OLIVER TWIST


By Charles Dickens


Chapter 1

Treats Of The Place Where Oliver Twist Was Born; And Of The Circumstances 
Attending His Birth.

Among other public buildings in a certain town, which for many reasons it 
will be prudent to refrain from mentioning, and to which I will assign no 
fictitious name, there is one anciently common to most towns, great or 
small; to wit, a workhouse; and in this workhouse was born, on a day and 
date which I need not trouble myself to repeat, inasmuch as it can be of no 
possible consequence to the reader, in this stage of the business at all 
events, the item of mortality whose name is prefixed to the head of this 
chapter.
For a long time after it was ushered into this world of sorrow and trouble, 
by the parish surgeon, it remained a matter of considerable doubt whether 
the child would survive to bear any name at all; in which case it is 
somewhat more than probable that these memoirs would never have appeared; 
or, if they had, that being comprised within a couple of pages, they would 
have possessed the inestimable merit of being the most concise and faithful 
specimen of biography, extant in the literature of any age or country.
Although I am not disposed to maintain that the being born in a workhouse, 
is in itself the most fortunate and enviable circumstance that can possibly 
befall a human being, I do mean to say that in this particular instance, it 
was the best thing for Oliver Twist that could by possibility have 
occurred. The fact is, that there was considerable difficulty in inducing 
Oliver to take upon himself the office of respiration - a troublesome 
practice, but one which custom has rendered necessary to our easy 
existence; and for some time he lay gasping on a little flock mattress, 
rather unequally poised between this world and the next: the balance being 
decidedly in favour of the latter. Now, if, during this brief period, 
Oliver had been surrounded by careful grandmothers, anxious aunts, 
experienced nurses, and doctors of profound wisdom, he would most 
inevitably and indubitably have been killed in no time. There being nobody 
by, however, but a pauper old woman, who was rendered rather misty by an 
unwonted allowance of beer; and a parish surgeon who did such matters by 
contract; Oliver and Nature fought out the point between them. The result 
was, that, after a few struggles, Oliver breathed, sneezed, and proceeded 
to advertise to the inmates of the workhouse the fact of a new burden 
having been imposed upon the parish, by setting up as loud a cry as could 
reasonably have been expected from a male infant who had not been possessed 
of that very useful appendage, a voice, for a much longer space of time 
than three minutes and a quarter.
As Oliver gave this first proof of the free and proper action of his lungs, 
the patchwork coverlet which was carelessly flung over the iron bedstead 
rustled; the pale face of a young woman was raised feebly from the pillow; 
and a faint voice imperfectly articulated the words, "Let me see the child, 
and die."
The surgeon had been sitting with his face turned towards the fire, giving 
the palms of his hands a warm and a rub alternately. As the young woman 
spoke, he rose, and advancing to the bed's head, said, with more kindness 
than might have been expected of him:
"Oh, you must not talk about dying yet."
"Lor bless her dear heart, no!" interposed the nurse, hastily depositing in 
her pocket a green glass bottle, the contents of which she had been tasting 
in a corner with evident satisfaction. "Lor bless her dear heart, when she 
has lived as long as I have, sir, and had thirteen children of her own, and 
all on 'em dead except two, and them in the wurkus with me, she'll know 
better than to take on in that way, bless her dear heart! Think what it is 
to be a mother, there's a dear young lamb, do."
Apparently this consolatory perspective of a mother's prospects failed in 
producing its due effect. The patient shook her head, and stretched out her 
hand towards the child.
The surgeon deposited it in her arms. She imprinted her cold white lips 
passionately on its forehead; passed her hands over her face; gazed wildly 
round, shuddered; fell back - and died. They chafed her breast, hands, and 
temples; but the blood had stopped for ever. They talked of hope and 
comfort. They had been strangers too long.
"It's all over, Mrs. Thingummy!" said the surgeon at last.
"Ah, poor dear, so it is!" said the nurse, picking up the cork of the green 
bottle, which had fallen out on the pillow, as she stooped to take up the 
child. "Poor dear!"
"You needn't mind sending up to me, if the child cries, nurse," said the 
surgeon, putting on his gloves with great deliberation. "It's very likely 
it will be troublesome. Give it a little gruel if it is." He put on his 
hat, and, pausing by the bedside on his way to the door, added, "She was a 
good-looking girl, too; where did she come from?"
"She was brought here last night," replied the old woman, "by the 
overseer's order. She was found lying in the street. She had walked some 
distance, for her shoes were worn to pieces; but where she came from, or 
where she was going to, nobody knows."
The surgeon leaned over the body, and raised the left hand. "The old 
story," he said, shaking his head: "no wedding ring, I see. Ah! Good-
night!"
The medical gentleman walked away to dinner; and the nurse, having once 
more applied herself to the green bottle, sat down on a low chair before 
the fire, and proceeded to dress the infant.
What an excellent example of the power of dress young Oliver Twist was I 
Wrapped in the blanket which had hitherto formed his only covering, he 
might have been the child of a nobleman or a beggar; it would have been 
hard for the haughtiest stranger to have assigned him his proper station in 
society. But now that he was enveloped in the old calico robes which had 
grown yellow in the same service, he was badged and ticketed, and fell into 
his place at once - a parish child - the orphan of a workhouse - the 
humble, half-starved drudge - to be cuffed and buffeted through the world - 
despised by all, and pitied by none.
Oliver cried lustily. If he could have known that he was an orphan, left to 
the tender mercies of church-wardens and overseers, perhaps he would have 
cried the louder.


Chapter 2

Treats Of Oliver Twist's Growth, Education, And Board.

For the next eight or ten months, Oliver was the victim of a systematic 
course of treachery and deception. He was brought up by hand. The hungry 
and destitute situation of the infant orphan was duly reported by the 
workhouse authorities to the parish authorities. The parish authorities 
inquired with dignity of the workhouse authorities, whether there was no 
female then domiciled in "the house" who was in a situation to impart to 
Oliver Twist the consolation and nourishment of which he stood in need. The 
workhouse authorities replied with humility, that there was not. Upon this, 
the parish authorities magnanimously and humanely resolved, that Oliver 
should be "farmed" or, in other words, that he should be despatched to a 
branch workhouse some three miles off, where twenty or thirty other 
juvenile offenders against the poor-laws rolled about the floor all day, 
without the inconvenience of too much food or too much clothing, under the 
parental superintendence of an elderly female, who received the culprits at 
and for the consideration of sevenpence-halfpenny per small head per week. 
Sevenpence-halfpenny's worth per week is a good round diet for a child; a 
great deal may be got for sevenpence-halfpenny - quite enough to overload 
its stomach, and make it uncomfortable. The elderly female was a woman of 
wisdom and experience; she knew what was good for children; and she had a 
very accurate perception of what was good for herself. So, she appropriated 
the greater part of the weekly stipend to her own use, and consigned the 
rising parochial generation to even a shorter allowance than was originally 
provided for them. Thereby finding in the lowest depth a deeper still; and 
proving herself a very great experimental philosopher.
Everybody knows the story of another experimental philosopher who had a 
great theory about a horse being able to live without eating, and who 
demonstrated it so well, that he got his own horse down to a straw a day, 
and would most unquestionably have rendered him a very spirited and 
rampacious animal on nothing at all, if he had not died, four and twenty 
hours before he was to have had his first comfortable bait of air. 
Unfortunately for the experimental philosophy of the female to whose 
protecting care Oliver Twist was delivered over, a similar result usually 
attended the operation of her system; for at the very moment when a child 
had contrived to exist upon the smallest possible portion of the weakest 
possible food, it did perversely happen in eight and a half cases out of 
ten, either that it sickened from want and cold, or fell into the fire from 
neglect, or got half-smothered by accident; in any one of which cases, the 
miserable little being, was usually summoned into another world, and there 
gathered to the fathers it had never known in this.
Occasionally, when there was some more than usually interesting inquest 
upon a parish child who had been overlooked in turning up a bedstead, or 
inadvertently scalded to death when there happened to be a washing - though 
the latter accident was very scarce, anything approaching to a washing 
being of rare occurrence in the farm - the jury would take it into their 
heads to ask troublesome questions, or the parishioners would rebelliously 
affix their signatures to a remonstrance. But these impertinences were 
speedily checked by the evidence of the surgeon, and the testimony of the 
beadle; the former of whom had always opened the body and found nothing 
inside (which was very probable indeed) and the latter of whom invariably 
swore whatever the parish wanted; which was very self-devotional. Besides, 
the Board made periodical pilgrimages to the farm, and always sent the 
beadle the day before, to say they were going. The children were neat and 
clean to behold, when they went; and what more would the people have!
It cannot be expected that this system of farming would produce any very 
extraordinary or luxuriant crop. Oliver Twist's ninth birthday found him a 
pale, thin child, somewhat diminutive in stature, and decidedly small in 
circumference. But nature or inheritance had implanted a good sturdy spirit 
in Oliver's breast. It had had plenty of room to expand, thanks to the 
spare diet of the establishment; and perhaps to this circumstance may be 
attributed his having any ninth birthday at all. Be this as it may, 
however, it was his ninth birthday; and he was keeping it in the coal-
cellar with a select party of two other young gentlemen, who, after 
participating with him in a sound thrashing, had been locked up for 
atrociously presuming to be hungry, when Mrs. Mann, the good lady of the 
house, was unexpectedly startled by the apparition of Mr. Bumble, the 
beadle, striving to undo the wicket of the garden gate.
"Goodness gracious! Is that you, Mr. Bumble, sir?" said Mrs. Mann, 
thrusting her head out of the window in well-affected ecstasies of joy. 
"(Susan, take Oliver and them two brats upstairs, and wash 'em directly.) 
My heart alive! Mr. Bumble, how glad I am to see you, surely!"
Now, Mr. Bumble was a fat man, and a choleric; so, instead of responding to 
this open-hearted salutation in a kindred spirit, he gave the little wicket 
a tremendous shake, and then bestowed upon it a kick which could have 
emanated from no leg but a beadle's.
"Lor, only think," said Mrs. Mann, running out - for the three boys had 
been removed by this time - "only think of that! That I should have 
forgotten that the gate was bolted on the inside, on account of them dear 
children! Walk in, sir, walk in, pray, Mr. Bumble, do, sir."
Although this invitation was accompanied with a curtsey that might have 
softened the heart of a church-warden, it by no means mollified the beadle.
"Do you think this respectful or proper conduct, Mrs. Mann," inquired Mr. 
Bumble, grasping his cane, "to keep the parish officers a-waiting at your 
garden gate, when they come here upon porochial business connected with the 
porochial orphans? Are you aweer, Mrs. Mann, that you are, as I may say, a 
porochial delegate, and a stipendiary?"
"I'm sure, Mr. Bumble, that I was only a-telling one or two of the dear 
children as is so fond of you, that it was you a-coming," replied Mrs. 
Mann, with great humility.
Mr. Bumble had a great idea of his oratorical powers and his importance. He 
had displayed the one, and vindicated the other. He relaxed.
"Well, well, Mrs. Mann," he replied, in a calmer tone; "it may be as you 
say; it may be. Lead the way in, Mrs. Mann, for I come on business, and 
have something to say."
Mrs. Mann ushered the beadle into a small parlour with a brick floor; 
placed a seat for him; and officiously deposited his cocked hat and cane on 
the table before him. Mr. Bumble wiped from his forehead the perspiration 
which his walk had engendered, glanced complacently at the cocked hat, and 
smiled. Yes, he smiled. Beadles are but men: and Mr. Bumble smiled.
"Now don't you be offended at what I'm a-going to say," observed Mrs. Mann, 
with captivating sweetness. "You've had a long walk, you know, or I 
wouldn't mention it. Now, will you take a little drop of something, Mr. 
Bumble?"
"Not a drop. Not a drop," said Mr. Bumble, waving his right hand in a 
dignified but placid manner.
"I think you will," said Mrs. Mann, who had noticed the tone of the 
refusal, and the gesture that had accompanied it. "Just a leetle drop, with 
a little cold water, and a lump of sugar."
Mr. Bumble coughed.
"Now, just a leetle drop," said Mrs. Mann persuasively.
"What is it?" inquired the beadle.
"Why, it's what I'm obliged to keep a little of in the house, to put into 
the blessed infants' Daffy, when they ain't well, Mr. Bumble," replied Mrs. 
Mann, as she opened a corner cupboard, and took down a bottle and glass. 
"It's gin. I'll not deceive you, Mr. B. It's gin."
"Do you give the children Daffy, Mrs. Mann?" inquired Bumble, following 
with his eyes the interesting process of mixing.
"Ah, bless 'em that I do, dear as it is," replied the nurse. "I couldn't 
see 'em suffer before my very eyes, you know, sir."
"No," said Mr. Bumble approvingly; "no, you could not. You are a humane 
woman, Mrs. Mann." (Here she set down the glass.) "I shall take an early 
opportunity of mentioning it to the Board, Mrs. Mann." (He drew it towards 
him.) "You feel as a mother, Mrs. Mann." (He stirred the gin-and-water.) "I 
- I drink your health with cheerfulness, Mrs. Mann;" and he swallowed half 
of it.
"And now about business," said the beadle, taking out a leathern pocket-
book. "The child that was half-baptised, Oliver Twist, is nine year old 
today."
"Bless him!" interposed Mrs. Mann, inflaming her left eye with the corner 
of her apron.
"And notwithstanding a offered reward of ten pound, which was afterwards 
increased to twenty pound. Notwithstanding the most superlative, and, I may 
say, supernat'ral exertions on the part of this parish," said Bumble, awe 
have never been able to discover who is his father, or what was his 
mother's settlement, name, or condition."
Mrs. Mann raised her hands in astonishment; but added, after a moment's 
reflection, "How comes he to have any name at all, then?"
The beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "I inwented it."
"You, Mr. Bumble!"
"I, Mrs. Mann. We name our fondlings in alphabetical order. The last was a 
S - Swubble, I named him. This was 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. Perhaps I may be, Mrs. Mann." He finished the gin-and-
water, and added, "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. Oliver, having had by this time as much of the outer coat of dirt 
which incrusted his face and hands removed, as could be scrubbed off in one 
washing, was led into the room by his benevolent protectress.
"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 
recollection.
"Will she go with me?" inquired poor Oliver.
"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 make a feint of feeling 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, Oliver 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. And yet he burst into an agony of childish grief, as the cottage 
gate closed after him. Wretched as were the little companions in misery he 
was leaving behind, they were the only friends he had ever known; and a 
sense of his loneliness in the great wide world, sank into the child's 
heart for the first time.
Mr. Bumble walked on with long strides; 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 the temporary 
blandness which gin-and-water awakens in some bosoms had by this time 
evaporated; and he was once again a beadle.
Oliver had not been within the walls of the workhouse a quarter of an hour, 
and had scarcely completed the demolition of a second 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, informed him that the Board had said 
he was to appear before it forthwith.
Not having a very clearly defined notion of what a live Board was, Oliver 
was rather astounded by this intelligence, and was not quite certain 
whether he ought to laugh or cry. He had no time to think about the matter, 
however; for Mr. Bumble gave him a tap on the head with his cane, to wake 
him up, and another on the back to make him lively, and bidding him follow, 
conducted him into a large, whitewashed room, where eight or ten fat 
gentlemen were sitting round a table. At the top of the table, seated in an 
arm-chair rather higher than the rest, was a particularly fat gentleman 
with a very round, red face.
"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 the gentleman in the high chair.
Oliver was frightened at the sight of so many gentlemen, which made him 
tremble; 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 tomorrow 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 
then hurried away to a large ward; where, on a rough, hard bed, he sobbed 
himself to sleep. What a noble illustration of the tender laws of England! 
They let the paupers go to sleep!
Poor Oliver! He little thought, as he lay sleeping in a happy 
unconsciousness of all around him, that the Board had that very day arrived 
at a decision which would exercise the most material influence over all his 
future fortunes. But they had. And this was it: -
The members of this Board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when 
they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, 
what ordinary folks would never have discovered - the poor people liked it! 
It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a 
tavern where there was nothing to pay, a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and 
supper all the year round; - a brick and mortar elysium, where it was all 
play and no work. "Oho!" said the Board, looking very knowing; "we are the 
fellows to set this to rights; we'll stop it all, in no time." So, they 
established the rule, that all the poor people should have the alternative 
(for they would compel nobody, not they), of being starved by a gradual 
process in the house, or by a quick one out of it. With this view, they 
contracted with the waterworks to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and 
with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and 
issued three meals of thin gruel a day, with an onion twice a week, and 
half a roll on Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane 
regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to 
repeat; kindly undertook to divorce poor married people, in consequence of 
the great expense of a suit in Doctors' Commons; and, instead of compelling 
a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took his family 
away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how many 
applicants for relief under these last two heads, might have started up in 
all classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but 
the Board were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The 
relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that 
frightened people.
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 in ecstasies.
The room in which the boys were fed was a large stone hall, with a copper 
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 copper, with such eager eyes, as 
if they could have devoured the very bricks of which it was composed; 
employing themselves, meanwhile, in sucking their fingers most assiduously, 
with the view of catching up any stray splashes of gruel that might have 
been cast thereon. Boys have generally excellent appetites. Oliver Twist 
and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation for three 
months: 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-shop), hinted darkly to his companions, 
that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem, he was afraid he might 
some night happen to 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; lots were cast who should walk up to the 
master after supper that evening, and ask for more; and it fell to Oliver 
Twist.
The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook's 
uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged 
themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said 
over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each 
other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbours 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 paralysed 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 controverted the prophetic gentleman's opinion. An animated 
discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a 
bill was next morning pasted 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.
"I never was more convinced of anything in my life," said the gentleman in 
the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next 
morning: "I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that 
that boy will come to be hung."
As I purpose to show in the sequel whether the whitewaistcoated gentleman 
was right or not, I should perhaps mar the interest of this narrative 
(supposing it to possess any at all), if I ventured to hint just yet, 
whether the life of Oliver Twist had this violent termination or no.


Chapter 3

Relates How Oliver Twist Was Very Near Getting A Place, Which Would Not 
Have Been A Sinecure.

