his days of peace and

happiness were numbered.

Voice and motion came back to him with the fear; and leaping from the

window he called loudly for help.

Nevertheless, no trace of Fagin or the stranger could be found, though

the search was pursued with haste; and Oliver's friends were forced to

believe that it had been only a feverish dream.

But Oliver had not been mistaken. The two figures at the window were

really Fagin and a man named Monks, who for some mysterious reason had

been the boy's most vindictive enemy. It was he who had found Oliver

again and reported the fact to Fagin; and together they laid cunning

plans to get him once more into their clutches.

At this critical moment in Oliver's welfare, an unexpected friend to him

appeared in the person of Nancy, the street-girl. She had bitterly

repented her share in kidnapping him from Mr. Brownlow, and now longed

for a chance to do him some service. The chance offered, when she

happened to overhear the interview between Monks and the Jew. She could

not understand all she heard, but she realized that the boy was in great

danger unless she acted at once.

Hastening to the home of Rose Maylie, Nancy contrived to see her alone

and repeated word for word the conversation she had overheard. From the

dark threats of this man Monks, it seemed that Oliver's very life was in

danger, because of some secret connected with his birth. Nancy knew

that it meant her own death also if her visit to Miss Maylie became

known, but she could not remain silent.

Miss Maylie listened to her story with horror and amazement. She

realized that something must be done quickly, but did not know to whom

to turn. In her perplexity Oliver made a discovery of great value to

both of them. On the very day of Nancy's hurried visit and no less

hurried departure he came running in, his eyes all aglow with

excitement.

"I have seen him!" he exclaimed excitedly; "I knew that if I kept on

looking, I should find him again, one day! I mean the gentleman who was

so good to me--Mr. Brownlow!"

"Where?" asked Rose.

"Getting out of a coach," replied Oliver. "I didn't have the chance to

speak to him, but I took the number of the house he went into. Here it

is." And he flourished a scrap of paper delightedly. "Oh, let us go

there at once!"

Rose read the address eagerly, and decided to put the discovery to

account. Not alone would Oliver be gratified, but Mr. Brownlow might be

the very friend they needed at this momentous time.

"Quick!" she said; "tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to

go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss of

time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and

be ready as soon as you are."

Oliver needed no prompting to hasten, and in little more than five

minutes they were on their way. When they arrived at the address noted,

Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing his friend to

receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see

Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to

beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room,

Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent

appearance, in a bottle-green coat.

"Dear me," said the gentleman, hastily rising, with great politeness, "I

beg your pardon, young lady---I imagined it was some importunate person

who--I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray."

"Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?" said Rose.

"That is my name."

"I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally

embarrassed; "but you once showed great kindness to a very dear young

friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of

him again."

"Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow.

"Oliver Twist, as you knew him," said Rose.

Mr. Brownlow was naturally surprised, but said nothing for a few

moments. Then looking straight into her eyes, he remarked quietly but

earnestly, "Believe me, my dear young lady, if you can tell me good news

of that child, or lift the shadow which rests upon his name, you will be

doing me the greatest service."

Rose at once related in a few words all that had befallen Oliver since

leaving Mr. Brownlow's house; how he had searched for him but had only

seen him that very day; and finally of the new danger which threatened

the boy.

You may believe that Mr. Brownlow sat very straight, upon the extreme

edge of his chair, during the latter part of this recital.

"The poor lad!" he exclaimed; "but why have you not brought him with

you?"

"I wished to talk with you alone about this plot. He does not know of

it. But"--smilingly--"I believe he is now waiting in the coach at the

door."

"At this door?" cried Mr. Brownlow. And without another word he rushed

from the room.

In less than a minute he was back again, lugging Oliver in bodily and

both laughing--yes, and shedding tears--at the same time.

Then after the jolliest of visits, Rose and Oliver took their leave for

the present; but not before Mr. Brownlow had told Rose privately that he

would turn his whole attention to the new conspiracy.

Nancy had promised to meet Rose on London Bridge, a few nights later,

and Mr. Brownlow determined to be there also. In the meantime he made

other plans for capturing the rogues.

*IV. THE END OF EVIL DAYS*

Now, unbeknown to Nancy, Fagin the Jew had become suspicious of her, and

had set a spy upon her heels. This spy was none other than Noah

Claypole, the undertaker's apprentice, whom Oliver had so soundly

thrashed. Noah had lately come to London to try his fortune in any

underhand way that might arise. The Jew was always on the lookout for

just such fellows as he. So they soon struck a bargain.