For a week after the commission of the impious and profane offence of 
asking for more, Oliver remained a close prisoner in the dark and solitary 
room to which he had been consigned by the wisdom and mercy of the Board. 
It appears, at first sight, not unreasonable to suppose, that, if he had 
entertained a becoming feeling of respect for the prediction of the gentle. 
man in the white waistcoat, he would have established that sage 
individual's prophetic character, once and for ever, by tying one end of 
his pocket handkerchief to a hook in the wall, and attaching himself to the 
other. To the performance of this feat, however, there was one obstacle, 
namely, that pocket handkerchiefs being decided articles of luxury, had 
been for all future times and ages, removed from the noses of paupers by 
the express order of the Board, in council assembled: solemnly given and 
pronounced under their hands and seals. There was a still greater obstacle 
in Oliver's youth and childishness. He only cried bitterly all day; and, 
when the long, dismal night came on, spread his little hands before his 
eyes to shut out the darkness, and crouching in the corner, tried to sleep: 
ever and anon waking with a start and tremble, and drawing himself closer 
and closer to the wall, as if to feel even its cold, hard surface were a 
protection in the gloom and loneliness which surrounded him.
Let it not be supposed by the enemies of "the system," that, during the 
period of his solitary incarceration, Oliver was denied the benefit of 
exercise, the pleasure of society, or the advantages of religious 
consolation. As for exercise, it was nice cold weather, and he was allowed 
to perform his ablutions every morning under the pump, in a stone yard, in 
the presence of Mr. Bumble, who prevented his catching cold, and caused a 
tingling sensation to pervade his frame, by repeated applications of the 
cane. As for society, he was carried every other day into the hall where 
the boys dined, and there sociably flogged as a public warning and example. 
And so far from being denied the advantages of religious consolation, he 
was kicked into the same apartment every evening at prayer-time, and there 
permitted to listen to, and console his mind with, a general supplication 
of the boys, containing a special clause, therein inserted by authority of 
the Board, in which they entreated to be made good, virtuous, contented, 
and obedient, and to be guarded from the sins and vices of Oliver Twist: 
whom the supplication distinctly set forth to be under the exclusive 
patronage and protection of the powers of wickedness, and an article direct 
from the manufactory of the very devil himself.
It chanced one morning, while Oliver's affairs were in this auspicious and 
comfortable state, that Mr. Gamfield, chimney-sweeper, was wending his way 
adown the High Street, deeply cogitating in his mind his ways and means of 
paying certain arrears of rent, for which his landlord had become rather 
pressing. Mr. Gamfield's most sanguine estimate of his finances could not 
raise them within full five pounds of the desired amount; and, in a species 
of arithmetical desperation, he was alternately cudgelling his brains and 
his donkey, when, passing the workhouse, his eyes encountered the bill on 
the gate.
"Wo-o!" said Mr. Gamfield to the donkey.
The donkey was in a state of profound abstraction: wondering, probably, 
whether he was destined to be regaled with a cabbage-stalk or two when he 
had disposed of the two sacks of soot with which the little cart was laden; 
so, without noticing the word of command, he jogged onward.
Mr. Gamfield growled a fierce imprecation on the donkey generally, but more 
particularly on his eyes; and, running after him, bestowed a blow on his 
head, which would inevitably have beaten in any skull but a donkey's. Then, 
catching hold of the bridle, he gave his jaw a sharp wrench, by way of 
gentle reminder that he was not his own master; and by these means turned 
him round. He then gave him another blow on the head, just to stun him till 
he came back again. Having completed these arrangements, he walked up to 
the gate, to read the bill
The gentleman with the white waistcoat was standing at the gate with his 
hands behind him, after having delivered himself of some profound 
sentiments in the board-room. Having witnessed the little dispute between 
Mr. Gamfield and the donkey, he smiled joyously when that person came up to 
read the bill, for he saw at once that Mr. Gamfield was exactly the sort of 
master Oliver Twist wanted. Mr. Gamfield smiled, too, as he perused the 
document; for five pounds was just the sum he had been wishing for; and, as 
the boy with which it was encumbered, Mr. Gamfield, knowing what the 
dietary of the workhouse was, well knew he would be a nice small pattern, 
just the very thing for register stoves. So, he
∑ spelled the bill through again, from beginning to end; and then, touching 
his fur cap in token of humility, accosted the gentleman in the white 
waistcoat.
"This here boy, sir, wot the parish wants to 'prentis," said Mr. Gamfield.
"Ay, my man," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, with a 
condescending smile. "What of him?"
"If the parish would like him to learn a right pleasant trade, in a good 
'spectable chimbley-sweepin' bisness," said Mr. Gamfield, "I wants a 
'prentis, and I am ready to take him."
"Walk in," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. Mr. Gamfield having 
lingered behind, to give the donkey another blow on the head, and another 
wrench of the jaw, as a caution not to run away in his absence, followed 
the gentleman with the white waistcoat into the room where Oliver had first 
seen him.
"It's a nasty trade," said Mr. Limbkins, when Gamfield had again stated his 
wish.
"Young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another 
gentleman.
"That's 'cause they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to 
make 'em come down agin," said Gamfield; "that's all smoke, and no blaze; 
vereas smoke ain't o' no use at all in making a boy come down, for it only 
sinds him to sleep, and that's wot he likes. Boys is wery obstinit, and 
wery lazy, gen'lmen, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em 
come down vith a run. It's humane too, gen'lmen, acause, even if they've 
stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate 
theirselves."
The gentleman in the white waistcoat appeared very much amused by this 
explanation; but his mirth was speedily checked by a look from Mr. 
Limbkins. The Board then proceeded to converse among themselves for a few 
minutes, but in so low a tone, that the words "saving of expenditure," 
"looked well in the accounts," "have a printed report published," were 
alone audible. These only chanced to be heard, indeed, on account of their 
being very frequently repeated with great emphasis. At length the 
whispering ceased; and the members of the Board having resumed their seats 
and their solemnity, Mr. Limbkins said: "We have considered your 
proposition, and we don't approve of it."
"Not at all," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"Decidedly not," added the other members.
As Mr. Gamfield did happen to labour under the slight imputation of having 
bruised three or four boys to death already, it occurred to him that the 
Board had, perhaps, in some unaccountable freak, taken it into their heads 
that this extraneous circumstance ought to influence their proceedings. It 
was very unlike their general mode of doing business, if they had; but 
still, as he had no particular wish to revive the rumour, he twisted his 
cap in his hands, and walked slowly from the table.
"So you won't let me have him, gen'lmen?" said Mr. Gamfield, pausing near 
the door.
"No," replied Mr. Limbkins; "at least, as it's a nasty business, we think 
you ought to take something less than the premium we offered."
Mr. Gamfield's countenance brightened, as, with a quick step, he returned 
to the table, and said:
"What'll you give, gen'lmen? Come! Don't be too hard on a poor man. What'll 
you give?"
"I should say, three pounds ten was plenty," said Mr. Limbkins.
"Ten shillings too much," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat.
"Come!" said Gamfield; "say four pound, gen'lmen. Say four pound, and 
you've got rid on him for good and all. There!
"Three pound ten," repeated Mr. Limbkins firmly.
"Come! I'll split the difference, gen'lmen," urged Gamfield. Three pound 
fifteen."
"Not a farthing more," said the firm reply of Mr. Limbkins.
"You're desperate hard upon me, gen'lmen," said Gamfield, wavering.
"Pooh! pooh! nonsense!" said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. "He'd be 
cheap with nothing at all, as a premium. Take him, you silly fellow! He's 
just the boy for you. He wants the stick, now and then: it'll do him good; 
and his board needn't come very expensive, for he hasn't been overfed since 
he was born. Ha! ha! ha!"
Mr. Gamfield gave an arch look at the faces round the table, and, observing 
a smile on all of them, gradually broke into a smile himself. The bargain 
was made. Mr. Bumble was at once instructed that Oliver Twist and his 
indentures were to be conveyed before the magistrate for signature and 
approval, that very afternoon.
In pursuance of this determination, little Oliver, to his excessive 
astonishment, was released from bondage, and ordered to put himself into a 
clean shirt. He had hardly achieved this very unusual gymnastic 
performance, when Mr. Bumble brought him, with his own hands, a basin of 
gruel, and the holiday allowance of two ounces and a quarter of bread. At 
this tremendous sight, Oliver began to cry very piteously: thinking, not 
unnaturally, that the Board must have determined to kill him for some 
useful purpose, or they never would have begun to fatten him up in that 
way.
"Don't make your eyes red, Oliver, but eat your food and be thankful," said 
Mr. Bumble, in a tone of impressive pomposity. "You're a-going to be made a 
'prentice of, Oliver."
"A 'prentice, sir!" said the child, trembling.
"Yes, Oliver," said Mr. Bumble. "The kind and blessed gentlemen which is so 
many parents to you, Oliver, when you have none of your own, are a-going to 
'prentice you, and to set you up in life, and make a man of you; although 
the expense to the parish is three pound ten! - three pound ten, Oliver! - 
seventy shillins one hundred and forty sixpences! - and all for a naughty 
orphan which nobody can't love."
As Mr. Bumble paused to take breath, after delivering this address in an 
awful voice, the tears rolled down the poor child's face, and he sobbed 
bitterly.
"Come," said Mr. Bumble, somewhat less pompously, for It was gratifying to 
his feelings to observe the effect his eloquence had produced; "come, 
Oliver! Wipe your eyes with the cuffs of your jacket, and don't cry into 
your gruel; that's a very foolish action, Oliver." It certainly was, for 
there was quite enough water in it already.
On their way to the magistrate, Mr. Bumble instructed Oliver that all he 
would have to do, would be to look very happy, and say, when the gentleman 
asked him if he wanted to be apprenticed, that he should like it very much 
indeed; both of which injunctions Oliver promised to obey: the rather as 
Mr. Bumble threw in a gentle hint, that if he failed in either particular, 
there was no telling what would be done to him. When they arrived at the 
office, he was shut up in a little room by himself, and admonished by Mr. 
Bumble to stay there, until he came back to fetch him.
There the boy remained, with a palpitating heart, for half an hour. At the 
expiration of which time Mr. Bumble thrust in his head, unadorned with the 
cocked hat, and said aloud:
"Now, Oliver, my dear, come to the gentleman." As Mr. Bumble said this, he 
put on a grim and threatening look, and added, in a low voice, "Mind what I 
told you, you young rascal!"
Oliver stared innocently in Mr. Bumble's face at this somewhat 
contradictory style of address; but that gentleman prevented his offering 
any remark thereupon, by leading him at once into an adjoining room, the 
door of which was open. It was a large room, with a great window. Behind a 
desk, sat two gentlemen with powdered heads: one of whom was reading the 
newspaper; while the other was perusing, with the aid of a pair of tortoise-
shell spectacles, a small piece of parchment which lay before him. Mr. 
Limbkins was standing in front of the desk on one side, and Mr. Gamfield, 
with a partially washed face on the other; while two or three bluff-looking 
men, in top-boots, were lounging about.
The old gentleman with the spectacles gradually dozed off over the little 
bit of parchment; and there was a short pause, after Oliver had been 
stationed by Mr. Bumble in front of the desk.
"This is the boy, your worship," said Mr. Bumble.
The old gentleman who was reading the newspaper raised his head for a 
moment, and pulled the other old gentleman by the sleeve; whereupon, the 
last-mentioned old gentleman woke up.
"Oh, is this the boy?" said the old gentleman.
"This is him, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "Bow to the magistrate, my dear."
Oliver roused himself, and made his best obeisance. He had been wondering, 
with his eyes fixed on the magistrates' powder, whether all Boards were 
born with that white stuff on their heads, and were Boards from thenceforth 
on that account.
"Well," said the old gentleman, "I suppose he's fond of chimney-sweeping?"
"He dotes on it, your worship," replied Bumble; giving Oliver a sly pinch, 
to intimate that he had better not say he didn't.
"And he will be a sweep, will he?" inquired the old gentleman.
"If we was to bind him to any other trade tomorrow, he'd run away 
simultaneous, your worship," replied Bumble
"And this man that's to be his master - you, sir - you'll treat him well, 
and feed him, and do all that sort of thing, will you?" said the old 
gentleman.
"When I says I will, I means I will," replied Mr. Gamfield doggedly.
"You're a rough speaker, my friend, but you look an honest, open-hearted 
man," said the old gentleman, turning his spectacles in the direction of 
the candidate for Oliver's premium, whose villainous countenance was a 
regular stamped receipt for cruelty. But the magistrate was half-blind and 
half-childish, so he couldn't reasonably be expected to discern what other 
people did.
"I hope I am, sir," said Mr. Gamfield, with an ugly leer.
"I have no doubt you are, my friend," replied the old gentleman, fixing his 
spectacles more firmly on his nose, and looking about him for the ink-
stand.
It was the critical moment of Oliver's fate. If the ink-stand had been 
where the old gentleman thought' it was, he would have dipped his pen into 
it, and signed the indentures; and Oliver would have been straightway 
hurried off. But, as it chanced to be immediately under his nose, it 
followed, as a matter of course, that he looked all over his desk for it, 
without finding it; and happening in the course of his speech to look 
straight before him, his gaze encountered the pale and terrified face of 
Oliver Twist, who, despite all the admonitory looks and pinches of Bumble, 
was regarding the repulsive countenance of his future master, with a 
mingled expression of horror and fear, too palpable to be mistaken, even by 
a half-blind magistrate.
The old gentleman stopped, laid down his pen, and looked from Oliver to Mr. 
Limbkins, who attempted to take snuff with a cheerful and unconcerned 
aspect.
"My boy!" said the old gentleman, leaning over the desk. Oliver started at 
the sound. He might be excused for doing so, for the words were kindly 
said, and strange sounds frighten one. He trembled violently, and burst 
into tears.
"My boy!" said the old gentleman, "you look pale and alarmed. What is the 
matter?"
"Stand a little away from him, beadle," said the other magistrate, laying 
aside the paper, and leaning forward with an expression of interest. "Now, 
boy, tell us what's the matter - don't be afraid."
Oliver fell on his knees, and clasped his hands together, prayed that they 
would order him back to the dark room - that they would starve him - beat 
him - kill him if they pleased - rather than send him away with that 
dreadful man.
"Well!" said Mr. Bumble, raising his hands and eyes with most impressive 
solemnity. "Well! of all the artful and designing orphans that ever I see, 
Oliver, you are one of the most bare-facedest."
"Hold your tongue, beadle," said the second old gentleman, when Mr. Bumble 
had given vent to this compound adjective.
"I beg your worship's pardon," said Mr. Bumble, incredulous of his having 
heard aright. "Did your worship speak to me?
"Yes. Hold your tongue.".
Mr. Bumble was stupefied with astonishment. A beadle ordered to hold his 
tongue! A moral revolution! The old gentleman in the tortoise-shell 
spectacles looked at his companion; he nodded significantly.
"We refuse to sanction these indentures," said the old gentleman, tossing 
aside the piece of parchment as he spoke.
"I hope," stammered Mr. Limbkins, "I hope the magistrates will not form the 
opinion that the authorities have been guilty of any improper conduct, on 
the unsupported testimony of a mere child."
"The magistrates are not called upon to pronounce any opinion on the 
matter," said the second old gentleman sharply. "Take the boy back to the 
workhouse, and treat him kindly. He seems to want it."
That same evening, the gentleman in the white waistcoat most positively and 
decidedly affirmed, not only that Oliver would be hung, but that he would 
be drawn and quartered into the bargain. Mr. Bumble shook his head with 
gloomy mystery, and said he wished he might come to good; whereunto Mr. 
Gamfield replied that he wished he might come to him; which, although he 
agreed with the beadle in most matters, would seem to be a wish of a 
totally opposite description. The next morning, the public were once more 
informed that Oliver Twist was again To Let; and that five pounds would be 
paid to anybody who would take possession of him.


Chapter 4

Oliver, Being Offered Another Place, Makes His First Entry Into Public 
Life.

In great families, when an advantageous place cannot be obtained, either in 
possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, for the young man who is 
growing up, it is a very general custom to send him to sea. The Board, in 
imitation of so wise and salutary an example, took counsel together on the 
expediency of shipping off Oliver Twist, in some small trading vessel bound 
to a good unhealthy port; which suggested itself as the very best thing 
that could possibly be done with him: the probability being, that the 
skipper would flog him to death, in a playful mood, some day after dinner, 
or would knock his brains out with an iron bar; both pastimes being, as is 
pretty generally known, very favourite and common recreations among 
gentlemen of that class. The more the case presented itself to the Board, 
in this point of view, the more manifold the advantages of the step 
appeared; so, they come to the conclusion that the only way of providing 
for Oliver effectually, was to send him to sea without delay.
Mr. Bumble had been despatched to make various preliminary inquiries, with 
the view of finding out some captain or other who wanted a cabin-boy 
without any friends; and was returning to the workhouse to communicate the 
result of his mission, when he encountered at the gate, no less a person 
than Mr. Sowerberry, the parochial undertaker.
Mr Sowerberry was a tall, gaunt, large-jointed man, attired in a suit of 
threadbare black with darned cotton stockings of the same colour, and shoes 
to answer. His features were not naturally intended to wear a smiling 
aspect, but he was in general rather given to professional jocosity. His 
step was elastic, and his face betokened inward pleasantry, as he advanced 
to Mr. Bumble, and shook him cordially by the hand.
"I have taken the measure of the two women that died last night, Mr. 
Bumble," said the undertaker.
"You'll make your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," said the beadle, as he thrust 
his thumb and forefinger into the proffered snuff-box of the undertaker: 
which was an ingenious little model of a patent coffin. "I say you'll make 
your fortune, Mr. Sowerberry," repeated Mr. Bumble, tapping the undertaker 
on the shoulder, in a friendly manner, with his cane.
"Think so?" said the undertaker, in a tone which half-admitted and half-
disputed the probability of the event. "The prices allowed by the Board are 
very small, Mr. Bumble."
"So are the coffins," replied the beadle, with precisely as near the 
approach to a laugh as a great official ought to indulge in.
Mr. Sowerberry was much tickled at this - as of course he ought to be- and 
laughed a long time without cessation. "Well, well, Mr. Bumble," he said at 
length, "there's no denying that, since the new system of feeding has come 
in, the coffins are something narrower and more shallow than they used to 
be; but we must have some profit, Mr. Bumble. Well-seasoned timber is an 
expensive article, sir; and all the iron handles come, by canal, from 
Birmingham."
"Well, well," said Mr. Bumble, "every trade has its drawbacks. A fair 
profit is, of course, allowable."
"Of course, of course," replied the undertaker; "and if I don't get a 
profit upon this or that particular article, why, I make it up in the long 
run, you see - he! he! he!"
"Just so," said Mr. Bumble.
"Though I must say," continued the undertaker, resuming the current of 
observations which the beadle had interrupted, "though I must say, Mr. 
Bumble, that I have to contend against one very great disadvantage: which 
is, that all the stout people go off the quickest. The people who have been 
better off, and have paid rates for many years, are the first to sink when 
they come into the house; and let me tell you, Mr. Bumble, that three or 
four inches over one's calculation makes a great hole in one's profits: 
especially when one has a family to provide for, sir."
As Mr. Sowerberry said this, with the becoming indignation of an ill - used 
man; and as Mr. Bumble felt that it rather tended to convey a reflection on 
the honour of the parish; the latter gentleman thought it advisable to 
change the subject. Oliver Twist being uppermost in his mind, he made him 
his theme.
"By the bye, said Mr. Bumble, "you don't know anybody who wants a boy, do 
you? A porochial 'prentis, who is at present a dead-weight; a millstone, as 
I may say; round the porochial throat? Liberal terms, Mr. Sowerberry, 
liberal terms!"
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he raised his cane to the bill above him, and gave 
three distinct raps upon the words "five pounds": which were printed 
thereon in Roman capitals of gigantic size.
"Gadso!" said the undertaker, taking Mr. Bumble by the gilt-edged lapel of 
his official coat; "that's just the very thing I wanted to speak to you 
about. You know - dear me, what a very elegant button this is, Mr. Bumble! 
I never noticed it before."
"Yes, I think it is rather pretty," said the beadle, glancing proudly 
downwards at the large brass buttons which embellished his coat. "The die 
is the same as the porochial seal - the Good Samaritan healing the sick, 
and bruised man. The Board presented it to me on New Year s morning, Mr. 
Sowerberry. I put it on, I remember, for the first time, to attend the 
inquest on that reduced tradesman, who died in a doorway at midnight."
"I recollect," said the undertaker. "The jury brought it in, ' Died from 
exposure to the cold, and want of the common necessaries of life, didn't 
they?"
Mr. Bumble nodded.
"And they made it a special verdict, I think," said the undertaker, "by 
adding some words to the effect, that if the relieving officer had -"
"Tush! Foolery!" interposed the beadle. "If the Board attended to all the 
nonsense that ignorant jurymen talk, they'd have enough to do."
"Very true," said the undertaker; "they would indeed."
"Juries," said Mr. Bumble, grasping his cane tightly, as was his wont when 
working into a passion, "juries is ineddicated, vulgar, grovelling 
wretches."
"So they are," said the undertaker.
"They haven't no more philosophy nor political economy about 'em than 
that," said the beadle, snapping his fingers contemptuously.
"No more they have," acquiesced the undertaker.
"I despise 'em," said the beadle, growing very red in the face.
"So do I," rejoined the undertaker.
"And I only wish we'd a jury of the independent sort in the house for a 
week or two," said the beadle; "the rules and regulations of the Board 
would soon bring their spirit down for 'em."
"Let 'em alone for that," replied the undertaker. So saying, he smiled 
approvingly, to calm the rising wrath of the indignant parish officer.
Mr. Bumble lifted off his cocked hat; took a handkerchief from the inside 
of the crown; wiped from his forehead the perspiration which his rage had 
engendered; fixed the cocked hat on again; and, turning to the undertaker, 
said in a calmer voice:
"Well, what about the boy?"
"Oh!" replied the undertaker; "why, you know Mr. Bumble, I pay a good deal 
towards the poor's rates."
"Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, "Well?"
"Well," replied the undertaker, "I was thinking that if I pay so much 
towards 'em, I've a right to get as much out of 'em as I can, Mr. Bumble; 
and so - and so - I think I'll take the boy myself.".
Mr. Bumble grasped the undertaker by the arm, and led him into the 
building. Mr. Sowerberry was closeted with the Board for five minutes; and 
it was arranged that Oliver should go to him that evening "upon liking" - a 
phrase which means, in the case of a parish apprentice, that if the master 
find, upon a short trial, that he can get enough work out of a boy without 
putting too much food into him, he shall have him for a term of years, to 
do what he likes with.
When little Oliver was taken before "the gentlemen" that evening, and 
informed that he was to go, that night, as general house-lad to a coffin-
maker's; and that if he complained of his situation, or ever came back to 
the parish again, he would be sent to sea, there to be drowned or knocked 
on the head, as the case might be, he evinced so little emotion, that they 
by common consent pronounced him a hardened young rascal, and ordered Mr. 
Bumble to remove him forthwith.
Now, although it was very natural that the Board, of all people in the 
world, should feel in a great state of virtuous astonishment and horror at 
the smallest tokens of want of feeling on the part of anybody, they were 
rather out, in this particular instance. The simple fact was, that Oliver, 
instead of possessing too little feeling, possessed rather too much; and 
was in a fair way of being reduced, for life, to a state of brutal 
stupidity and sullenness by the ill - usage he had received. He heard the 
news of his destination, in perfect silence; and, having had his luggage 
put into his hand - which was not very difficult to carry, inasmuch as it 
was all comprised within the limits of a brown-paper parcel, about half a 
foot square by three inches deep - he pulled his cap over his eyes; and 
once more attaching himself to Mr. Bumble's coat cuff, was led away by that 
dignitary to a new scene of suffering.
For some time, Mr. Bumble drew Oliver along, without notice or remark; for 
the beadle carried his head very erect, as a beadle always should: and, it 
being a windy day, little Oliver was completely enshrouded by the skirts of 
Mr. Bumble's coat as they blew open, and disclosed to great advantage his 
flapped waistcoat and drab plush knee-breeches. As they drew near to their 
destination, however, Mr. Bumble thought it expedient to look down, and see 
that the boy was in good order for inspection by his new master; which he 
accordingly did, with a fit and becoming air of gracious patronage.
"Oliver!" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, in a low, tremulous voice.
"Pull that cap off your eyes, and hold up your head, sir."
Although Oliver did as he was desired, at once, and passed the back of his 
unoccupied hand briskly across his eyes, he left a tear in them when he 
looked up at his conductor. As Mr. Bumble gazed sternly upon him, it rolled 
down his cheek. It was followed by another, and another. The child made a 
strong effort, but it was an unsuccessful one. Withdrawing his other hand 
from Mr. Bumble's, he covered his face with both; and wept until the tears 
sprang out from between his chin and bony fingers.
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, stopping short, and darting at his little 
charge a look of intense malignity. "Well! Of all the ungratefullest, and 
worst-disposed boys as ever I see, Oliver, you are the -"
"No, no, sir," sobbed Oliver, clinging to the hand which held the well-
known cane; "no, no, sir; I will be good indeed; indeed, indeed I will, 
sir! I am a very little boy, sir; and it is so - so -"
"So what?" inquired Mr. Bumble in amazement.
"So lonely, sir! So very lonely!" cried the child. "Everybody hates me. Oh! 
sir, don't, don't pray be cross with me!" The child beat his hand upon his 
heart, and looked in his companion's face, with tears of real agony.
Mr. Bumble regarded Oliver's piteous and helpless look, with some 
astonishment, for a few seconds; hemmed three or four times in a husky 
manner; and, after muttering something about "that troublesome cough," bade 
Oliver dry his eyes and be a good boy. Then, once more taking his hand, he 
walked on with him in silence.
The undertaker, who had just put up the shutters of his shop, was making 
some entries in his day-book by the light of a most appropriate dismal 
candle, when Mr. Bumble entered.
"Aha!" said the undertaker, looking up from the book and pausing in the 
middle of a word; "is that you, Bumble?"
"No one else, Mr. Sowerberry," replied the beadle. "Here! I've brought the 
boy." Oliver made a bow.
"Oh! that's the boy, is it?" said the undertaker, raising the candle above 
his head, to get a better view of Oliver. "Mrs. Sowerberry! will you have 
the goodness to come here a moment, my dear?"
Mrs. Sowerberry emerged from a little room behind the shop, and presented 
the form of a short, thin, squeezed-up woman, with a vixenish countenance.
"My dear," said Mr. Sowerberry deferentially, "this is the boy from the 
workhouse that I told you of." Oliver bowed again.
"Dear me!" said the undertaker's wife, "he's very small."
"Why, he is rather small," replied Mr. Bumble, looking at Oliver as if it 
were his fault that he was no bigger; "he is small. There's no denying it. 
But he'll grow, Mrs. Sowerberry - he'll grow."
"Ah! I dare say he will," replied the lady pettishly, "on our victuals and 
our drink. I see no saving in parish children, not I; for they always cost 
more to keep, than they're worth. However, men always think they know best. 
There! Get downstairs, little bag o' bones." With this, the undertaker's 
wife opened a side door, and pushed Oliver down a steep flight of stairs 
into a stone cell, damp and dark, forming the ante-room to the coal-cellar, 
and denominated "kitchen": wherein sat a slatternly girl, in shoes down at 
heel, and blue worsted stockings very much out of repair.
"Here, Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, who had followed Oliver down, 
"give the boy some of the cold bits that were put by for Trip. He hasn't 
come home since the morning, so he may go without 'em. I dare say the boy 
isn't too dainty to eat 'em - are you, boy?"
Oliver, whose eyes had glistened at the mention of meat, and who was 
trembling with eagerness to devour it, replied in the negative; and a 
plateful of coarse broken victuals was set before him.
I wish some well-fed philosopher, whose meat and drink turn to gall within 
him; whose blood is ice, whose heart is iron; could have seen Oliver Twist 
clutching at the dainty viands that the dog had neglected. I wish he could 
have witnessed the horrible avidity with which Oliver tore the bits asunder 
with all the ferocity of famine. There is only one thing I should like 
better, and that would be to see the philosopher making the same sort of 
meal himself, with the same relish.
"Well," said the undertaker's wife, when Oliver had finished his supper, 
which she had regarded in silent horror, and with fearful auguries of his 
future appetite, "have you done?"
There being nothing eatable within his reach, Oliver replied in the 
affirmative.
"Then come with me," said Mrs. Sowerberry, taking up a dim and dirty lamp, 
and leading the way upstairs; "your bed's under the counter. You don't mind 
sleeping among the coffins, I suppose? But it doesn't much matter whether 
you do or don't, for you can't sleep anywhere else. Come; don't keep me 
here all night!"
Oliver lingered no longer, but meekly followed his new mistress.


Chapter 5

Oliver Mingles With New Associates - Going To A Funeral For The First Time, 
He Forms An Unfavourable Notion Of His Master's Business.

Oliver, being left to himself in the undertaker's shop, set the lamp down 
on a workman's bench, and gazed timidly about him with a feeling of awe and 
dread, which many people a good deal older than he will be at no loss to 
understand. An unfinished coffin on black trestles, which stood in the 
middle of the shop, looked so gloomy and death-like that a cold tremble 
came over him, every time his eyes wandered in the direction of the dismal 
object; from which he almost expected to see some frightful form slowly 
rear its head, to drive him mad with terror. Against the wall were ranged, 
in regular array, a long row of elm boards cut into the same shape: looking 
in the dim light, like high-shouldered ghosts with their hands in their 
breeches pockets. Coffin plates, elm chips, bright-headed nails, and shreds 
of black cloth, lay scattered on the floor; and the wall behind the counter 
was ornamented with a lively representation of two mutes in very stiff 
neckcloths, on duty at a large private door, with a hearse drawn by four 
black steeds, approaching in the distance. The shop was close and hot; and 
the atmosphere seemed tainted with the smell of coffins. The recess beneath 
the counter in which his flock mattress was thrust, looked like a grave.
Nor were these the only dismal feelings which depressed Oliver. He was 
alone in a strange place; and we all know how chilled and desolate the best 
of us will sometimes feel in such a situation. The boy had no friends to 
care for, or to care for him. The regret of no recent separation was fresh 
in his mind; the absence of no loved and well-remembered face sank heavily 
into his heart. But his heart was heavy, notwithstanding; and he wished, as 
he crept into his narrow bed, that that were his coffin, and that he could 
be lain in a calm and lasting sleep in the churchyard ground, with the tall 
grass waving gently above his head, and the sound of the old deep bell to 
soothe him in his sleep.
Oliver was awakened in the morning by a loud kicking at the outside of the 
shop door; which, before he could huddle on his clothes, was repeated, in 
an angry and impetuous manner, about twenty-five times. When he began to 
undo the chain, the legs desisted, and a voice began. "Open the door, will 
yer?" cried the voice which belonged to the legs which had kicked at the 
door.
"I will, directly, sir," replied Oliver, undoing the chain and turning the 
key.
"Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.
"How old are yer?' inquired the voice.
"Ten, sir," replied Oliver.
"Then I'll whop yer when I get in," said the voice; "you just see if I 
don't, that's all, my work'us brat!" and having made this obliging promise, 
the voice began to whistle.
Oliver had been too often subjected to the process to which the very 
expressive monosyllable just recorded bears reference, to entertain the 
smallest doubt that the owner of the voice, whoever he might be, would 
redeem his pledge, most honourably. He drew back the bolts with a trembling 
hand, and opened the door.
For a second or two, Oliver glanced up the street, and down the street, and 
over the way, impressed with the belief that the unknown who had addressed 
him through the keyhole, had walked a few paces off, to warm himself; for 
nobody did he see but a big charity-boy, sitting on a post in front of the 
house, eating a slice of bread-and-butter, which he cut into wedges, the 
size of his mouth, with a clasp knife, and then consumed with great 
dexterity.
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver, at length, seeing that no other 
visitor made his appearance; "did you knock?"
"I kicked," replied the charity-boy.
"Did you want a coffin, sir?" inquired Oliver innocently.
At this the charity-boy looked monstrous fierce; and said that Oliver would 
want one before long, if he cut jokes with his superiors in that way.
"Yer don't know who I am, I suppose, Work'us?" said the charity-boy, in 
continuation, descending from the top of the post, meanwhile, with edifying 
gravity.
"No, sir," rejoined Oliver.
"I'm Mister Noah Claypole," said the charity-boy, "and you're under me. 
Take down the shutters, yer idle young ruffian!" With this, Mr. Claypole 
administered a kick to Oliver, and entered the shop with a dignified air, 
which did him great credit. It is difficult for a large-headed, small-eyed 
youth, of lumbering make and heavy countenance, to look dignified under any 
circumstances; but it is more especially so, when superadded to these 
personal attractions are a red nose and yellow smalls.
Oliver, having taken down the shutters, and broken a pane of glass in his 
efforts to stagger away beneath the weight, of the first one, to a small 
court at the side of the house in which they were kept during the day, was 
graciously assisted by Noah, who, having consoled him with the assurance 
that "he'd catch it," condescended to help him. Mr. Sowerberry came down 
soon after. Shortly afterwards, Mrs. Sowerberry appeared; and Oliver having 
"caught it," in fulfilment of Noah's prediction, followed that young 
gentleman down the stairs to breakfast.
"Come near the fire, Noah," said Charlotte. "I saved a nice little bit of 
bacon for you from master's breakfast. Oliver, shut that door at Mister 
Noah's back, and take them bits that I've put out on the cover of the bread-
pan. There's your tea; take it away to that box and drink it there, and 
make haste, for they'll want you to mind the shop. D'ye hear?"
"D'ye hear, Work'us?" said Noah Claypole.
"Lor, Noah!" said Charlotte, "what a rum creature you are! Why don't you 
let the boy alone?"
"Let him alone!" said Noah. "Why everybody lets him alone enough, for the 
matter of that. Neither his father nor his mother will ever interfere with 
him. All his relations let him have his own way pretty well. Eh, Charlotte? 
He! he! he!"
"Oh, you queer soul!" said Charlotte, bursting into a hearty laugh, in 
which she was joined by Noah; after which they both looked scornfully at 
poor Oliver Twist, as he was shivering on the box in the coldest corner of 
the room, and ate the stale pieces which had been specially reserved for 
him.
Noah was a charity-boy, but not a workhouse orphan. No chance - child was 
he, for he could trace his genealogy all the way back to his parents, who 
lived hard by; his mother being a washerwoman, and his father a drunken 
soldier, discharged with a wooden leg and a diurnal pension of twopence-
halfpenny and an unstateable fraction. The shop boys in the neighbourhood 
had long been in the habit of branding Noah, in the public streets, with 
the ignominious epithets of "Leathers," "Charity," and the like; and Noah 
had borne them without reply. But, now that fortune has cast in his way a 
nameless orphan, at whom even the meanest could point the finger of scorn, 
he retorted on him with interest. This affords charming food for 
contemplation. It shows us what a beautiful thing human nature may be made 
to be; and how impartially the same amiable qualities are developed in the 
finest lord and the dirtiest charity-boy.
Oliver had been sojourning at the undertaker's some three weeks or a month. 
Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry - the shop being shut up - were taking their supper 
in the little back parlour, when Mr. Sowerberry, after several deferential 
glances at his wife, said: "My dear -" He was going to say more; but, Mrs. 
Sowerberry looking up, with a peculiarly unpropitious aspect, he stopped 
short.
"Well," said Mrs. Sowerberry sharply.
"Nothing, my dear, nothing," said Mr Sowerberry.
"Ugh, you brute!" said Mrs. Sowerberry.
"Not at all, my dear," said Mr. Sowerberry humbly. "I thought you didn't 
want to hear, my dear. I was only going to say -"
"Oh, don't tell me what you were going to say," interposed Mrs. Sowerberry. 
"I am nobody; don't consult me, pray. I don't want to intrude upon your 
secrets." As Mrs. Sowerberry said this, she gave an hysterical laugh, which 
threatened violent consequences.
"But, my dear," said Mr. Sowerberry, "I want to ask your advice.'!
"No, no, don't ask mine," replied Mrs. Sowerberry, in an affecting manner; 
"ask somebody else's." Here, there was another hysterical laugh, which 
frightened Mr. Sowerberry very much. This is a very common and much-
approved matrimonial course of treatment, which is often very effective. It 
at once reduced Mr. Sowerberry to begging, as a special favour, to be 
allowed to say what Mrs. Sowerberry was most curious to hear. After a short 
altercation of less than three-quarters of an hour's duration, the 
permission was most graciously conceded.
"It's only about young Twist, my dear," said Mr. Sowerberry. "A very good-
looking boy, that, my dear."
"He need be, for he eats enough," observed the lady.
"There's an expression of melancholy in his face, my dear," resumed Mr. 
Sowerberry, "which is very interesting. He would make a delightful mute, my 
love."
Mrs. Sowerberry looked up with an expression of considerable wonderment. 
Mr. Sowerberry remarked it; and without allowing time for any observation 
on the good lady's part, proceeded.
"I don't mean a regular mute to attend grown-up people, my dear, but only 
for children's practice. It would be very new to have a mute in proportion, 
my dear. You may depend upon it, it would have a superb effect."
Mrs. Sowerberry, who had a good deal of taste in the undertaking way, was 
much struck by the novelty of this idea; but, as it would have been 
compromising her dignity to have said so, under existing circumstances, she 
merely inquired, with much sharpness, why such an obvious suggestion had 
not presented itself to her husband's mind before? Mr. Sowerberry rightly 
construed this, as an acquiescence in his proposition; it was speedily 
determined, therefore, that Oliver should be at once initiated into the 
mysteries of the trade; and, with this view, that he should accompany his 
master on the very next occasion of his services being required.
The occasion was not long in coming. Half an hour after breakfast next 
morning, Mr. Bumble entered the shop; and supporting his cane against the 
counter, drew forth his large leathern pocket-book: from which he selected 
a small scrap of paper, which he handed over to Sowerberry.
"Aha!" said the undertaker, glancing over it with a lively countenance; "an 
order for a coffin, eh?"
"For a coffin first, and a porochial funeral afterwards," replied Mr. 
Bumble, fastening the strap of the leathern pocketbook: which, like 
himself, was very corpulent.
"Bayton," said the undertaker, looking from the scrap of paper to Mr. 
Bumble. "I never heard the name before."
Bumble shook his head, as he replied, "Obstinate people, Mr. Sowerberry; 
very obstinate. Proud, too, I'm afraid, sir."
"Proud, eh?" exclaimed Mr. Sowerberry, with a sneer. "Come, that's too 
much."
"Oh, it's sickening," replied the beadle. "Antimonial, Mr. Sowerberry!"
"So it is," acquiesced the undertaker.
"We only heard of the family the night before last," said the beadle; "and 
we shouldn't have known anything about them, then, only a woman who lodges 
in the same house made an application to the porochial committee for them 
to send the porochial surgeon to see a woman as was very bad. He had gone 
out to dinner; but his 'prentice (which is a very clever lad) sent 'em some 
medicine in a blacking-bottle, offhand."
"Ah, there's promptness," said the undertaker.
"Promptness, indeed!" replied the beadle. "But what's the consequence; 
what's the ungrateful behaviour of these rebels, sir? Why, the husband 
sends back word that the medicine won't suit his wife's complaint, and so 
she shan't take it - says she shan't take it, sir! Good, strong, wholesome 
medicine, as was given with great success to two Irish labourers and a coal-
heaver, only a week before - sent 'em for nothing, with a blackin'-bottle 
in- and he sends back word that she shan't take it, sir!"
As the atrocity presented itself to Mr. Bumble's mind in full force, he 
struck the counter sharply with his cane, and became flushed with 
indignation.
"Well," said the undertaker, "I ne - ver - did -"
"Never did, sir!" ejaculated the beadle. "No, nor anybody never did; but, 
now she's dead, we've got to bury her; and that's the direction; and the 
sooner it's done, the better."
Thus saying, Mr. Bumble put on his cocked hat wrong side first, in a fever 
of parochial excitement; and flounced out of the shop.
"Why, he was so angry, Oliver, that he forgot even to ask after you!" said 
Mr. Sowerberry, looking after the beadle as he strode down the street.
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver, who had carefully kept himself out of sight, 
during the interview; and who was shaking from head to foot at the mere 
recollection of the sound of Mr. Bumble's voice. He needn't have taken the 
trouble to shrink from Mr. Bumble's glance, however; for that functionary, 
on whom the prediction of the gentleman in the white waistcoat had made a 
very strong impression, thought that now the undertaker had got Oliver upon 
trial, the subject was better avoided, until such time as he should be 
firmly bound for seven years, and all danger of his being returned upon the 
hands of the parish should be thus effectually and legally overcome.
"Well," said Mr. Sowerberry, taking up his hat, "the sooner this job is 
done, the better. Noah, look after the shop. Oliver, put on your cap, and 
come with me."
Oliver obeyed, and followed his master on his professional mission.
They walked on, for some time, through the most crowded and densely 
inhabited part of the town; and then, striking down a narrow street more 
dirty and miserable than any they had yet passed through, paused to look 
for the house which was the object of their search. The houses on either 
side were high and large, but very old, and tenanted by people of the 
poorest class: as their neglected appearance would have sufficiently 
denoted, without the concurrent testimony afforded by the squalid looks of 
the few men and women who, with folded arms and bodies half-doubled, 
occasionally skulked along. A great many of the tenements had shop-fronts; 
but these were fast closed, and mouldering away; only the upper rooms being 
inhabited. Some houses which had become insecure from age and decay, were 
prevented from falling into the street by huge beams of wood reared against 
the walls, and firmly planted in the road; but even these crazy dens seemed 
to have been selected as the nightly haunts of some houseless wretches, for 
many of the rough boards, which supplied the place of door and window, were 
wrenched from their positions, to afford an aperture wide enough for the 
passage of a human body. The kennel was stagnant and filthy. The very rats, 
which here and there lay putrefying in its rottenness, were hideous with 
famine.
There was neither knocker nor bell-handle at the open door where Oliver and 
his master stopped; so, groping his way cautiously through the dark 
passage, and bidding Oliver keep close to him and not be afraid, the 
undertaker mounted to the top of the first flight of stairs. Stumbling 
against a door on the landing, he rapped at it with his knuckles.
It was opened by a young girl of thirteen or fourteen. The undertaker at 
once saw enough of what the room contained, to know it was the apartment to 
which he had been directed. He stepped in; Oliver followed him.
There was no fire in the room; but a man was crouching mechanically over 
the empty stove. An old woman, too, had drawn a low stool to the cold 
hearth, and was sitting beside him. There were some ragged children in 
another corner; and in a small recess, opposite the door, there lay upon 
the ground, something covered with an old blanket. Oliver shuddered as he 
cast his eyes towards the place, and crept involuntary closer to his 
master; for though it was covered up, the boy felt that it was a corpse.
The man's face was thin and very pale; his hair and beard were grizzly; his 
eyes were bloodshot. The old woman's face was wrinkled; her two remaining 
teeth protruded over her under lip; and her eyes were bright and piercing. 
Oliver was afraid to look at either her or the man. They seemed so like the 
rats he had seen outside.
"Nobody shall go near her," said the man, starting fiercely up, as the 
undertaker approached the recess. "Keep back! Damn you, keep back, if 
you've a life to lose!"
"Nonsense, my good man," said the undertaker, who was pretty well used to 
misery in all its shapes. "Nonsense!"
"I tell you," said the man, clenching his hands, and stamping furiously on 
the floor - "I tell you I won't have her put into the ground. She couldn't 
rest there. The worms would worry her - not eat her - she is so worn away."
The undertaker offered no reply to this raving; but, producing a tape from 
his pocket, knelt down for a moment by the side of the body.
"Ah!" said the man, bursting into tears, and sinking on his knees at the 
feet of the dead woman; "kneel down, kneel down - kneel round her, every 
one of you, and mark my words! I say she was starved to death. I never knew 
how bad she was, till the fever came upon her; and then her bones were 
starting through the skin. There was neither fire nor candle; she died in 
the dark - in the dark! She couldn't even see her children's faces, though 
we heard her gasping out their names. I begged for her in the streets; and 
they sent me to prison. When I came back, she was dying; and all the blood 
in my heart has dried up, for they starved her to death. I swear it before 
the God that saw it! They starved her!" He twined his hands in his hair; 
and, with a loud scream, rolled grovelling upon the floor, his eyes fixed 
and the foam covering his lips.
The terrified children cried bitterly; but the old woman, who had hitherto 
remained as quiet as if she had been wholly deaf to all that passed, 
menaced them into silence. Having unloosed the cravat of the man who still 
remained extended on the ground, she tottered towards the undertaker.
"She was my daughter," said the old woman, nodding her head in the 
direction of the corpse; and speaking with an idiotic leer, more ghastly 
than even the presence of death in such a place. "Lord, Lord! Well, it is 
strange that I who gave birth to her, and was a woman then, should be alive 
and merry now, and she lying there, so cold and stiff! Lord, Lord! - to 
think of it; it's as good as a play - as good as a play!"
As the wretched creature mumbled and chuckled in her hideous merriment, the 
undertaker turned to go away.
"Stop, stop!" said the old woman, in a loud whisper. "Will she be buried 
tomorrow, or next day, or tonight? I laid her out; and I must walk, you 
know. Send me a large cloak - a good warm one; for it is bitter cold. We 
should have cake and wine, too, before we go! Never mind; send some bread - 
only a loaf of bread and a cup of water. Shall we have some bread, dear?" 
she said eagerly, catching at the undertaker's coat, as he once more moved 
towards the door.
"Yes, yes," said the undertaker, "of course. Anything you like!" he 
disengaged himself from the old woman's grasp; and, drawing Oliver after 
him, hurried away.
The next day (the family having been meanwhile relieved with a half-
quartern loaf and a piece of cheese, left with them by Mr. Bumble himself), 
Oliver and his master returned to the miserable abode; where Mr. Bumble had 
already arrived, accompanied by four men from the workhouse, who were to 
act as bearers. An old black cloak had been thrown over the rags of the old 
woman and the man; and the bare coffin having been screwed down, was 
hoisted on the shoulders of the bearers, and carried into the street.
"Now, you must put your best leg foremost, old lady!" whispered Sowerberry 
in the old woman's ear; "we are rather late, and it won't do to keep the 
clergyman waiting. Move on, my men - as quick as you like!"
Thus directed, the bearers trotted on under their light burden; and the two 
mourners kept as near them as they could. Mr. Bumble and Sowerberry walked 
at a good smart pace in front; and Oliver, whose legs were not so long as 
his master's, ran by the side.
There was not so great a necessity for hurrying as Mr. Sowerberry had 
anticipated, however; for when they reached the obscure corner of the 
churchyard in which the nettles grew, and where the parish graves were 
made, the clergyman had not arrived; and the clerk, who was sitting by the 
vestry-room fire, seemed to think it by no means improbable that it might 
be an hour or so before he came. So, they put the bier on the brink of the 
grave; and the two mourners waited patiently in the damp clay, with a cold 
rain drizzling down, while the ragged boys whom the spectacle had attracted 
into the churchyard played a noisy game at hide-and-seek among the 
tombstones, or varied their amusements by jumping backwards and forwards 
over the coffin. Mr. Sowerberry and Bumble, being personal friends of the 
clerk, sat by the fire with him, and read the paper.
At length, after a lapse of something more than an hour, Mr. Bumble, and 
Sowerberry, and the clerk, were seen running towards the grave. Immediately 
afterwards, the clergyman appeared, putting on his surplice as he came 
along. Mr. Bumble then thrashed a boy or two, to keep up appearances; and 
the reverend gentleman, having read as much of the burial service as could 
be compressed into four minutes, gave his surplice to the clerk, and walked 
away again.
"Now, Bill!" said Sowerberry to the grave-digger, "fill up!"
It was no very difficult task; for the grave was so full, that the 
uppermost coffin was within a few feet of the surface. The grave-digger 
shovelled in the earth; stamped it loosely down with his feet; shouldered 
his spade; and walked off, followed by the boys, who murmured very loud 
complaints at the fun being over so soon.
"Come, my good fellow!" said Bumble, tapping the man on the back, "they 
want to shut up the yard."
The man who had never once moved, since he had taken his station by the 
grave-side, started, raised his head, stared at the person who had 
addressed him, walked forward a few paces, and fell down in a swoon. The 
crazy old woman was too much occupied in bewailing the loss of her cloak 
(which the undertaker had taken off), to pay him any attention; so they 
threw a can of cold water over him; and when he came to, saw him safely out 
of the churchyard, locked the gate, and departed on their different ways.
"Well, Oliver," said Sowerberry, as they walked home, "how do you like it?"
"Pretty well, thank you, sir," replied Oliver, with considerable 
hesitation. "Not very much, sir."
"Ah, you'll get used to it in time, Oliver," said Sowerberry. "Nothing when 
you are used to it, my boy."
Oliver wondered, in his own mind, whether it had taken a very long time to 
get Mr. Sowerberry used to it. But he thought it better not to ask the 
question; and walked back to the shop, thinking over all he had seen and 
heard.