On the night when Nancy set forth to keep her appointment on the Bridge,

Noah was kept busy darting from pillar to post, but all the time keeping

her in sight. When she met Rose and Mr. Brownlow, the spy quickly slunk

behind an abutment where he could hear every word of what she said. And

you may be sure he lost no time in taking his story back to the Jew.

Bill Sikes had just returned, in the early morning, from a

house-breaking jaunt, and was as usual in an ugly mood. A word from the

Jew about Nancy's defection set his brain on fire with hatred against

the girl. He hastened to her room, and, disregarding all her appeals

for mercy, struck her lifeless to the floor.

This murder proved the beginning of the end for all the gang. Mr.

Brownlow had already set the police to work, and now offered a large

personal reward for Sikes's arrest. The murderer was tracked in and

about the city for several days, until he finally hung himself in

endeavoring to escape from the roof of a house.

Fagin the Jew was captured at last, and for his share in this crime, and

his other wickednesses was condemned to death. A great popular clamor

had been aroused against him, and he was to be hung without delay.

In the hope that the Jew would throw some light upon Monks and some

secret papers which Mr. Brownlow had traced, that gentleman took Oliver

with him to the prison to see Fagin on his last night upon earth.

"Is the young gentleman to come, too, sir?" said the man whose duty it

was to conduct them. "It's not a sight for children, sir."

"It is not indeed, my friend,", rejoined Mr. Brownlow; "but my business

with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has

seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it

well--even at the cost of some pain and fear--that he should see him

now."

These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver.

The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiosity,

opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led

them on, through dark and winding ways, to the cell.

The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side

to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the

face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he

continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence

otherwise than as a part of his vision.

"Good boy, Charley--well done!"--he mumbled. "Oliver too, ha! ha! ha!

Oliver too--quite the gentleman now--quite the--take that boy away to

bed!"

The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and, whispering to him

not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.

"Take him away to bed!" cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He

has been the--the--somehow the cause of all this!"

"Fagin," said the jailer.

"That's me!" cried the Jew, falling, instantly, into the attitude of

listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my Lord; a very

old, old man!"

"Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him

down. "Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I

suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?"

"I sha'n't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face

retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all

dead! What right have they to butcher me?"

As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to

the farthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted

there.

"Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him

what you want--quick if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets

on."

"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed

in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks."

"It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one--not one."

"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not tell a lie

now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know

that Sikes is dead; and that there is no hope of any farther gain.

Where are those papers?"

"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper

to you."

"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a firm voice, as he relinquished Mr.

Brownlow's hand.

"The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas

bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want

to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you."

"Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one

prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till

morning."

"Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards

the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to

sleep--they'll believe _you_. You can get me out, if you take me so.

Now then, now then!"

"Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of

tears.

"That's right, that's right," said the Jew. "That'll help us on. This

door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you

mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!"

"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey.

"No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall

him to a sense of his position--"

"Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You

had better leave him."

The door of the cell opened and the attendants returned.

"Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster,

faster!"

The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held

him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant,

and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls

and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.

And this--thought Oliver shudderingly--was the last of the Jew--the man

from whose clutches he had so narrowly escaped!

Noah Claypole turned state's evidence at this time, and thus escaped the

law. Dawkins, the Artful Dodger, had been caught picking pockets and

was transported from the country. Charley Bates was so unnerved by the

fate of Nancy, and the swift punishment of his companions, that he

reformed and became an honest, hard-working young man.

And, finally, what of Monks? He was shadowed and seized by Mr.

Brownlow's agents, and proved to be none other than the half-brother of

Oliver Twist! Their father was dead, but he had left a will providing

for the boy also. And it was on this account that Monks had wished to

get him out of the way and had employed Fagin in trying to ruin the lad.

The papers were found, as the Jew had indicated, and they not only

cleared up Oliver's past history, but proved his right to a share in a

considerable family estate. Mr. Brownlow had known Monks's father in

their early days, and now used this knowledge to wring a full confession

from the villain.

Another strange secret came to light also, at this time. Rose Maylie

was found to be a younger sister of Oliver's dead mother, and therefore

the boy's own aunt.