Chapter 6

Oliver, Being Goaded By The Taunts Of Noah, Rouses Into Action, And Rather 
Astonishes Him.

The month's trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice 
sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were looking 
up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great deal of 
experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry's ingenious speculation exceeded 
even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected no period 
at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant existence; 
and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver headed, in a hat-
band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable admiration and 
emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver accompanied his master in 
most of his adult expeditions, too, in order that he might acquire that 
equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve which are essential to a 
finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of observing the beautiful 
resignation and fortitude with which some strong-minded people bear their 
trials and losses.
For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old 
lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and 
nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness, 
and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public 
occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be - quite 
cheerful and contented - conversing together with as much freedom and 
gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands, too, 
bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives, again, 
put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the garb of 
sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and 
attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen 
who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of internment, 
recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed 
before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving 
to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good 
people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with 
any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many 
months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill - treatment 
of Noah Claypole, who used him far worse than before, now that his jealousy 
was routed by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and hat ill - 
band, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and 
leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry 
was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his 
friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the 
other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was, when 
he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver's history; for I have 
to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but which 
indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects and 
proceedings.
One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual dinner 
hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton - a pound and a half of the 
worst end of the neck - when Charlotte being called out of the way, there 
ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being hungry and 
vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier purpose than 
aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the tablecloth; 
and pulled Oliver's hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion 
that he was a "sneak"; and furthermore announced his intention of coming to 
see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and 
entered upon various other topics of petty annoyance like a malicious and 
ill - conditioned charity-boy he was. But, none of these taunts producing 
the desired effect of making Oliver cry, Noah attempted to be more 
facetious still; and in this attempt, did what many small wits, with far 
greater reputations than Noah, sometimes do to this day, when they want to 
be funny he got rather personal.
"Work'us," said Noah, "how's your mother?"
"She's dead," replied Oliver; "don't you say anything about her to me!"
Oliver's colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a 
curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must 
be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this 
impression he returned to the charge.
"What did she die of, Work'us?" said Noah.
"of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me," replied Oliver, more 
as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. "I think I know what 
it must be to die of that!"
"Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work'us," said Noah, as a tear rolled 
down Oliver's cheek. "What's set you a-snivelling now?"
"Not you," replied Oliver, hastily brushing the tear away. "Don't think 
it."
"Oh, not me, eh!" sneered Noah.
"No, not you," replied Oliver sharply. "There; that's enough. Don't say 
anything more to me about her; you'd better not!"
"Better not!" exclaimed Noah. "Well! Better not! Work'us, don't be 
impudent. Your mother, too! She was a nice 'un she was. Oh, Lor!" And here, 
Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his small red 
nose as muscular action could collect together, for the occasion.
"Yer know, Work'us," continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver's silence, and 
speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity - of all tones the most 
annoying, "Yer know, Work'us, it can't be helped now; and of course yer 
couldn't help it then; and I'm very sorry for it; and I'm sure we all are, 
and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work'us, yer mother was a 
regular right-down bad 'un."
"What did you say?" inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
"A regular right-down bad 'un, Work'us," replied Noah coolly. "And it's a 
great deal better, Work'us, that she died when she did, or else she'd have 
been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more 
likely than either, isn't it?"
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 to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast heaved; his 
attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person changed, as 
he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay crouching at his 
feet; and defied him 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! Charlotte!"
Noah's shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a 
louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by 
a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite 
certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to come 
farther down.
"Oh, you little wretch!" screamed Charlotte, seizing Oliver with her utmost 
force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in 
particularly good training. "Oh, you little ungrateful, mur-de-rous, 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 favourable 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 
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.
"Bless her, she's going off!" said Charlotte. "A glass of water, Noah, 
dear. Make haste!"
"Oh! Charlotte," said Mrs. Sowerberry, speaking as well as she could, 
through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which Noah 
had poured over her head and shoulders. "Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy we 
have not all been murdered in our beds!"
"Ah! mercy indeed, ma'am," was the reply. "I only hope this'll teach master 
not to have any more of these dreadful creaturs, that are born to be 
murderers and robbers from their very cradle; Poor Noah! He was all but 
killed, ma'am, when I come in.
"Poor fellow!" said Mrs. Sowerberry, looking piteously on the charity-boy.
Noah, whose top waistcoat button might have been somewhere on a level with 
the crown of Oliver's head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists 
while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some 
affecting tears and sniffs.
"What's to be done!" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. "Your master's not at home; 
there's not a man in the house, and he'll kick that door down in ten 
minutes." Oliver's vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question, 
rendered this occurrence highly probable.
"Dear, dear! I don't know, ma'am," said Charlotte, "unless we send for the 
police-officers."
"Or the millingtary," suggested Mr. Claypole.
"No, no," said Mrs. Sowerberry, bethinking herself of Oliver's old friend. 
"Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to 
lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to 
that black eye, as you run along. It'll keep the swelling down."
Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and 
very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a charity-
boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his head, and a 
clasp-knife at his eye.


Chapter 7

Oliver Continues Refractory.

Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not 
once for breath, until he reached the workhouse gate. Having rested here, 
for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show of 
tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a 
rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw nothing 
but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in 
astonishment.
"Why, what's the matter with the boy!" said the old pauper.
"Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!" cried Noah, with well-affected dismay, and in 
tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr. Bumble 
himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that he rushed 
into the yard without his cocked hat - which is a very curious and 
remarkable circumstance, as showing that even a beadle, acted upon by a 
sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary visitation 
of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal dignity.
"Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!" said Noah; "Oliver, sir - Oliver has -
"What? What?" interposed Mr. Bumble, with a gleam of pleasure in his 
metallic eyes. "Not run away; he hasn't run away, has he, Noah?"
"No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he's turned wicious," replied Noah. 
"He tried to murder me, sir; and then he tried to murder Charlotte; and 
then missis'. Oh! what dreadful pain it is! Such agony, please, sir!" And 
here, Noah writhed and twisted his body into an extensive variety of eel-
like positions; thereby giving Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the 
violent and sanguinary onset of Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe 
internal injury and damage, from which he was at that moment suffering the 
acutest torture.
When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed Mr. 
Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his dreadful 
wound ten times louder than before; and, when he observed a gentleman in a 
white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in his lamentations 
than ever; rightly conceiving it highly expedient to attract the notice, 
and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
The gentleman's notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked three 
paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young cur was 
howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something which 
would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated an 
involuntary process.
"It's a poor boy from the free-school, sir," replied Mr. Bumble, "who has 
been nearly murdered - all but murdered, sir - by young Twist."
"By Jove!" exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short. 
"I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that 
audacious young savage would come to be hung!"
"He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant," said Mr. 
Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
"And his missis," interposed Mr. Claypole.
"And his master, too, I think you say, Noah?" added Mr. Bumble.
"No! he's out, or he would have murdered him," replied Noah. "He said he 
wanted to."
"Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?" inquired the gentleman in the 
white waistcoat.
"Yes, sir," replied Noah. "And please, sir, missis wants to know whether 
Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him - 'cause 
master's out."
"Certainly, my boy; certainly," said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, 
smiling benignly, and patting Noah's head, which was about three inches 
higher than his own. "You're a good boy - a very good boy. Here's a penny 
for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry's with your cane, and see 
what's best to be done. Don't spare him, Bumble."
"No, I will not, sir," replied the beadle, adjusting the wax-end which was 
twisted round the bottom of his cane. for purposes of parochial 
flagellation. 
"Tell Sowerberry not to spare him either. They'll never do anything with 
him, without stripes and bruises," said the gentleman in the white 
waistcoat.
"I'll take care, sir," replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane 
having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner's satisfaction, Mr. 
Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the 
undertaker's shop.
Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not 
yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at 
the cellar door. The accounts of his ferocity, as related by Mr. Sowerberry 
and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble judged it 
prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he gave a kick 
at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his mouth to the 
keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:
"Oliver!"
"Come; you let me out!" replied Oliver, from the inside.
"Do you know this here voice, Oliver?" said Mr. Bumble.
"Yes," replied Oliver.
"Ain't you afraid of it, sir? Ain't you a-trembling while speak, sir?" said 
Mr. Bumble.
"No!" replied Oliver boldly.
An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in 
the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back 
from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one 
to another of the three by-standers, in mute astonishment.
"Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad," said Mrs. Sowerberry. "No boy 
in half his sense could venture to speak so to you."
"It's not madness, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep 
meditation. "It's meat."
"What?" exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
"Meat, ma'am, meat," replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. "You've overfed 
him, ma'am. You've raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma'am, 
unbecoming a person of his condition, as the Board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who 
are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with 
soul or spirit? It's quite enough that we let 'em have live bodies. If you 
had kept the boy on gruel, ma'am, this would never have happened"
"Dear, dear!" ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the 
kitchen ceiling, "this comes of being liberal!"
The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver had consisted in a profuse 
bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would 
eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her 
voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble's heavy accusation; of which, to do 
her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
"Ah!" said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again; 
"the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in 
the cellar for a day or so, till he's a little starved down; and then to 
take him out, and to keep him on gruel all through his apprenticeship. He 
comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse 
and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against 
difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman, weeks 
before."
At this point of Mr. Bumble's discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to 
know that some new allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced 
kicking, with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. 
Sowerberry returned at this juncture. Oliver's offence having been 
explained to him, with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best 
calculated to rouse his ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, 
and dragged his rebellious apprentice out, by the collar. Oliver's clothes 
had been torn in the beating he had received; his face was bruised and 
scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The angry flush had 
not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of his prison, he 
scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
"Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain't you?" said Sowerberry, giving 
Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
"He called my mother names," replied Oliver.
"Well, and what if he did, you little, ungrateful wretch?" said Mrs. 
Sowerberry. "She deserved what he said, and worse."
"She didn't," said Oliver.
"She did," said Mrs. Sowerberry.
"It's a lie!" said Oliver.
Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had hesitated 
for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite clear to 
every experienced reader that he would have been, according to all 
precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural 
husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various 
other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of 
this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went - it was 
not very extensive - kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps, because it 
was his interest to do so; perhaps, because his wife disliked him. The 
flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave him a 
drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered Mr. 
Bumble's subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather unnecessary. 
For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen, in company 
with a pump and a slice of bread; and, at night, Mrs. Sowerberry, after 
making various remarks outside the door, by no means complimentary to the 
memory of his mother, looked into the room, and, amidst the jeers and 
pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs to his dismal bed.
It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the 
gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings 
which the day's treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a mere 
child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he had 
borne the lash without a cry, for he felt that pride swelling in his heart 
which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had roasted 
him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he fell upon 
his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept such tears 
as - God send for the credit of our nature - few so young may ever have 
cause to pour out before Him!
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 
curiously 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 reclosed the door. Having 
availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a 
handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down 
upon a bench, to wait for morning.
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, after some distance, led out again into the road, struck 
into it, and walked quickly on.
Along the same footpath, Oliver well remembered he had trotted beside Mr. 
Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way 
lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he 
bethought himself of this; and he half-resolved to turn back. He had come a 
long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so. Besides, 
it was so early that there was very little fear of his being seen; so he 
walked on.
He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at 
that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was 
weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and 
disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad to 
see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been his 
little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and shut up 
together, many and many a time.
"Hush, Dick!" said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin 
arm between the rails to greet him. "Is any one up?"
"Nobody but me," replied the child.
"You mustn't say you saw me, Dick," said Oliver. "I am running away. They 
beat and ill - use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long 
way off. I don't know where. How pale you are!"
"I heard the doctor tell them I was dying," replied the child, with a faint 
smile. "I am very glad to see you, dear; but don't stop, don't stop!"
"Yes, yes, I will, to say good-bye to you," replied Oliver. "I shall see 
you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!"
"I hope so," replied the child. "After I am dead, but not before. I know 
the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of heaven, and 
angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me," said the 
child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round 
Oliver's neck. "Good-bye, dear! God bless you!"
The blessing was from a young child's lips, but it was the first that 
Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and 
sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once 
forgot it.



Chapter 8

Oliver Walks To London - He Encounters On The Road A Strange Sort Of Young 
Gentleman.

Oliver reached the stile, at which the by-path terminated; and once more 
gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five 
miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till 
noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to 
rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, 
where he had better go and try to live.
The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation 
that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened 
a new train of ideas in the boy's mind. London! - that great large place! - 
nobody - not even Mr. Bumble - could ever find him there! He had often 
heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need 
want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which 
those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very 
place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one 
helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his 
feet, and again walked forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four 
miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could 
hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself 
upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of 
getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of 
stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too - a gift of Sowerberry's after 
some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well - 
in his pocket. "A clean shirt," thought Oliver, "is a very comfortable 
thing, very; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; 
but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk in wintertime." But 
Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were 
extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a 
loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good 
deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle 
over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but 
the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the 
cottage doors by the roadside. When the night came, he turned into a 
meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till 
morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the 
empty fields; and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever 
felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep 
and forgot his troubles.
He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he 
was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first 
village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, 
when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that 
they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak, damp air, 
made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning, he could 
hardly crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and 
then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any 
notice of him; and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of 
the hill and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor 
Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do 
it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsiders saw this, 
they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he 
was an idle young dog, and didn't deserve anything; and the coach rattled 
away and left only a cloud of dust behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up warning all persons 
who begged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This 
frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages 
with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-
yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed, a proceeding which 
generally terminated in the landlady's ordering one of the post-boys who 
were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she 
was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer's house, 
ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed 
his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle - which brought Oliver's 
heart into his mouth - very often the only thing he had there, for many 
hours together.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man and a 
benevolent old lady, Oliver's troubles would have been shortened by the 
very same process which had put an end to his mother's; in other words, he 
would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king's pathway. But the 
turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the 'old lady, who 
had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the 
earth, took pity upon the poor orphan and gave him what little she could 
afford - and more - with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of 
sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver's soul, than all 
the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Early on the seventh morning, after he had left his native place, Oliver 
limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window shutters were 
closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of 
the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only 
served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat with 
bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a doorstep.
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, wondering at the great 
number of public houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or 
small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed trough, and 
thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few 
hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination 
beyond his years to accomplish, 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:
"Hollo, my covey! What's the row?"
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own 
age; but one of the queerest-looking boys that Oliver had ever seen. He was 
a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile 
as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of 
a man. He was short for his age; with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, 
ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it 
threatened to fall off every moment- and would have done so, very often, if 
the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then ,giving his head a 
sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. 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 roystering and 
swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something 
less, in his bluchers.
"Hollo, 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."
"Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's 
order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I suppose 
you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on."
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by 
the term in question.
"My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a 
madgst'rate; and when you walk by beak's order, it's not straight forerd, 
but always a-going up, and nivir a-coming down agin. Was you never on the 
mill?"
"What mill?" inquired Oliver.
"What mill! Why, the mill - the mill as takes up so little room that it'll 
work inside a stone jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with 
people, than when it's high; a-cos then they can't get workmen. But come," 
said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-
water mark myself - only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll 
fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! Morrice!"
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent 
chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and 
a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran;" 
the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious 
expedience of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the 
crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young 
gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room 
in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by 
direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new 
friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during 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?" inquired Oliver.
"Yes. I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some 
place to sleep in tonight, don't you?"
"I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I 
left the country."
"Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've 
got to be in London tonight; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives 
there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change- 
that is, if any gentleman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? 
Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" The young gentleman 
smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were 
playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; 
especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the old 
gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable 
place, without loss of time This led to a more friendly and confidential 
dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack 
Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly 
gentleman before mentioned.
Mr. Dawkins' appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts 
which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his 
protection; but, as he had a rather flighty and dissolute mode of 
conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was 
better known by the sobriquet of "The Artful Dodger," Oliver concluded 
that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precept of his 
benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, 
he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as 
quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more 
than half-suspected he should, to decline the honour of his further 
acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was 
nearly seven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They 
crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street 
which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and 
Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the 
classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into 
Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great, along which the 
Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his 
heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his 
leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of 
the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never 
seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated 
with filthy odours. There were a good many small shops; but the only stock 
in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, 
were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The 
sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, 
were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were 
wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, where here and there 
diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where 
drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several 
of the doorways, great ill - looking fellows were cautiously emerging, 
bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they 
reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, 
pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and, drawing him into the 
passage, closed it behind them.
"Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the 
Dodger.
"Plummy and slam!" was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the 
light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the 
passage; and a man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old 
kitchen staircase had been broken away.
"There's two on you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and 
shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?"
"A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
"Where did he come from?"
"Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?"
"Yes, he's a-sortin' the wipes. Up with you!" The candle was drawn back, 
and the face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped 
by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs; 
which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed that he 
was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door of a back room, and 
drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black, with age and dirt. 
There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in 
a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a 
plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the 
mantel-shelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over 
them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old, shrivelled Jew, 
whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of 
matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat 
bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and 
the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were 
hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on 
the floor. Seated round 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. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a 
few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did 
the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
"This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend, Oliver Twist."
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the 
hand, and hoped he should have the honour 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 his pockets, in order 
that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, 
himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would probably have been 
extended much further, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew's toasting-
fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered 
them.
"We are very glad to see you, Oliver - very," said the Jew. "Dodger, take 
off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you're a-
staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear! There are a good many of 
'em, ain't there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash; that's 
all, Oliver; that's all. Ha! ha! ha!"
The latter part of this speech was hailed by a boisterous shout from all 
the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which, they 
went to supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin-and-
water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman 
wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he 
felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sank into a 
deep sleep.

Chapter 9

Containing Further Particulars Concerning The Pleasant Old Gentleman, And 
His Hopeful Pupils.

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


Chapter 10
Oliver Becomes Better Acquainted With The Characters Of His New Associates; 
And Purchases Experience At A High Price - Being A Short But Very Important 
Chapter In This History

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



Chapter 11

Treats Of Mr. Fang The Police Magistrate; And Furnishes A Slight Specimen 
Of His Mode Of Administering Justice.

The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the 
immediate neighbourhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police-office. 
The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or 
three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath 
a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary 
justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; 
and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, 
and a bunch of keys in his hand.
"What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly.
"A young fogle-hunter," replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
"Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the 
keys.
"Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy 
actually took the handkerchief. I - I would rather not press the case."
"Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His Worship 
will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!"
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked 
as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and 
nothing being found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so 
light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had 
been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, 
since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and 
women are every night confined on the most trivial charges - the word is 
worth noting - in dungeons, compared with which those in Newgate, occupied 
by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of 
death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in 
the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book which had been the innocent 
cause of all this disturbance.
"There is something in that boy's face," said the old gentleman to himself 
as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a 
thoughtful manner; "something that touches and interests me. Can he be 
innocent? He looked like - By the bye," exclaimed the old gentleman, 
halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky. "Bless my soul! where 
have I seen something like that look before?"
After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same 
meditative face, into a back ante-room opening from the yard; and there, 
retiring into a corner, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre 
of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. "No," said the 
old gentleman, shaking his head; "it must be imagination."
He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not 
easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the 
faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers 
peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and
∑ blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave 
had changed and closed upon, but which the mind superior to its power, 
still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of 
the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its 
mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be 
heightened, and taken from earth only to be sent up as a light, to shed a 
soft and gentle glow upon the path to heaven.
But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's 
features bore a trace. So he heaved a sigh over the recollections he had 
awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried 
them again in the pages of the musty book.
He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with 
the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was 
at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a 
bar, at the upper end; and on one side of the door was a sort of wooden pen 
in which poor little Oliver was already deposited, trembling very much at 
the awfulness of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no 
great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of 
his head. His face was stern and much flushed. If he were really not in the 
habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have 
brought an action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered 
heavy damages.
The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate's 
desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, 
sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and 
gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.
Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading 
article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of 
his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the 
special, and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home 
Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
"Who are you?" said Mr. Fang.
The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with - the 
newspaper. "Who is this fellow?"
"My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, "my 
name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who 
offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under 
the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the 
office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required 
information.
"Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this 
fellow charged with?"
"He's not charged at all, your Worship," replied the officer. "He appears 
against the boy, your Worship."
His Worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a 
safe one.
"Appears against the boy, does he?" said Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow 
contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!"
"Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and 
that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have 
believed -"
"Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang peremptorily.
"I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman.
"Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" 
said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent, impertinent fellow. How dare you bully 
a magistrate!"
"What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
"Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. 
Swear him."
Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that 
he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his 
feelings and submitted to be sworn at once
"Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to 
say, sir?"
"I was standing at a bookstall -" Mr. Brownlow began.
"Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? 
Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?"
The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge; 
how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how that 
was all he knew about it.
"Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang.
"None, your Worship," replied the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the 
prosecutor, said in a towering passion:
"Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, or do you 
not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give 
evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by -"
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailer coughed very 
loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon 
the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard - accidentally, of 
course.
With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to 
state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run 
after the boy because he saw him running away; and expressing his hope 
that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the 
thief, to be connected with thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as 
justice would allow.
"He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman in conclusion. "And I 
fear," he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, "I really fear 
that he is ill."
"Oh! yes, I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come, none of your 
tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?"
Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and 
the whole place seemed turning round and round.
"What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" demanded Mr. Fang. "Officer, 
what's his name?"
This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was 
standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but 
finding him really incapable of understanding the question, and knowing 
that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add 
to the severity of his sentence, he hazarded a guess.
"He says his name's Tom White, your Worship," said the kind-hearted thief-
taker.
"Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?" said Fang. "Very well, very well. Where 
does he live?"
"Where he can, your Worship," replied the officer, again pretending to 
receive Oliver's answer.
"Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang.
"He says they died in his infancy, your Worship," hazarding the usual 
reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round 
with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me."
"I think he really is ill, your Worship," remonstrated the officer.
"I know better," said Mr. Fang.
"Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands 
instinctively; "he'll fall down."
"Stand away, officer," cried Fang; "let him, if he likes."
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a 
fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared 
to stir.
"I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of 
the fact. "Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that."
"How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?" inquired the clerk, in a 
low voice
"Summarily," replied Mr. Fang. "He stands committed for three months - hard 
labour, of course. Clear the office."
The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to 
carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man of decent but 
poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the 
office, and advanced towards the bench.
"Stop, stop! Don't take him away! For Heaven's sake stop a moment!" cried 
the newcomer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary 
and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, 
almost the lives, of her Majesty's subjects, especially of the poorer 
class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily 
played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are closed to the 
public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was 
consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such 
irreverent disorder.
"What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!" cried Mr. 
Fang.
"I will speak," cried the man; "I will not be turned out. I saw it all. I 
keep the bookstall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, 
you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir."
The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing 
rather too serious to be hushed up.
"Swear the man," growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. "Now, man, what 
have you got to say?"
"This," said the man; "I saw three boys - two others and the prisoner here -
 loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was 
reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw 
that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupefied by it." Having by this 
time recovered a little breath, the worthy bookstall keeper proceeded to 
relate, in a more coherent manner, the exact circumstances of the robbery.
"Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang, after a pause.
"I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man. "Everybody who could 
have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five 
minutes ago; and I've run here all the way."
"The prosecutor was reading, was he?" inquired Fang, after another pause.
"Yes," replied the man. "The very book he has in his hand."
"Oh, that book, eh?" said Fang. "Is it paid for?"
"No, it is not," replied the man, with a smile.
"Dear me, I forgot all about it!" exclaimed the absentminded old gentleman 
innocently.
"A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!" said Fang, with a 
comical effort to look humane. "I consider, sir, that you have obtained 
possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable 
circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of 
the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or 
the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office."
"D-n me!" cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept 
down so long, "d-n me! I'll -"
"Clear the office!" said the magistrate. "Officers, do you hear? Clear the 
office!"
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, 
with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other, in a perfect 
frenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished 
for a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his 
shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly 
white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. "Call a coach, 
somebody, pray. Directly!".
A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one seat, 
the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
"May I accompany you?" said the bookstall keeper, looking in.
"Bless me, yes, my dear sir," said Mr. Brownlow quickly. "I forgot you. 
Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There's 
no time to lose."
The bookstall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.



Chapter 12

In Which Oliver Is Taken Better Care Of Than He Ever Was Before - And In 
Which The Narrative Reverts To The Merry Old Gentleman And His Youthful 
Friends.