"Not aunt!" cried Oliver, when he heard this amazing but delightful

news; "I'll never call her aunt! Sister, my own dear sister, that

something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear

darling Rose!"

And the two orphans, no longer alone but united and surrounded by loving

friends, were clasped in each other's arms.

*THE STORY OF SMIKE AND HIS TEACHER*

*I. HOW NICHOLAS NICKLEBY CAME TO DOTHEBOYS HALL*

"Education.--At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the

delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth

are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided with

all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead,

mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of

the globes, algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic,

fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms,

twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet

unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from one till

four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted.

Annual salary L5. A Master of Arts would be preferred."

To Nicholas Nickleby, a young man of nineteen, who had come to London

seeking his fortune, this advertisement in a daily paper seemed a

godsend--that is, provided he could secure the position referred to in

the last two lines. It is true the salary was not large; but he

reflected that his board and living would be included, and that a young

man of his education and ability would be bound to rise. He even

fancied himself, in a rosy-colored future, at the head of this model

school, Dotheboys Hall, in the delightful village of Dotheboys, near

Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire.

But it would not do to sit dreaming. Some one else might snap up this

golden opportunity. Nicholas brushed his clothes carefully and lost no

time in calling upon Mr. Squeers, at the tavern called the Saracen's

Head.

Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye

which, while it was unquestionably useful, was decidedly not ornamental,

being of a greenish gray and in shape resembling the fan-light of a

street-door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered

up, which gave him a very sinister appearance, especially when he

smiled, at which times his expression bordered closely on the villanous.

He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size;

and he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic

black.

Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fireplaces,

fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms. In a

corner of the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty

piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched--his lace-up half-boots and

corduroy trousers dangling in the air--a diminutive boy, with his

shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who

glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident

dread. Presently the boy chanced to give a violent sneeze.

"Hallo, sir!" growled the schoolmaster, turning round. "What's that,

sir?"

"Nothing, please, sir," replied the little boy.

"Nothing, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Squeers.

"Please, sir, I sneezed," rejoined the boy, trembling till the little

trunk shook under him.

"Oh! sneezed, did you?" retorted Mr. Squeers. "Then what did you say

'nothing' for, sir?"

In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a

couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry; wherefore Mr.

Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face,

and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.

"Wait till I get you down to Yorkshire, my young gentleman," said Mr.

Squeers, "and then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise,

sir?"

"Ye-ye-yes," sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard.

"Then do so at once, sir," said Squeers. "Do you hear?"

The little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back;

and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking, gave no farther vent to

his emotions.

"Mr. Squeers," said the waiter, looking in at this juncture, "here's a

gentleman asking for you at the bar."

"Show the gentleman in, Richard," replied Mr. Squeers, in a soft voice.

"Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel!"

The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper,

when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers

feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice

to his youthful pupil.

"My dear child," said Mr. Squeers, "all people have their trials. This

early trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst and

your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? Nothing;

less than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will have a

father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful

village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are

boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided

with all necessaries--"

"Mr. Squeers, I believe," said Nicholas Nickleby, as that worthy man

stopped to cough.

"The same, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I came in answer to an advertisement in this morning's paper," said

Nicholas. "I believe you desire an assistant."

"I do, sir," rejoined Mr. Squeers, coolly; "but if you are applying for

the place, don't you think you're too young?"

"I hope not, sir, and I have a fair education. I could--"

"Could what?" interrupted the schoolmaster. "Could you lick the boys if

they needed it?"

"I do not usually believe in that sort of punishment--" hesitated

Nicholas.

"Could you do it?" urged Mr. Squeers.

"I think--if they needed it--I could lick anybody in your school,"

smiled Nicholas.

"Well, why didn't you say so? I guess I had better take you. I've got

to leave town at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, and haven't time to

look around. So be on hand sharp!"

Nicholas thanked him and promised to be on hand.

The next day he was as good as his word, and reached the tavern a little

in advance of the appointed hour.

He found Mr. Squeers sitting at breakfast, with the little boy before

noticed, and four others who had turned up by some lucky chance since

the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite seat.

Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot

toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on

preparing breakfast for the little boys.

"This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said he, looking down

into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate

view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.

"That's twopenn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.

"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!" said Mr. Squeers,

with a sigh. "Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will

you?"

"To the wery top, sir?" inquired the waiter. "Why, the milk will be

drownded."

"Never you mind that," replied Mr. Squeers. "Serve it right for being so

dear! You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?"

"Coming directly, sir."

"You needn't hurry yourself," said Squeers; "there's plenty of time.

Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he

uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the

cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.

"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby," said Squeers. "Here we are, a breakfasting,

you see!"

Nicholas did not see that anybody was breakfasting except Mr. Squeers;

but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he

could.

"Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William?" said Squeers. "Very

good; don't forget the bread and butter presently."

At this fresh mention of the bread and butter the five little boys

looked very eager, and followed the waiter out with their eyes;

meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.

"Ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips, "here's richness! Think

of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of

this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"

"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas.

"When I say number one," pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the

children, "the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink;

and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we

come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys with great eagerness.

"That's right," said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast;

"keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears,

and you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength

of mind, Mr. Nickleby," said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and

speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.

Nicholas murmured something--he knew not what--in reply; and the little

boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which

had by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into

his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation.

"Thank God for a good breakfast," said Squeers when he had finished.

"Number one may take a drink."

Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make

him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who

gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process

was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.

"And now," said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for

three into as many portions as there were children, "you had better look

sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two,

and then every boy leaves off."

Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat

voraciously and in desperate haste; while the schoolmaster (who was in

high good-humor after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and looked

smilingly on. In a very short time the horn was heard.

"I thought it wouldn't be long," said Squeers, jumping up and producing

a little basket from under the seat; "put what you haven't had time to

eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road!"

Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economical

arrangements; but he had no time to reflect upon them, for the little

boys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and this task was in his

department. But soon they were all stowed away, and the coach started

off with a flourish.

The journey proved long and hard, however. They were detained several

times by the bad roads and inclement weather, so that it was not until

nightfall of the second day that they reached their destination.

"Jump out," said Squeers. "Hallo there! come and put this horse up. Be

quick, will you!"

While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries,

Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking

house, one story high, with a few straggling outbuildings behind, and a

barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the

noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a

tall, lean boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.

"Is that you, Smike?" cried Squeers.

"Yes, sir," replied the boy.

"Then why the devil didn't you come before?"

"Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire," answered Smike, with

humility.

"Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?" demanded the schoolmaster,

sharply.

"Only in the kitchen, sir," replied the boy. "Missus said, as I was

sitting up, I might go in there for a warm."

"Your Missus is a fool," retorted Squeers. "You'd have been a deuced

deal more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage."

By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to

see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn't any more corn that

night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front door a minute while he went

round and let him in.

A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas

during the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled force

when he was left alone. And as he looked up at the dreary house and

dark windows, and upon the wild country round, covered with snow, he

felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had never experienced

before.

Presently he was ushered into a cheerless-looking parlor where stood a

large, angular woman about half a head taller than Mr. Squeers.

"This is the new young man, my dear," said that gentleman.

"Oh," replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him

coldly from top to toe.

"He'll take a meal with us to-night," said Squeers, "and go among the

boys to-morrow morning. You can give him a shakedown here, to-night,

can't you?"

"We must manage it somehow," replied the lady. "You don't much mind how

you sleep, I suppose, sir?"

"No, indeed," replied Nicholas, "I am not particular."

"That's lucky," said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady's humor was

considered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and

seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.

After some conversation between the master and mistress relative to the

success of Mr. Squeers's trip, and the people who had paid, and the

people who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in

a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the

boy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.

Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different

boys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The

boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if

with a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look

was a very painful one, and went to Nicholas's heart at once, for it

told a long and very sad history.

It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was

surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which formed

his dress. Although he could not have been less than eighteen or

nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit,

such as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most

absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his thin

body. In order that the lower part of his legs might be in perfect

keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of boots,

originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some stout

farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. He was lame;

and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, he glanced at the

letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that

Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.

"What are you bothering about there, Smike?" cried Mrs. Squeers; "let

the things alone, can't you?"

"Eh!" said Squeers, looking up. "Oh! it's you, is it?"

"Yes, sir," replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to

control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers; "Is there--"

"Well!" said Squeers.

"Have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?"

"Devil a bit," replied Squeers, testily.

The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved

towards the door.

"Not a word," resumed Squeers, "and never will be. Now, this is a

pretty sort of thing, isn't it, that you should have been left here all

these years, and no money paid after the first six--nor no notice taken,

nor no clue to be got who you belong to? It's a pretty sort of thing

that I should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to

get one penny for it, isn't it?"