The coach rattled away, down Mount Pleasant and up Exmouth Street, over 
nearly the same ground as that which Oliver had traversed when he first 
entered London in company with the Dodger; and, turning a different way 
when it reached the Angel at Islington, stopped at length before a neat 
house, in a quiet, shady street near Pentonville. Here a bed was prepared, 
without loss of time, in which Mr. Brownlow saw his young charge carefully 
and comfortably deposited; and here he was tended with a kindness and 
solicitude that knew no bounds.
But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his 
new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times 
after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling 
away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not his work 
more surely on the dead body, than does this slow-creeping fire upon the 
living frame.
Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been 
a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his head 
resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.
"What room is this? Where have I been brought to?" said Oliver. "This is 
not the place I went to sleep in."
He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but 
they were overheard at once; for the curtain at the bed's head was hastily 
drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed, 
rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been 
sitting at needlework.
"Hush, my dear," said the old lady softly. "You must be very quiet, or you 
will be ill again; and you have been very bad - as bad as bad could be, 
pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear!" With those words, the old 
lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back 
his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face, that 
he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it 
round his neck.
"Save us!" said the old lady, with tears in her eyes; "what a grateful 
little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had 
sat by him as I have, and could see him now!"
"Perhaps she does see me," whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; 
"perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had."
"That was the fever, my dear," said the old lady mildly.
"I suppose it was," replied Oliver, "because heaven is a long way off; and 
they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if 
she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very 
ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though," 
added Oliver, after a moment's silence. "If she had seen me hurt, it would 
have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, 
when I have dreamed of her."
The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her 
spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part 
and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; 
and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he 
would be ill again. So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was 
anxious to obey the kind old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the 
truth, because he was completely exhausted with what he had already said. 
He soon fell in a gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a 
candle; which, being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a 
large and loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said 
he was a great deal better.
"You are a great deal better, are you not, my dear?" said the gentleman.
"Yes, thank you, sir," replied Oliver.
"Yes, I know you are," said the gentleman. "You're hungry too, ain't you?"
"No, sir!" answered Oliver.
"Hem!" said the gentleman. "No, I know you're not. He is not hungry, Mrs. 
Bedwin," said the gentleman, looking very wise.
The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to say 
that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared much 
of the same opinion himself.
"You feel sleepy, don't you, my dear?" said the doctor.
"No, sir," said Oliver.
"No," said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. "You're not 
sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?"
"Yes, sir, rather thirsty," answered Oliver.
"Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin," said the doctor. "It's very natural that 
he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma'am, and some dry 
toast without any butter. Don't keep him too warm, ma'am; but be careful 
that you don't let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?"
The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff, 
and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away; his boots creaking 
in a very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.
Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly 
twelve o'clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly 
afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come; 
bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer-book and a large 
night-cap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the 
old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew 
her chair close to the fire, and went off into a series of short naps, 
chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers 
moans and chokings, which, however, had no worse effect than causing her to 
rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.
And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time, 
counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the rushlight-
shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes the 
intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep 
stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy's mind 
the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and nights, 
and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful presence, he 
turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to Heaven.
Gradually, he fell into that deep, tranquil sleep which ease from recent 
suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to 
wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the 
struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its 
anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollection of the 
past!
It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; and when he 
did so, he felt cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely 
past. He belonged to the world again.
In three days' time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up 
with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him 
carried downstairs into the little housekeeper's room, which belonged to 
her. Having him set, here, by the fireside, the good old lady sat herself 
down too; and, being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so 
much better, forthwith began to cry most violently.
"Never mind me, my dear," cried the old lady. "I'm only having a regular 
good cry. There; it's all over now; and I'm quite comfortable."
"You're very, very kind to me, ma'am," said Oliver.
"Well, never you mind that, my dear," said the old lady; "that's got 
nothing to do with your broth; and it's full time you had it; for the 
doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must 
get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he'll be 
pleased." And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a 
little saucepan, a basinful of broth, strong enough, Oliver thought, to 
furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for three 
hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.
"Are you fond of pictures, dear?" inquired the old lady, seeing that Oliver 
had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against the 
wall, just opposite his chair.
"I don't quite know, ma'am," said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the 
canvas; "I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild face 
that lady's is!"
"Ah!" said the old lady, "painters always make ladies out prettier than 
they are, or they wouldn't get any custom, child. The man that invented the 
machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never succeed; 
it's a deal too honest. A deal," said the old lady, laughing very heartily 
at her own acuteness.
"Is - is that a likeness, ma'am?" said Oliver.
"Yes," said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; "that's a 
portrait."
"Whose, ma'am?" asked Oliver.
"Why, really, my dear, I don't know," answered the old lady, in a good-
humoured manner. "It's not a likeness of anybody that you or I know, I 
expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.
"It is so very pretty," replied Oliver.
"Why, sure you're not afraid of it?" said the old lady, observing, in great 
surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.
"Oh, no, no," returned Oliver quickly; "but the eyes look so sorrowful; and 
where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat," added 
Oliver, in a low voice, "as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but 
couldn't."
"Lord save us!" exclaimed the old lady, starting; "don't talk in that way, 
child. You're weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair 
round to the other side; and then you won't see it. There!" said the old 
lady, suiting the action to the word; "you don't see it now, at all 
events."
"Oliver did see it in his mind's eye as distinctly as if he had not altered 
his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old lady; so 
he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin, satisfied that he 
felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted bread into the 
broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a preparation.
Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had scarcely 
swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft tap at the door. "Come 
in," said the old lady; and in walked Mr Brownlow.
Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but he had no sooner 
raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the 
skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good look at Oliver, than his 
countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver 
looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual attempt 
to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in his 
sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must be 
told, that Mr. Brownlow's heart, being large enough for any six ordinary 
old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears into his 
eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently philosophical 
to be in a condition to explain.
"Poor boy, poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. "I'm rather 
hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I'm afraid I have caught cold."
"I hope not, sir," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Everything you have had, has been 
well aired, sir."
"I don't know, Bedwin. I don't know," said Mr. Brownlow; "I rather think I 
had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do you 
feel, my dear?"
' "Very happy, sir," replied Oliver. "And very grateful indeed, sir, for 
your goodness to me."
"Good boy," said Mr. Brownlow stoutly. "Have you given him any nourishment, 
Bedwin? Any slops, eh?"
"He had just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir," replied Mrs. 
Bedwin, drawing herself up slightly, and laying a strong emphasis on the 
last word, to intimate that between slops, and broth well compounded, there 
existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.
"Ugh!" said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; "a couple of glasses of 
port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn't they, Tom 
White, eh?"
"My name is Oliver, sir," replied the little invalid, with a look of great 
astonishment.
"Oliver," said Mr. Brownlow; "Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?"
"No, sir, Twist - Oliver Twist."
"Queer name!" said the old gentleman. "What made you tell the magistrate 
your name was White?"
"I never told him so, sir," returned Oliver, in amazement
This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat 
sternly in Oliver's face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth 
in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
"Some mistake;" said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking 
steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance 
between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly, that 
he could not withdraw his gaze.
"I hope you are not angry with me, sir?" said Oliver, raising his eyes 
beseechingly.
"No, no," replied the old gentleman. "Why! what's this? Bedwin, look 
there!"
As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture above Oliver's head, and 
then to the boy's face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the 
mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so 
precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling 
accuracy!
Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being strong 
enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness on his 
part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the reader 
from suspense in behalf of the two young pupils of the merry old gentleman; 
and of recording.
That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in 
the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver's heels, in consequence of their 
executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow's personal property, as has 
been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and becoming 
regard for themselves; and for as much as the freedom of the subject and 
the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest boasts of a 
true-hearted Englishman, so I need hardly beg the reader to observe, that 
this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all public and 
patriotic men in almost as great a degree as this strong proof of their 
anxiety, for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate and 
confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and sound-judging 
philosophers have laid down as the mainsprings of all Nature's deeds and 
actions - the said philosophers very wisely reducing the good lady's 
proceedings to matters of maxim and theory, and, by a very neat and pretty 
compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding, putting entirely out of 
sight any considerations of heart, or generous impulse and feeling. For 
these are matters totally beneath a female who is acknowledged by universal 
admission to be far above the numerous little foibles and weaknesses of her 
sex.
If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the 
conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I 
should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of 
this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention 
was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the 
shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually 
the practice of renowned and learned sages to shorten the road to any great 
conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the distance, by 
various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto those in 
which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of ideas are 
prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say distinctly, that it 
is the invariable practice of many mighty philosophers, in carrying out 
their theories, to evince great wisdom and foresight in providing against 
every possible contingency which can be supposed at all likely to affect 
themselves. Thus, to do a great right, you may do a little wrong; and you 
may take any means which the end to be attained, will justify; the amount 
of the right, or the amount of the wrong, or indeed the distinction between 
the two, being left entirely to the philosopher concerned, to be settled 
and determined by his clear, comprehensive, and impartial view of his own 
particular case.
It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a 
most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to 
halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just long 
enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an exclamation of 
amusement and delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable fit of 
laughter, flung himself upon a door-step, and rolled thereon in a transport 
of mirth.
"What's the matter?" inquired the Dodger.
"Ha! ha! ha!" roared Charley Bates.
"Hold your noise," remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. "Do 
you want to be grabbed, stupid?"
"I can't help it," said Charley. "I can't help it! To see him splitting 
away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again the 
posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as them, and 
me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him - oh, my eye!" The 
vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before him in too 
strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again rolled upon the 
door-step, and laughed louder than before.
"What'll Fagin say?" inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next 
interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the 
question.
"What?" repeated Charley Bates.
"Ah, what?" said the Dodger.
"Why, what should he say?" inquired Charley, stopping rather suddenly in 
his merriment; for the Dodger's manner was impressive. "What should he 
say?"
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat, 
scratched his head, and nodded thrice.
"What do you mean?" said Charley.
"Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn't, and high 
cockolorum," said the Dodger, with a slight sneer on his intellectual 
countenance.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and 
again said, "What do you mean?"
The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the 
skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his 
cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar 
but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. 
Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the 
occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat 
over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his left hand; a pocket-
knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally 
smile on his white face as he turned round, and, looking sharply out from 
under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door and listened. 
"Why, how's this," muttered the Jew, changing countenance; "only two of 
'em? Where's the third? They can't have got into trouble. Hark!"
The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was 
slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind 
them.



Chapter 13

Some New Acquaintances Are Introduced To The Intelligent Reader, Connected 
With Whom, Various Pleasant Matters Are Related, Appertaining To This 
History.

"Where's Oliver?" said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. "Where's the 
boy?"
The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his 
violence; and looked uneasily at each other: But they made no reply.
"What's become of the boy?" said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the 
collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. "Speak out, or I'll 
throttle you!"
Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed it 
prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no 
means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped 
upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar - 
something between a mad bull and a speaking-trumpet.
"Will you speak?" thundered the Jew, shaking the Dodger so much that his 
keeping in the big coat at all seemed perfectly miraculous.
"Why, the traps have got him, and that's all about it," said the Dodger 
sullenly. "Come, let go o' me, will you!" And swinging himself, at one 
jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew's hands, the 
Dodger snatched up the toasting-fork, and made a pass at the merry old 
gentleman's waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a 
little more merriment out, than could have been easily replaced.
The Jew stepped back, in this emergency, with more agility than could have 
been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the 
pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant's head. But Charley Bates, at 
this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he 
suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young 
gentleman.
"Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!" growled a deep voice. "Who 
pitched that 'ere at me? It's well it's the beer, and not the pot, as hit 
me, or I'd have settled somebody. I might have know'd, as nobody but an 
infernal rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away 
any drink but water - and not that, unless he done the River Company every 
quarter. Wot's it all about, Fagin? D-me, if my neck-handkercher ain't 
lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot are you stopping 
outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come in!"
The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow about five-
and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches, lace-up 
half-boots and grey cotton stockings, which inclosed a bulky pair of legs, 
with large, swelling calves - the kind of legs, which, in such costume, 
always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters 
to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher 
handkerchief round his neck; with the long, frayed ends of which he smeared 
the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a 
broad, heavy countenance with a beard of three days' growth, and two 
scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of 
having been recently damaged by a blow.
"Come in, d'ye hear?" growled this engaging ruffian.
A white, shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different 
places, skulked into the room.
"Why didn't you come in afore?" said the man. "You're getting too proud to 
own me afore company, are you? Lie down!"
This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the 
other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however, for he coiled 
himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and, winking 
his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy 
himself in taking a survey of the apartment.
"What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious, in-sa-
ti-a-ble old fence?" said the man, seating himself deliberately. "I wonder 
they don't murder you! I would if I was them. If I'd been your 'prentice, 
I'd have done it long ago, and - no, I couldn't have sold you afterwards, 
for you're fit for nothing but keeping as a curiosity of ugliness in a 
glass bottle, and I suppose they don't blow glass bottles large enough."
"Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes," said the Jew, trembling; "don't speak so loud."
"None of your mistering," replied the ruffian; "you always mean mischief 
when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan't disgrace it 
when the time comes."
"Well, well, then - Bill Sikes," said the Jew, with abject humility. "You 
seem out of humour, Bill."
"Perhaps I am," replied Sikes; "I should think you was rather out of sorts, 
too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as 
you do when you blab and -"
"Are you mad?" said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing 
towards the boys.
Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left 
ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show 
which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms, 
with which his whole conversation v. as plentifully besprinkled, but which 
would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass 
of liquor.
"And mind you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the 
table.
This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer 
with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turns round to the cupboard, he 
might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all 
events) to improve upon the distiller's ingenuity not very far from the old 
gentleman's merry heart.
After swallowing two or three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended to 
take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a 
conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver's capture were 
circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the 
truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.
"I'm afraid," said the Jew, "that he may say something which will get us 
into trouble."
"That's very likely," returned Sikes, with a malicious grin. "You're blowed 
upon, Fagin."
"And I'm afraid, you see," added the Jew, speaking as if he had not noticed 
the interruption; and, regarding the other closely as he did so - "I'm 
afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many 
more and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for me, 
my dear."
The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman's 
shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring 
on the opposite wall.
There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared 
plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain 
malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the 
legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when 
he went out.
"Somebody must find out wot's been done at the office," said Mr. Sikes, in 
a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.
The Jew nodded assent.
"If he hasn't peached, and is committed, there's no fear till he comes out 
again," said Mr. Sikes, "and then he must be taken care on. You must get 
hold of him somehow."
Again the Jew nodded.
The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but, 
unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to it being adopted. 
This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William 
Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted 
antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever.
How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of 
uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess. It 
is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the 
sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former 
occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.
"The very thing!" said the Jew. "Bet will go; won't you, my dear?"
"Wheres?" inquired the young lady.
"Only just up to the office, my dear," said the Jew coaxingly.
It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that 
she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest desire 
to be "blessed" if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the request 
which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural good-
breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the pain of a 
direct and pointed refusal.
The Jew's countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily, 
not to say gorgeously, attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow curl-
papers, to the other female. "Nancy, my dear," said the Jew, in a soothing 
manner, "what do you say?"
"That it won't do; so it's no use a-trying it on, Fagin," replied Nancy.
"What do you mean by that?" said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.
"What I say, Bill," replied the lady collectedly.
"Why, you're just the very person for it," reasoned Mr. Sikes; "nobody 
about here knows anything of you."
"And as I don't want 'em to, neither," replied Nancy, in the same composed 
manner, "it's rather more no than yes with me, Bill."
"She'll go, Fagin," said Sikes.
"No, she won't, Fagin," said Nancy.
"Yes, she will, Fagin," said Sikes.
And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and 
bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake the 
commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations as her 
agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the neighbourhood of 
Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of Ratcliffe, she was not 
under the same apprehension of being recognised by any of her numerous 
acquaintances.
Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her curl-
papers tucked up under a straw bonnet - both articles of dress being 
provided from the Jew's inexhaustible stock - Miss Nancy prepared to issue 
forth on her errand.
"Stop a' minute, my dear," said the Jew, producing a little covered basket. 
"Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear."
"Give her a door key to carry in her t'other one, Fagin," said Sikes; "it 
looks real and genuine like."
"Yes, yes, my dear, so it does," said the Jew, hanging a large street door 
key on the forefinger of the young lady's right hand. "There; very good! 
Very good indeed, my dear!" said the Jew, rubbing his hands.
"Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!" exclaimed 
Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the street 
door key in an agony of distress. "What has become of him! Where have they 
taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what's been done with the dear 
boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!"
Having uttered these words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone, to 
the immeasurable delight of her hearers, Miss Nancy paused, winked to the 
company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
"Ah! she's a clever girl, my dears," said the Jew, turning round to his 
young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to 
them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.
"She's an honour to her sex," said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and 
smiting the table with his enormous fist. "Here's her health, and wishing 
they was all like her!"
While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the 
accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the police-
office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity consequent upon 
walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she arrived in perfect 
safety shortly afterwards.
Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the cell 
doors, and listened. There was no sound within; so she coughed and listened 
again. Still there was no reply; so she spoke.
"Nolly, dear -" murmured Nancy, in a gentle voice; "Nolly?"
There was nobody inside but a miserable, shoeless criminal, who had been 
taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society having 
been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang to the 
house of correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing remark 
that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more wholesomely 
expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He made no answer; 
being occupied in mentally bewailing the loss of the flute, which had been 
confiscated for the use of the county; so Nancy passed on to the next cell, 
and knocked there.
"Well!" cried a faint and feeble voice.
"Is there a little boy here?" inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.
"No," replied the voice; "God forbid."
This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for not playing 
the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and doing 
nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell, another man, who was going to 
the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without a licence; thereby doing 
something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.
But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew 
anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the 
striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations, 
rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street door key 
and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.
I haven't got him, my dear," said the old man.
"Where is he?" screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
"Why, the gentleman's got him," replied the officer.
"What gentleman? Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?" exclaimed Nancy.
In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply-
affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and 
discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have 
been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had 
carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence; of and 
concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere at 
Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the 
coachman.
In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman 
staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a good, 
swift, steady run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she 
could think of, to the domicile of the Jew.
Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered, 
than he very hastily called up the white dog, and putting on his hat, 
expeditiously departed, without devoting any time to the formality of 
wishing the company good-morning.
"We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found," said the Jew, 
greatly excited. "Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home 
some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you, my 
dear - to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay," added the Jew, 
unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; "there's money, my dears. I shall 
shut up his shop tonight. You'll know where to find me! Don't stop here a 
minute. Not an instant, my dears!"
With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully double-
locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of 
concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver. Then, 
he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath his 
clothing.
A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. "Who's there?" he cried, 
in a shrill tone.
"Me!" replied the voice of the Dodger, through the keyhole.
"What now?" cried the Jew impatiently.
"Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?" inquired the Dodger.
"Yes," replied the Jew, "wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find him 
out, that's all! I shall know what to do next; never fear."
The boy murmured a reply of intelligence; and hurried downstairs after his 
companions.
"He has not peached so far," said the Jew as he pursued his occupation. "If 
he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet."



Chapter 14

Comprising Further Particulars Of Oliver's Stay At Mr. Brownlow's, With The 
Remarkable Prediction Which One Mr. Grimwig Uttered Concerning Him, When He 
Went Out On An Errand.