The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to

recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner,

gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.

"I'll tell you what, Squeers," remarked his wife, as the door closed, "I

think that young chap's turning silly."

"I hope not," said the schoolmaster; "for he's a handy fellow

out-of-doors, and worth his meat and drink anyway. I should think he'd

have wit enough for us, though, if he was."

Supper being over, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully and was of opinion that

it was high time to go to bed. Upon this, Mrs. Squeers and a servant

dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged

them into a couch for Nicholas.

"We'll put you into a regular bedroom with the boys to-morrow,

Nickleby," said Squeers. "Good-night. Seven o'clock, in the morning,

mind."

The next morning, when Nicholas appeared in the main room, he found Mrs.

Squeers very much distressed.

"I can't find the school spoon," she said.

"Never mind it, my dear," observed Squeers in a soothing manner; "it's

of no consequence."

"No consequence! why, how you talk!" retorted Mrs. Squeers, sharply;

"isn't it brimstone morning?"

"I forgot, my dear," rejoined Squeers; "yes, it certainly is. We purify

the boys' bloods now and then, Nickleby."

"Purify fiddlesticks' ends!" said his lady. "Don't think, young man,

that we go to the expense of brimstone and molasses, just to purify

them; because if you think we carry on the business in that way, you'll

find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly."

"My dear," said Squeers, frowning. "Hem!"

"Oh! nonsense," rejoined Mrs. Squeers. "If the young man comes to be a

teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don't want any

foolery about the boys. They have the brimstone and treacle, partly

because if they hadn't something or other in the way of medicine they'd

be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it

spoils their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So

it does them good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough,

I'm sure."

A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless,

Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers and boxed by Mr.

Squeers; which course of treatment brightening his intellects, enabled

him to suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her

pocket--as indeed turned out to be the case. But as Mrs. Squeers had

previously protested that she was quite certain she had not got it,

Smike received another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his

mistress; so that he gained nothing of advantage by his idea.

"But come," said Squeers, "let's go to the schoolroom; and lend me a

hand with my school-coat, will you?"

Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old shooting-jacket; and

Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way across a yard, to a

door in the rear of the house.

"There," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together; "this is

our shop, Nickleby!"

It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract

attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without

seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself

into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, stopped up with

old copybooks and paper. There were two rickety desks, cut and notched,

and inked in every possible way; two or three forms; a detached desk for

Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was supported, like

that of a barn, by crossbeams and rafters, and the walls were so stained

and discolored that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever been

touched with paint or whitewash.

But the pupils! How the last faint traces of hope, the remotest

glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded

from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay around! Pale and

haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the countenances of

old men, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long, meagre legs

would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view

together.

[Illustration: NICHOLAS AND SMIKE.]

And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features. Mrs.

Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense basin of

brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she administered a

large instalment to each boy in succession, using for the purpose a

common wooden spoon, which might have been originally manufactured for

some gigantic top, and which widened every young gentleman's mouth

considerably; they being all obliged, under heavy penalties, to take in

the whole of the bowl at a gulp.

"Now," said Squeers, giving the desk a great rap with his cane which

made half the little boys nearly jump out of their boots, "is that

physicking over?"

"Just over," said Mrs. Squeers, choking the last boy in her hurry, and

tapping the crown of his head with the wooden spoon to restore him.

"Here, you Smike; take away now. Look sharp!"

Smike shuffled out with the basin, and Mrs. Squeers having called up a

little boy with a curly head and wiped her hands upon it, hurried out

after him into a species of wash-house, where there was a small fire and

a large kettle, together with a number of little wooden bowls which were

arranged upon a board. Into these bowls Mrs. Squeers, assisted by the

hungry servant, poured a brown composition, which looked like diluted

pincushions without the covers, and was called porridge. A minute wedge

of brown bread was inserted in each bowl, and when they had eaten their

porridge by means of the bread, the boys ate the bread itself, and had

finished their breakfast; whereupon Mr. Squeers said, in a solemn voice,

"For what we have received, may the Lord make us truly thankful!"--and

went away to his own.

Nicholas filled his stomach with a bowl of porridge, for much the same

reason which induces some savages to swallow earth--lest they should be

hungry when there is nothing to eat. Having disposed of a slice of

bread and butter, allotted to him in virtue of his office, he sat

himself down to wait for school-time.