Oliver soon recovering from the fainting fit into which Mr. Brownlow's 
abrupt exclamation had thrown him the subject of the picture was carefully 
avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the conversation 
that ensued; which indeed bore no reference to Oliver's history or 
prospects but was confined to such topics as might amuse without exciting 
him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but, when he came down 
into the housekeeper's room next day, his first act was to cast an eager 
glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the face of the 
beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however, for the 
picture had been removed.
"Ah!" said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver's eyes. "It is 
gone, you see."
"I see it is, ma'am," replied Oliver. "Why have they taken it away?"
"It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it 
seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you know," 
rejoined the old lady.
"Oh, no, indeed. It didn't worry me, ma'am," said Oliver. "I liked to see 
it. I quite loved it."
"Well, well!" said the old lady good-humouredly; "you get well as fast as 
ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you 
that! Now, let us talk about something else."
This was all the information Oliver would obtain about the picture at that 
time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he 
endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened 
attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and 
handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man, 
and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in 
the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such 
dutiful letters home four times a year, that it brought the tears into her 
eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on 
the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband 
besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty 
years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver 
cribbage; which he learned as quickly as she could teach; and at which game 
they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the 
invalid to have some warm wine-and-water, with a slice of dry toast, and 
then to go cosily to bed.
These were happy days, those of Oliver's recovery. Everything was so quiet, 
and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise 
and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like 
heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on, 
properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and 
a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he 
might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who 
had been very kind to him and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep the 
money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked out of 
the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and walk away 
he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone, and that there 
was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear them again. They 
were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never had a new suit 
before.
One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was 
sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr. 
Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him 
in his study, and talk to him a little while.
"Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely 
for you, child," said Mrs. Bedwin. "Dear heart alive! If we had known he 
would have asked for you we would have put you a clean collar on, and made 
you as smart as sixpence!"
Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, 
meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little frill, that 
bordered his shirt collar, he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that 
important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say, looking at 
him with great complacency, from head to foot, that she really didn't think 
it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have made much 
difference in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling 
to him to come in, he found himself in a little, back room, quite full of 
books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was 
a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated 
reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told him 
to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied, marvelling where the 
people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be 
written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to more 
experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.
"There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?" said Mr. Brownlow, 
observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached 
from the floor to the ceiling.
"A great number, sir," replied Oliver. "I never saw so many."
"You shall read them, if you behave well," said the old gentleman kindly; 
"and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides- that is, in 
some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are by 
far the best parts."
"I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir," said Oliver, pointing to some 
large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
"Not always those," said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and 
smiling as he did so; "there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much 
smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, 
eh?"
"I think I would rather read them, sir," replied Oliver.
"What! wouldn't you like to be a book-writer? said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it 
would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old 
gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing. 
Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it 
was.
"Well, well," said the old gentleman, composing his features. "Don't be 
afraid! We won't make an author of you, while there's an honest trade to be 
learned, or brick-making to turn to."
"Thank you, sir," said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old 
gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct, which 
Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.
"Now," said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the same 
time in a much more serious manner than Oliver had ever known him assume 
yet, "I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say. 
I shall talk to you without any reserve because I am sure you are as well 
able to understand me, as many older persons would be."
"Oh, don't tell me you are going to send me away, sir, pray!" exclaimed 
Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman's commencement. 
"Don't turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay 
here, and be a servant. Don't send me back to the wretched place I came 
from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!"
"My dear child," said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's 
sudden appeal; "you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give 
me cause."
"I never, never will, sir," interposed Oliver.
"I hope not," rejoined the old gentleman. "I do not think you ever will. I 
have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to 
benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am 
more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself. 
The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their 
graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there 
too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, for ever, on 
my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them."
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice, more to himself than to his 
companion, and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards, Oliver 
sat quite still.
"Well, well!" said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, "I 
only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have 
suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to 
wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world; 
all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me 
hear your story - where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got 
into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth; and you shall not 
be friendless while I live."
Oliver's sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the 
point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and 
carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little 
double-knock was heard at the street door; and the servant, running 
upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
"Is he coming up?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant. "He asked if there were any muffins in the 
house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea."
Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an 
old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his 
manners for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
"Shall I go downstairs, sir?" inquired Oliver.
"No," replied Mr. Brownlow, "I would rather you remained
At this moment, there walked into the room, supporting himself by a thick 
stick, a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a 
blue coat, striped waistcoat nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-
brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very small-plated 
shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-
chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it. The 
ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an 
orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy 
description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he 
spoke, and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time, 
which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude he 
fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small 
piece of orange-peel at arm's length, exclaimed, in a growling, 
discontented voice:
"Look here! do you see this! Isn't it a most wonderful and extraordinary 
thing that I can't call at a man's house but I find a piece of this poor 
surgeon's-friend on the staircase? I've been lamed with orange-peel once, 
and I know orange-peel will be my death at last. It will sir; orange-peel 
will be my death, or I'll be content to eat my own head, sir!"
This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed 
nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case, 
because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of 
scientific improvements being ever brought to that pass which will enable a 
gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being go disposed, Mr. 
Grimwig's head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine 
man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at 
a sitting - to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of 
powder.
"I'll eat my head, sir," repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the 
ground. "Hallo! what's that!" looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or 
two.
"This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking, about," said Mr. 
Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
"You don't mean to say that's the boy who had the fever, I hope?" said Mr. 
Grimwig, recoiling a little more. "Wait a minute! Don't speak! Stop" 
continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his 
triumph at the discovery; "that's the boy who had the orange! If that's not 
the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the 
staircase, I'll eat my head, and his too."
"No, no, he has not had one," said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. "Come! Put down 
your hat; and speak to my young friend."
"I feel strongly on this subject, sir," said the irritable old gentleman, 
drawing off his gloves. "There's always more or less orange-peel on the 
pavement in our street; and I know it's put there by the surgeon's boy at 
the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against 
my garden railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal 
red lamp with the pantomime-light. 'Don't go to him,' I called out of the 
window, 'he's an assassin! A mantrap!' So he is. If he is not -" Here the 
irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick; 
which was always understood, by his friend, to imply the customary offer, 
whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in 
his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eyeglass, which he wore 
attached to a broad, black riband, took a view of Oliver; who, seeing that 
he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. "That's the 
boy, is it?" said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
"That is the boy," replied Mr. Brownlow.
"How are you, boy?" said Mr. Grimwig.
"A great deal better, thank you, sir," replied Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to 
say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. 
Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the 
visitor's manner, he was very happy to do.
"He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?" inquired Mr. Brownlow.
"I don't know," replied Mr. Grimwig pettishly.
"Don't know?"
"No. I don't know. I never see any difference in boys. I only know two 
sorts of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys."
"And which is Oliver?"
"Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call 
him; with a round head, and red cheeks and glaring eyes; a horrid boy; with 
a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue 
clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him! 
The wretch!"
"Come," said Mr. Brownlow, "these are not the characteristics of young 
Oliver Twist; so he needn't excite your wrath."
"They are not," replied Mr. Grimwig. "He may have worse."
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. 
Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
"He may have worse, I say," repeated Mr. Grimwig. "Where does he come from? 
Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are not 
peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes; 
haven't they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his 
master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn't recommended to mercy on 
that account. Pooh! nonsense!"
Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr. 
Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver's appearance and manner 
were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for 
contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-
peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a 
boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his 
friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he 
yet return a satisfactory answer, and that he had postponed any 
investigation into Oliver's previous history until he thought the boy was 
strong enough to bear it, Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he 
demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in the habit of 
counting the plate at night; because, if she didn't find a table-spoon or 
two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to- and so 
forth.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous 
gentleman, knowing his friend's peculiarities, bore with great good-humour; 
as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his entire 
approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who 
made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done 
in the fierce old gentleman's presence.
"And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of the 
life and adventures of Oliver Twist?" asked Mr. Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at 
the conclusion of the meal, looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed the 
subject.
"Tomorrow morning," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I would rather he was alone with 
me at the time. Come up to me tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, my dear."
"Yes, sir," replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation because he was 
confused by Mr. Grimwig's looking so hard at hum.
"I'll tell you what," whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; "he won't 
come up to you tomorrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, 
my good friend."
"I'll swear he is not," replied Mr. Brownlow warmly.
"If he is not," said Mr. Grimwig, "I'll -" and down went the stick.
"I'll answer for that boy's truth with my life!" said Mr. Brownlow, 
knocking the table.
"And I for his falsehood with my head!" rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the 
table also.
"We shall see," said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
"We will," replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; "we will."
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a 
small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the 
identical book-stall keeper, who has already figured in this history; 
having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room. "Stop the 
boy, Mrs. Bedwin!" said Mr. Brownlow; "there is something to go back."
"He has gone, sir," replied Mrs. Bedwin.
"Call after him," said Mr. Brownlow; "it's particular. He is a poor man, 
and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too."
The street door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; 
and Mr. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no 
boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned in a breathless state, to report 
that there were no tidings of him.
"Dear me, I am very sorry for that," exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; "I 
particularly wished those books to be returned tonight."
"Send Oliver with them," said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; "he will 
be sure to deliver them safely, you know.
"Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir," said Oliver. "I'll run all 
the way, sir."
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on 
any account, when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him 
that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he 
should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions - on this head at least 
- at once.
"You shall go, my dear," said the old gentleman. "The books are on a chair 
by my table. Fetch them down."
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a 
great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
"You are to say," said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; "you are 
to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have come to 
pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note so you will 
have to bring me back ten shillings change."
"I won't be ten minutes, sir," replied Oliver eagerly. Having buttoned up 
the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under 
his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed 
him to the street door, giving him many directions about the nearest way, 
and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street; all of which 
Oliver said he clearly understood, and having superadded many injunctions 
to be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to 
depart.
"Bless his sweet face!" said the old lady, looking after him. "I can't 
bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight."
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the 
corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the 
door, went back to her own room.
"Let me see; he'll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest," said Mr. 
Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table "It will be 
dark by that time."
"Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?" inquired Mr. Grimwig.
"Don't you?" asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig's breast, at the 
moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend's confident smile.
"No," he said, smiting the table with his fist, "I do not. The boy has a 
new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm, and 
a five-pound note in his pocket. He'll join his old friends the thieves, 
and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house. sir, I'll eat my 
head."
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two 
friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
It was worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our 
own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and 
hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a bad-
hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his 
respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and 
strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely 
discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, 
with the watch between them.



Chapter 15

Showing How Very Fond Of Oliver Twist, The Merry Old Jew And Miss Nancy 
Were.

In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, situated in the filthiest 
part of Little Saffron Hill - a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-
light burned all day in the wintertime, 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 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 varmint! 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 it a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; 
thereby 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 newcomer.
"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 newcomer.
"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 night-cap. 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 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 eyebrows, 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; and they went away together, followed, at a little 
distance, 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 he 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 bookstall. When 
he got into Clerkenwell, he accidentally 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 right 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've 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!"
"What's the matter, ma'am?" inquired one of the women.
"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 the woman.
"Go home, do, you little brute," said the other.
"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."
"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-stealin' '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; stupefied 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 neighbourhood; 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, wholly 
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.


Chapter 16

Relates What Became Of Oliver Twist, After He Had Been Claimed By Nancy.

The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open space; 
scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications of a 
cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot, the 
girl being quite unable to support any longer the rapid rate at which they 
had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly 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, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. "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.
"He's as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn't!" said Sikes, 
regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. "Now, you 
know what you've got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like; 
the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young 'un!"
Bull's-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgement of this unusually endearing 
form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the 
benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.
It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been 
Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was 
dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarcely struggle through the 
heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and 
houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's 
eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.
They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour. 
With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads 
in the direction whence the sound proceeded.
"Eight o'clock, Bill," said Nancy, when the bell ceased.
"What's the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can't I!" replied 
Sikes.
"I wonder whether they can hear it," said Nancy.
"Of course they can," replied Sikes. "It was Bartlemy time when I was 
shopped; and there warn't a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn't hear 
the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din 
outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have 
beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door."
"Poor fellows!" said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the 
quarter in which the bell had sounded. "Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as 
them!"
"Yes; that's all you women think of," answered Sikes. "Fine young chaps! 
Well, they're as good as dead, so it don't matter much."
With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to 
jealousy? and, clasping Oliver's wrist more firmly, told him to step out 
again.
"Wait a minute!" said the girl; "I wouldn't hurry by, if it was you that 
was coming out to be hung, the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd 
walk round and round the place till I dropped, if the snow was on the 
ground, and I haven't a shawl to cover me."
"And what good would that do?" inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes. 
"Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, 
you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for all 
the good it would do me. Come on, and don't stand preaching there."
The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and 
they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her 
face as they passed a gas lamp saw that it had turned a deadly white.
They walked on, by little frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour, 
meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much 
the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned 
into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops: the dog 
running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion for his 
keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and 
apparently untenanted. The house was in a ruinous condition, and on the 
door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let, which looked as if 
it had hung there for many years.
"All right," cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.
Nancy stooped below the shutters; and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. 
They crossed to the opposite side of the street and stood for a few moments 
under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash-window were gently raised, was heard; 
and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized the 
terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three were 
quickly inside the house.
The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let 
him in chained and barred the door.
"Anybody here?" inquired Sikes.
"No," replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.
"Is the old 'un here?" asked the robber.
"Yes," replied the voice; "and precious down in the mouth he has been. 
Won't he be glad to see you? Oh, no!" The style of this reply, as well as 
the voice which delivered it, seemed familiar to Oliver's ears; but it was 
impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness.
"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 the voice The 
receding 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 down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty kitchen, and, 
opening the door of a low, earthy-smelling room, which seemed to have been 
built in a small back-yard were received with a shout of laughter.
"Oh, my wig, my wig!" cried Master Charles Bates from whose lungs the 
laughter had proceeded; "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 irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat 
on the floor, and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ecstasy of 
facetious 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 night-cap, made a great number of low bows to the 
bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine 
disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with 
business, rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity.
"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 this?" 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."
"If that ain't mine!" said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a determined 
air; "mine and Nancy's, that is, I'll take the boy back again."
The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause; 
for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.
"Come! Hand over, will you?" said Sikes.
"This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?" inquired the Jew.
"Fair, or not fair," retorted Sikes, "hand over, I tell you! Do you think 
Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend 
it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets grabbed 
through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton; give it here!"
With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the 
Jew's finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded 
it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.
"That's for our share of the trouble," said Sikes; "and not half enough, 
neither. You may keep the books, if you're fond of reading. If you ain't, 
sell 'em."
"They're very pretty," said Charley Bates, who, with sundry grimaces, had 
been affecting to read one of the volumes in question, "beautiful writing, 
isn't it, Oliver?" At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded 
his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the 
ludicrous, fell into another ecstasy, more boisterous than the first.
"They belong to the old gentleman," said Oliver, wringing his hands; "to 
the good, kind old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, 
when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back 
the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send 
them back. He'll think I stole them; the old lady - all of them who were so 
kind to me - will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send 
them back!"
With those words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate 
grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jews feet; and beat his hands 
together, in perfect desperation.
"The boy's right," remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting his 
shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. "You're right, Oliver, you're right; they 
will think you have stolen 'em. Ha! ha!" chuckled the Jew, rubbing his 
hands; "it couldn't have happened better, if we had chosen our time!"
"Of course it couldn't," replied Sikes; "I know'd that, directly I see him 
coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It's all right 
enough. They're soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn't have taken him 
in at all; and they'll ask no questions after him, fear they should be 
obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He's safe enough."
Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being 
spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarcely understand what 
passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and 
tore wildly from the room, uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare 
old house echo to the roof.
"Keep back the dog, Bill!" cried Nancy, springing before the door, and 
closing it as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. "Keep back 
the dog; he'll tear the boy to pieces."
"Serve him right!" cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the 
girl's grasp. "Stand off from me, or I'll split your head against the 
wall."
"I don't care for that, Bill, I don't care for that," screamed the girl, 
struggling violently with the man; "the child shan't be torn down by the 
dog, unless you kill me first."
"Shan't he!" said Sikes, setting his teeth. "I'll soon do that if you don't 
keep off."
The housekeeper flung the girl from him to the farther end of the room, 
just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them.
"What's the matter here!" said Fagin, looking round.
"The girl's gone mad I think," replied Sikes savagely.
"No, she hasn't," said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; "no, 
she hasn't, Fagin; don't think it."
"Then keep quiet, will you?" said the Jew, with a threatening look.
"No, I won't do that, neither," replied Nancy, speaking very loud. "Come! 
What do you think of that?"
Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of 
that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel 
tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any 
conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the attention 
of the company, he turned to Oliver.
"So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?" said the Jew, taking up a 
jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; "eh?"
Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew's motions, and breathed 
quickly.
"Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?" sneered the 
Jew, catching the boy by the arm. "We'll cure you of that, my young 
master."
The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with the club; and was 
raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it from 
his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some of the 
glowing coal whirling out into the room.
"I won't stand by and see it done, Fagin," cried the girl. "You've got the 
boy, and what more would you have? - Let him be - let him be - or I shall 
put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows before my 
time."
The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this threat; 
and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked alternately at 
the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless from the passion of 
rage into which she had gradually worked herself.
"Why, Nancy!" said the Jew, in a soothing tone, after a pause, during which 
he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner; "you - 
you're more clever than ever tonight. Ha! ha! my dear, you are acting 
beautifully."
"Am I!" said the girl. "Take care I don't overdo it. You will be the worse 
for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of 
me."
There is something about a roused woman, especially if she add to all her 
other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair, 
which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to 
affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy's rage; and, 
shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half-imploring and 
half-cowardly at Sikes, as if to hint that he was the fittest person to 
pursue the dialogue.
Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to, and possibly feeling his personal pride 
and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to 
reason, gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats, 
the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of 
his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against 
whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible arguments.
"What do you mean by this?" said Sikes, backing the inquiry with a very 
common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features, which, 
if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that it 
is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as measles, 
"what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are, and what 
you are?"
"Oh, yes, I know all about it," replied the girl, laughing hysterically; 
and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of 
indifference. 
"Well, then, keep quiet," rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was 
accustomed to use when addressing his dog, "or I'll quiet you for a good 
long time to come."
The girl laughed again, even less composedly than before; and, darting a 
hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood 
came.
"You're a nice one," added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous 
air, "to take up the humane and genteel side! A pretty subject for the 
child, as you call him, to make a friend of!"
"God Almighty help me, I am!" cried the girl passionately; "and I wish I 
had been struck dead in the street or had changed places with them we 
passed so near tonight, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here. He's 
a thief, a liar, a devil, all that's bad, from this night forth. Isn't that 
enough for the old wretch, without blows?"
"Come, come, Sikes," said the Jew, appealing to him in a remonstratory 
tone, and motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all 
that passed; "we must have civil words - civil words, Bill."
"Civil words!" cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. "Civil 
words, you villain! Yes, you deserve 'em from me. I thieved for you when I 
was a child not half as old as this!" pointing to Oliver. "I have been in 
the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years since. Don't you 
know it? Speak out! Don't you know it?"
"Well, well," replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification "and, if you 
have, it's your living!"
"Aye, it is!" returned the girl, not speaking, but pouring out the words in 
one continuous and vehement scream. "It is my living; and the cold, wet, 
dirty streets are my home; and you're the wretch that drove me to them long 
ago, and that'll keep me there, day and night, day and night, till I die!"
"I shall do you a mischief!" interposed the Jew, goaded by these 
reproaches; "a mischief worse than that, if you say much more!"
The girl said nothing; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport of 
frenzy, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal 
marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at 
the right moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and 
fainted. 
"She's all right now," said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. "She's 
uncommon strong in the arms, when she's up in this way."
The Jew wiped his forehead and smiled, as if it were a relief to have the 
disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes nor the dog, nor the boys, 
seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurrence 
incidental to business.
"It's the worst of having to do with women," said the Jew, replacing his 
club; "but they're clever and we can't get on, in our line, without 'em. 
Charley, show Oliver to bed."
"I suppose he'd better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?" 
inquired Charley Bates.
"Certainly not," replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charley 
put the question.
Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the cleft 
stick, and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two or 
three of the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with many 
uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical old suit of 
clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon leaving off at 
Mr. Brownlow's; and the accidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew 
who purchased them, had been the very first clue received of his 
whereabouts.
"Pull off the smart ones," said Charles, "and I'll give 'em to Fagin to 
take care of. What fun it is!"
Poor Oliver unwillingly complied. Master Bates, rolling up the new clothes 
under his arm, departed from the room, leaving Oliver in the dark, and 
locking the door behind him.
The noise of Charley's laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who 
opportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other 
feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many 
people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which Oliver was 
placed. But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound asleep.



Chapter 17

Oliver's destiny continuing unpropitious, brings a great man to London to 
injure his reputation.