He could not but observe how silent and sad the boys all seemed to be.

There was none of the noise and clamor of a schoolroom; none of its

boisterous play or hearty mirth. The children sat crouching and

shivering together, and seemed to lack the spirit to move about. The

only pupil who seemed at all playful was Master Squeers, son of the

master, and as his chief amusement was to tread upon the other boys'

toes in his new boots, his flow of spirits was rather disagreeable than

otherwise.

After some half-hour's delay Mr. Squeers reappeared, and the boys took

their places and their books, of which latter there might be about one

to eight learners. A few minutes having elapsed, during which Mr.

Squeers looked very profound, as if he had a perfect apprehension of

what was inside all the books, and could say every word of their

contents by heart if he only chose to take the trouble, that gentleman

called up the first class.

Obedient to this summons there ranged themselves in front of the

schoolmaster's desk half-a-dozen scarecrows, out at knees and elbows,

one of whom placed a torn and filthy book beneath his learned eye.

"This is the first class in English spelling and philosophy, Nickleby,"

said Squeers, beckoning Nicholas to stand beside him. "We'll get up a

Latin one, and hand that over to you. Now, then, where's the first boy?"

"Please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlor window," said the temporary

head of the class.

"So he is, to be sure," rejoined Squeers. "We go upon the practical mode

of teaching, Nickleby; the regular education system. C-l-e-a-n, clean,

verb active, to make bright, to scour. When the boy knows this out of

book, he goes and does it. Second boy, what's a horse?"

"A beast, sir," replied the boy.

"So it is," said Squeers, "and as you're perfect in that, go and look

after _my_ horse, and rub him down well, or I'll rub you down. The rest

of the class go and draw water till somebody tells you to leave off, for

it's washing-day to-morrow, and they want the coppers filled."

So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in

practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunning and

half doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what he might think

of him by this time.

"That's the way we do it, Nickleby," he said, after a pause.

Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely

perceptible, and said he saw it was.

"And a very good way it is, too," said Squeers. "Now, just take them

fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because, you know, you

must begin to be useful. Idling about here won't do."

Mr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either

that he must not say too much to his assistant, or that his assistant

did not say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children

were arranged in a semicircle round the new master, and he was soon

listening to their dull, drawling recital of those stories of interest

which are to be found in the spelling books.

In this exciting occupation the morning lagged heavily on. At one

o'clock the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly taken

away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some hard

salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his

portion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this,

there was another hour of crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with

cold; and this was a fair sample of the school day at Dotheboys Hall.

There was a small stove in the corner of the room, and by it Nicholas

sat down, when the school was dismissed, so heavy-hearted that it seemed

to him as though every bit of joy had gone out of the world. The

cruelty and coarseness of Squeers were revolting, and yet Nicholas did

not know how to resent it or which way to turn. He had cast his lot

here, and here he must abide.

As he was absorbed in these meditations, he all at once encountered the

upturned face of Smike, who was on his knees before the stove, picking a

few stray cinders from the hearth and planting them on the fire. He had

paused to steal a look at Nicholas, and when he saw that he was

observed, shrank back, as if expecting a blow.

"You need not fear me," said Nicholas, kindly. "Are you cold?"

"N-n-o."

"You are shivering."

"I am not cold," replied Smike, quickly. "I am used to it."

There was such an obvious fear of giving offence in his manner, and he

was such a timid, broken-spirited creature, that Nicholas could not help

exclaiming, "Poor fellow!"

If he had struck the drudge, he would have slunk away without a word.

But now he burst into tears.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear!" he cried, covering his face with his cracked and

horny hands. "My heart will break. It will, it will!"

"Hush!" said Nicholas, laying his hand upon his shoulder. "Be a man;

you are nearly one by years, God help you."

"By years!" cried Smike. "Oh, dear, dear, how many of them! How many

of them since I was a little child, younger than any that are here now!

Where are they all?"

"Whom do you speak of?" inquired Nicholas, wishing to rouse the poor,

half-witted creature to reason. "Tell me."

"My friends," he replied, "myself--my--oh! what sufferings mine have

been!"

"There is always hope," said Nicholas; he knew not what to say.

"No," rejoined the other, "no; none for me. Do you remember the boy

that died here?"

"I was not here, you know," said Nicholas, gently; "but what of him?"

"Why," replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner's side, "I

was with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for

friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round

his bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and

he died at last lifting his head to kiss them. Do you hear?"

"Yes, yes," rejoined Nicholas.

"What faces will smile on me when I die!" cried his companion,

shivering. "Who will talk to me in those long nights! They cannot come

from home; they would frighten me, if they did, for I don't know what it

is, and shouldn't know them. Pain and fear, pain and fear for me, alive

or dead. No hope, no hope!"

The bell rang to bed, and the boy, subsiding at the sound into his usual

listless state, crept away as if anxious to avoid notice. It was with a

heavy heart that Nicholas soon afterwards--no, not retired; there was no

retirement there--followed to his dirty and crowded dormitory.

*II. HOW SMIKE WENT AWAY FROM DOTHEBOYS HALL*

Nicholas was of a naturally optimistic temper, however, and he lost as

little time as possible brooding over his difficulties. Instead he

began at once to try to make the school something more than a farce. He

arranged a few regular lessons for the boys, and he treated the poor,

half-starved pupils with such gentleness and sympathy that they passed

from dumb amazement at the first to blind devotion. Indeed, there was

not one of them who would not have lain down cheerfully and let him walk

over his body; and the most devoted of them all was Smike.

Nicholas was the one ray of sunlight that had ever come into this

wretched creature's life. And in return, Smike now followed him to and

fro, with an ever restless desire to serve or help him; anticipating

such little wants as his humble ability could supply, and content only

to be near him. He would sit beside him for hours, looking patiently

into his face; and a word would brighten up his careworn visage, and

call into it a passing gleam, even of happiness. He was an altered

being; he had an object now; and that object was, to show his attachment

to the only person--that person a stranger--who had treated him, not to

say with kindness, but like a human creature.

Needless to say, Squeers speedily took a dislike to Nicholas. He knew

of the scarcely concealed disdain with which his assistant regarded his

methods. Squeers was jealous, also, of the influence which Nicholas had

so soon acquired with the boys. Smike's slavish affection was speedily

discovered, and the crafty master was mean enough to strike at Nicholas

through him.

Upon this poor being all the spleen and ill-humor that could not be

vented on Nicholas were unceasingly bestowed. Drudgery would have been

nothing--Smike was well used to that. Buffetings inflicted without

cause would have been equally a matter of course; for to them also he

had served a long and weary apprenticeship; but it was no sooner

observed that he had become attached to Nicholas, than stripes and

blows, stripes and blows, morning, noon, and night, were his only

portion. Nicholas saw it, and ground his teeth at every repetition of

the savage and cowardly attack. But at present he saw no way to aid the

boy, for a protest would mean his own dismissal, and the lot of Smike

and the others would become that much harder.

One day, after especially harsh treatment, the boy sat huddled in a dark

corner by himself, sobbing as though his heart would break. The room was

dark and deserted, when Nicholas entered, but he heard the sound of

weeping and went over and laid his hand on the drudge's head.

"Do not, for God's sake!" said Nicholas, in an agitated voice; "I cannot

bear to see you."

"They are more hard with me than ever," sobbed the boy.

"I know it," rejoined Nicholas. "They are."

"But for you," said the outcast, "I should die. They would kill me,

they would; I know they would."

"You will do better, poor fellow," replied Nicholas, shaking his head

mournfully, "when I am gone."

"Gone!" cried the other, looking intently in his face.

"Softly!" rejoined Nicholas. "Yes."

"Are you going?" demanded the boy, in an earnest whisper.

"I cannot say," replied Nicholas. "I was speaking more to my own

thoughts than to you."

"Tell me," said the boy, imploringly, "oh, do tell me, _will_ you

go--_will_ you?"

"I shall be driven to that at last!" said Nicholas. "The world is

before me, after all."

"Tell me," urged Smike, "is the world as bad and dismal as this place?"

"Heaven forbid," replied Nicholas, pursuing the train of his own

thoughts; "its hardest, coarsest toil were happiness to this."

"Should I ever meet you there?" demanded the boy, speaking with unusual

wildness.

"Yes," replied Nicholas, willing to soothe him.

"No, no!" said the other, clasping him by the hand. "Should I--should

I--tell me that again! Say I should be sure to find you!"

"You would," replied Nicholas, with the same humane intention, "and I

would help and aid you, and not bring fresh sorrow on you as I have done

here."