It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to present 
the tragic and the comic scenes in as regular alternation, as the layers of 
red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon his straw 
bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene, his 
faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic song. We 
behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a proud and 
ruthless baron, her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing forth her 
dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and, just as our 
expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard, and 
we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle, where a 
grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of vassals, 
who are free of all sorts of places, from church vaults to palaces, and 
roam about in company, carolling perpetually.
Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would 
seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards 
to deathbeds, and from mourning weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit 
less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive lookers-
on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of the 
theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of passion or 
feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators, are at once 
condemned as outrageous and preposterous.
As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are 
not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as 
the great art of authorship - an author's skill in his craft being, by such 
critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he leaves 
his characters at the end of every chapter- this brief introduction to the 
present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be considered 
a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is going back 
directly to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking it 
for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the 
journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse gate, and walked 
with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in 
the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were 
dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous 
tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but 
this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his eye, 
an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant stranger that 
thoughts were passing in the beadle's mind, too great for utterance.
Mr. Bumble stopped not to converse with the small shop-keepers and others 
who spoke to him, deferentially, as he passed along. He merely returned 
their salutations with a wave of his hand, and relaxed not in his dignified 
pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers 
with parochial care.
"Drat that beadle!" said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the 
garden gate. "If it isn't him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr. 
Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it is a pleasure, this 
is! Come into the parlour, sir, please."
The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight 
were uttered to Mr. Bumble, as the good lady unlocked the garden gate, and 
showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house.
"Mrs. Mann," said Mr. Bumble, not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a 
seat, as any common jackanapes would, but letting himself gradually and 
slowly down into a chair; "Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good-morning."
"Well, and good-morning to you, sir," replied Mrs. Mann with many smiles; 
"and hoping you find yourself well, sir!"
"So - so, Mrs. Mann," replied the beadle. "A porochial life is not a bed of 
roses, Mrs. Mann."
"Ah, that it isn't indeed, Mr. Bumble," rejoined the lady. And all the 
infant paupers might have chorused the rejoinder with great propriety, if 
they had heard it.
"A porochial life, ma'am," continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with 
his cane, "is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all public 
characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution."
Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands 
with a look of sympathy, and sighed.
"You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!" said the beadle.
Finding she had done right, Mrs. Mann sighed again, evidently to the 
satisfaction of the public character; who, repressing a complacent smile by 
looking sternly at his cocked hat said:
"Mrs. Mann, I am a-going to London."
"Lauk, Mr. Bumble!" cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.
"To London, ma'am," resumed the inflexible beadle, "by coach. I and two 
paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a-coming on, about a settlement; and 
the Board has appointed me - me, Mrs. Mann - to dispose to the matter 
before the quarter-sessions at Clerkenwell. And I very much question," 
added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, "whether the Clerkenwell Sessions 
will not find themselves in the wrong box before they have done with me."
"Oh! you mustn't be too hard upon them, sir," said Mrs. Mann coaxingly.
"The Clerkenwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma'am," replied 
Mr. Bumble; "and if the Clerkenwell Sessions find that they come off rather 
worse than they expected, the Clerkenwell Sessions have only themselves to 
thank."
There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing 
manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs. Mann 
appeared quite awed by them. At length she said:
"You're going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them 
paupers in carts."
"That's when they're ill, Mrs. Mann," said the beadle.
∑ "We put the sick paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent 
their taking cold."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Mann.
"The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap," said 
Mr. Bumble. "They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come 
two pound cheaper to move 'em than to bury 'em- that is, if we can throw 
'em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if they 
don't die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!"
When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the 
cocked hat; and he became grave.
"We are forgetting business, ma'am," said the beadle; "here is your 
porochial stipend for the month."
Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his pocket-
book; and requested a receipt; which Mrs. Mann wrote.
"It's very much blotted, sir," said the farmer of infants; "but it's formal 
enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much obliged to 
you, I'm sure."
Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgement of Mrs. Mann's curtsey; and 
inquired how the children were.
"Bless their dear little hearts!" said Mrs. Mann, with emotion, "they're as 
well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week. 
And little Dick."
"Isn't that boy no better?" inquired Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Mann shook her head.
"He's a ill - conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that," 
said Mr. Bumble angrily. "Where is he?"
"I'll bring him to you in one minute, sir," replied Mrs. Mann. "Here, you 
Dick!"
After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the 
pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann's gown, he was led into the awful presence 
of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.
The child was pale and thin; his cheeks were sunken; and his eyes large and 
bright. The scanty parish dress, the livery of his misery, hung loosely on 
his feeble body; and his young limbs had wasted away, like those of an old 
man.
Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble's glance; 
not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the 
beadle's voice.
"Can't you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?" said Mrs. Mann.
The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.
"What's the matter with you, porochial Dick?" inquired Mr. Bumble, with 
well-timed jocularity.
"Nothing, sir," replied the child faintly.
"I should think not," said Mrs. Mann, who had, of course, laughed very much 
at Mr. Bumble's humour. "You want for nothing, I'm sure."
"I should like -" faltered the child.
"Heyday!" interposed Mrs. Mann, "I suppose you're going to say that you do 
want for something, now? Why, you little wretch -"
"Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!" said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of 
authority. "Like what, sir, eh?"
"I should like," faltered the child, "if somebody that can write, would put 
a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal it, 
and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground."
"Why, what does the boy mean?" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest 
manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression, accustomed as 
he was to such things. "What do you mean, sir?"
"I should like," said the child, "to leave my dear love to poor Oliver 
Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to 
think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him. 
And I should like to tell him," said the child, pressing his small hands 
together, and speaking with great fervour, "that I was glad to die when I 
was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown 
old, my little sister, who is in heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me; 
and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together."
Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker from head to foot, with 
indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, "They're 
all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That outdacious Oliver has demogalised them 
all!"
"I couldn't have believed it, sir!" said Mrs. Mann, holding up her hands, 
and looking malignantly at Dick. "I never see such a hardened little 
wretch!"
"Take him away, ma'am!" said Mr. Bumble imperiously. "This must be stated 
to the Board, Mrs. Mann."
"I hope the gentlemen will understand that it isn't my fault, sir?" said 
Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.
"They shall understand that, ma'am; they shall be acquainted with the true 
state of the case," said Mr. Bumble. "There; take him away, I can't bear 
the sight on him."
Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr. 
Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.
At six o'clock next morning, Mr. Bumble, having exchanged his cocked hat 
for a round one, and encased his person in a blue greatcoat with a cape to 
it, took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the 
criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time, 
he arrived in London. He experienced no other crosses on the way, than 
those which originated in the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who 
persisted in shivering, and complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. 
Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel 
quite uncomfortable; although he had a greatcoat on.
Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat 
himself down in the house at which the coach stopped, and took a temperate 
dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot gin-and-
water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and, with sundry 
moral reflections on the too prevalent sin of discontent and complaining, 
composed himself to read the paper.
The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble's eye rested, was the 
following advertisement.

"FIVE GUINEAS REWARD"

"Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or was enticed, on 
Thursday evening last, from his home, at Pentonville; and has not since 
been heard of. The above reward will be paid to any person who will give 
such information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver Twist, or 
tend to throw any light upon his previous history, in which the advertiser 
is, for many reasons, warmly interested."

And then followed a full description of Oliver's dress, person, appearance, 
and disappearance, with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow at full 
length.
Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully, 
three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his way 
to Pentonville; having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of hot 
gin-and-water untasted.
"Is Mr. Brownlow at home?" inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the 
door.
To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive 
reply of "I don't know; where do you come from?"
Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver's name, in explanation of his errand, 
than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened into 
the passage in a breathless state.
"Come in - come in," said the old lady. "I knew we should hear of him. Poor 
dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so, 
all along."
Having said this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour again; 
and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was not 
quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned with a 
request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately; which he did.
He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his 
friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter 
gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:
"A beadle! A parish beadle, or I'll eat my head."
"Pray don't interrupt just now," said Mr. Brownlow. "Take a seat, will 
you?"
Mr. Bumble sat himself down, quite confounded by the oddity of Mr. 
Grimwig's manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an 
uninterrupted view of the beadle's countenance; and said, with a little 
impatience:
"Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the advertisement?"
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Bumble. "And you are a beadle, are you not?" inquired 
Mr. Grimwig.
"I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen," rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.
"Of course," observed Mr Grimwig, aside to his friend; "I knew he was. A 
beadle all over!"
Mr Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and 
resumed:
"Do you know where this poor boy is now?"
"No more than nobody," replied Mr. Bumble.
"Well, what do you know of him?" inquired the old gentleman. "Speak out, my 
friend, if you have anything to say. What do you know of him?"
"You don't happen to know any good of him, do you?" said Mr. Grimwig 
caustically, after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features.
Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with 
portentous solemnity.
You see?" said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble's pursed-up countenance; 
and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few 
words as possible.
Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms; inclined 
his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments' reflection, 
commenced his story.
It would be tedious if given in the beadle's words, occupying as it did, 
some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was, 
That Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had, 
from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude, 
and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his 
birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad, 
and running away in the night-time from his master's house. In proof of his 
really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon the 
table the papers he had brought to town; and folding his arms again, 
awaited Mr. Brownlow's observations.
"I fear it is all too true," said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after 
looking over the papers. "This is not much for your intelligence; but I 
would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to 
the boy."
It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this 
information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted a 
very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it 
now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five 
guineas, withdrew.
Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much 
disturbed by the beadle's tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him 
further.
At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
"Mrs. Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; "that boy, 
Oliver, is an impostor."
"It can't be, sir. It cannot be," said the old lady energetically.
"I tell you he is," retorted the old gentleman. "What do you mean by can't 
be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has 
been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life."
"I never will believe it, sir," replied the old lady firmly. "Never!"
"You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying story-
books," growled Mr. Grimwig. "I knew it all along. Why didn't you take my 
advice in the beginning; you would, if he hadn't had a fever, I suppose, 
eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting! Bah!" And Mr. Grimwig poked 
the fire with a flourish.
"He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir," retorted Mrs. Bedwin 
indignantly. "I know what children are, sir, and have done these forty 
years; and people who can't say the same, shouldn't say anything about 
them. That's my opinion!"
This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted 
nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and 
smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was stopped 
by Mr. Brownlow.
"Silence!" said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from 
feeling. "Never let me hear the boy's name again. I rang to tell you that. 
Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. 
Remember! I am in earnest."
There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow's that night.
Oliver's heart sank within him, when he thought of his good kind friends; 
it was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might 
have broken outright.



Chapter 18

How Oliver Passed His Time In The Improving Society Of His Reputable 
Friends.

About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to 
pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of 
reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which he 
clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in wilfully 
absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and, still more, 
in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and expense had 
been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on the fact of 
his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without his timely 
aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the dismal and 
affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he had 
succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his 
confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had 
unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin 
did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented, with 
tears in his eyes, that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the 
young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become 
the victim of certain evidence for the Crown; which, if it were not 
precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr. 
Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather 
disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great 
friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he 
might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant operation.
Little Oliver's blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew's words, and 
imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was 
possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty 
when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that 
deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-
communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the old 
Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he 
recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman 
and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy 
of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew's searching look, he 
felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor 
unrelished by that wary old gentleman.
The Jew smiled hideously; and patting Oliver on the head, said, that if he 
kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would be 
very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with an 
old patched greatcoat, he went out, and locked the room door behind him.
And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many 
subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and 
left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts: which, never 
failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago 
have formed of him, were sad indeed.
After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room door unlocked; and 
he was at liberty to wander about the house.
It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden chimney-
pieces and large doors, with panelled walls, and cornices to the ceilings; 
which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were ornamented in 
various ways; from all of these tokens Oliver concluded that a long time 
ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better people, and had 
perhaps been quite gay and handsome, dismal and dreary as it looked now.
Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and 
sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper 
across the floor, and run back, terrified, to their holes. With these 
exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and 
often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room, 
he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street door, to be as 
near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and 
counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned
In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed; the bars which 
held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was 
admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top, which made the 
rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a back-
garret window with rusty bars outside which had no shutter; and out of 
this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but 
nothing was to be described from it but a confused and crowded mass of 
house-tops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a 
grizzly head might be seen, peering over a parapet-wall of a distant house: 
but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver's 
observation was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years, 
it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different 
objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard - which he 
had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St. 
Paul's Cathedral.
One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, 
the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some 
anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (which to do him justice, 
was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and aim, 
he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, 
straightway.
Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful, too happy to have some 
faces, however bad, to look upon, and too desirous to conciliate those 
about him, when he could honestly do so, to throw any objection in the way 
of this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on 
the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table, so that he could take his 
foot in his lap, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins 
designated as "japanning his trotter-cases." Which phrase, rendered into 
plain English, signifieth, cleaning his boots.
Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational 
animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude 
smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his 
boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken 
them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his 
reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the 
feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his 
thoughts, he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of 
romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on 
Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then, raising 
his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said, half in abstractions, and half 
to Mr. Bates:
"What a pity it is he isn't a prig!"
"Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him."
The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They 
both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.
"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully.
"I think I know that," replied Oliver, looking up. "It's a th- You're one, 
are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself.
"I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anything else." Mr. Dawkins 
gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked 
at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying 
anything to the contrary.
"I am," repeated the Dodger. "So's Charley. So's Fagin. So's Sikes. So's 
Nancy. So's Bet. So we all are, down to the dog; and he's the downiest one 
of the lot!"
"And the least given to preaching," added Charley Bates.
"He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing 
himself; no, nor if you tied him up in one, and left him there without 
wittles for a fortnight," said the Dodger.
"Not a bit of it," observed Charley.
"He's a rum dog. Don't he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or 
sings when he's in company!" pursued the Dodger. "Won't he growl at all, 
when he hears a fiddle playing! And don't he hate other dogs as ain't of 
his breed! Oh, no!"
"He's an out-and-out Christian," said Charley.
This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was 
an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known it; 
for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be out-and-out 
Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes's dog, there exist strong and 
singular points of resemblance.
"Well, well," said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had 
strayed, with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his 
proceedings. "This hasn't got anything to do with young Green here."
"No more it has," said Charley. "Why don't you put yourself under Fagin, 
Oliver -"
"And make your fortun' out of hand?" added the Dodger, with a grin.
"And so be able to retire on your property, and do the genteel, as I mean 
to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-
second Tuesday in Trinity-week," said Charley Bates.
"I don't like it," rejoined Oliver timidly; "I wish they would let me go. I 
- I - would rather go."
"And Fagin would rather not!" rejoined Charley.
Oliver knew this too well: but thinking it might be dangerous to express 
his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-
cleaning.
"Go!" exclaimed the Dodger. "Why, where's your spirit? Don't you take any 
pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?"
"Oh, blow that!" said Master Bates, drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs 
from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, "that's too mean; that 
is."
"I couldn't do it," said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.
"You can leave your friends, though," said Oliver, with a half-smile; "and 
let them be punished for what you did."
"That," rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe - "that was all out of 
consideration for Fagin, 'cause the traps know that we work together, and 
he might have got into trouble if we hadn't made our lucky; that was the 
move, wasn't it, Charley?"
Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken; but the recollection of 
Oliver's flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling 
got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his 
throat; and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes 
long.
"Look here!" said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and 
halfpence; "here's a jolly life! What's the odds where it comes from? Here, 
catch hold; there's plenty more where they were took from. You won't, won't 
you? Oh, you precious flat!"
"It's naughty, ain't it, Oliver?" inquired Charley Bates. "He'll come to be 
scragged, won't he?"
"I don't know what that means," replied Oliver.
"Something in this way, old feller," said Charley. As he said it, Master 
Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the 
air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through 
his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that 
scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.
"That's what it means," said Charley. "Look how he stares, Jack! I never 
did see such prime company as that 'ere boy; he'll be the death of me, I 
know he will." Master Charles Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed 
his pipe with tears in his eves.
"You've been brought up bad," said the Dodger, surveying his boots with 
much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. "Fagin will make something 
of you, though, or you'll be the first he ever had that turned out 
unprofitable. You'd better begin at once; for you'll come to the trade long 
before you think of it; and you're only losing time, Oliver."
Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own; 
which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a 
glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they 
led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he 
could do, would be to secure Fagin's favour without more delay, by the 
means which they themselves had employed to gain it.
"And always put this in your pipe, Nolly," said the Dodger, as the Jew was 
heard unlocking the door above, "if you don't take fogles and tickers -"
"What's the good of talking in that way?" interposed Master Bates; "he 
don't know what you mean."
"If you don't take pocket-handkerchiefs and watches," said the Dodger, 
reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity, "some other 
cove will; so that the coves that lose 'em will be all the worse, and 
you'll be all the worse too, and nobody half a ha'p'orth the better, except 
the chaps wot gets them- and you've just as good a right to them as they 
have."
"To be sure, to be sure!" said the Jew, who had entered, unseen by Oliver. 
"It all lies in a nutshell, my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger's word 
for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade."
The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the 
Dodger's reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his pupil's 
proficiency.
The conversation proceeded no further at this time, for the Jew had 
returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had 
never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and 
who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the 
lady, now made his appearance.
Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger, having perhaps numbered 
eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment 
towards the young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself 
conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional 
acquirements. He had small, twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a 
fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His 
wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the 
company by stating that his "time" was only out an hour before; and that, 
in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had 
not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling 
added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating 
clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burned holes in 
them, and there was no remedy against the county. The same remark he 
considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair; which he 
held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by 
stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two mortal 
long hard-working days; and that he "Wished he might be busted if he warn't 
as dry as a lime-basket."
"Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver"? inquired the Jew, 
with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.
"I - I - don't know, sir," replied Oliver.
"Who's that?" inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.
"A young friend of mine, my dear," replied the Jew.
"He's in luck, then," said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. 
"Never mind where I come from, young 'un; you'll find your way there, soon 
enough, I'll bet a crown!"
At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same subject, 
they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin, and withdrew.
After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their 
chairs towards the fire: and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by 
him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his 
hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of 
the Dodger, and amiability of Charles Bates, and the liberality of the Jew 
himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly 
exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same; for the house of correction 
becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew, and 
left the party to their repose.
From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost 
constant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with the 
Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver's, Mr. Fagin 
best knew. At other times the old man would tell them stories of robberies 
he had committed in his younger days; mixed up with so much that was droll 
and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing that 
he was amused in spite of all his better feelings.
In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils; and having prepared 
his mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship 
of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, was now slowly instilling 
into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its 
hue for ever.



Chapter 19

In Which A Notable Plan Is Discussed And Determined On.

It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew, buttoning his greatcoat 
tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears so 
as completely to obscure the lower part of his face, emerged from his den. 
He paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him; and 
having listened while the boys made all secure, and until their retreating 
footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down the street as quickly as he 
could.
The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighbourhood of 
Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street; 
and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the 
direction of Spitalfields.
The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; 
the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the 
touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew to 
be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter of 
the walls and doorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome 
reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved, 
crawling forth, by night, in search of some rich offal for a meal.
He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he 
reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon 
became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in 
that close and densely populated quarter.
The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at 
all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of 
the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length 
turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the 
door of a house in this street, he knocked; and having exchanged a few 
muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room door; and a man's voice 
demanded who was there.
"Only me, Bill; only me, my dear," said the Jew, looking in.
"Bring in your body then," said Sikes. "Lie down, you stupid brute! Don't 
you know the devil when he's got a greatcoat on?"
Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin's outer 
garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a 
chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen, wagging his tail 
as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his nature 
to be.
"Well!" said Sikes.
"Well, my dear," replied the Jew. -"Ah! Nancy."
The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to 
imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not 
met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the 
subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's 
behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and 
bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it; for it was a cold 
night, and no mistake.
"It is cold, Nancy, dear," said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over 
the fire. "It seems to go right through one," added the old man, touching 
his side.
"It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart," said Mr. 
Sikes. "Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It's 
enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcass shivering in that 
way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave."
Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many; 
which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with 
several kinds of liquids. Sikes, pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the 
Jew drink it off.
"Quite enough, quite, thank ye, Bill" replied the Jew, putting down the 
glass after just setting his lips to it.
"What! You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?" inquired 
Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. "Ugh!" With a hoarse grunt of contempt, 
Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into 
the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself, which 
he did at once.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second 
glassful; not in curiosity, for he had seen it often before; but in a 
restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished 
apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief 
that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more 
suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons 
which stood in a corner and a "life-preserver" that hung over the chimney-
piece.
"There," said Sikes, smacking his lips. "Now I'm ready."
"For business?" inquired the Jew.
"For business," replied Sikes; "so say what you've got to say."
"About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?" said the Jew, drawing his chair 
forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
"Yes. Wot about it?" inquired Sikes.
"Ah! you know what I mean, my dear," said the Jew. "He knows what I mean, 
Nancy; don't he?"
"No, he don't," sneered Mr. Sikes. "Or he won't, and that's the same thing. 
Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit there, winking 
and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn't the very first 
that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?"
"Hush, Bill, hush!" said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this 
burst of indignation; "somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear 
us."
"Let 'em hear!" said Sikes; "I don't care." But as Mr. Sikes did care, on 
reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.
"There, there," said the Jew coaxingly. "It was only my caution, nothing 
more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, 
Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!" said the 
Jew, rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of 
anticipation.
"Not at all," replied Sikes coldly.
"Not to be done at all!" echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
"No, not at all," rejoined Sikes. "At least it can't be a put-up job, as we 
expected."
"Then it hasn't been properly gone about," said the Jew, turning pale with 
anger. "Don't tell me!"
"But I will tell you," retorted Sikes. "Who are you that's not to be told? 
I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a 
fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants into a line."
"Do you mean to tell me, Bill," said the Jew, softening as the other grew 
heated, "that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?"
"Yes, I do mean to tell you so," replied Sikes. "The old lady has had 'em 
these twenty year; and, if you were to give 'em five hundred pound, they 
wouldn't be in it."
"But do you mean to say, my dear," remonstrated the Jew, "that the women 
can't be got over?"
"Not a bit of it," replied Sikes.
"Not by flash Toby Crackit?" said the Jew incredulously. "Think what women 
are, Bill."
"No; not even by flash Toby Crackit," replied Sikes. "He says he's worn 
sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been 
loitering down there, and it's all of no use."
"He should have tried moustachios and a pair of military trousers, my 
dear," said the Jew.
"So he did," rejoined Sikes, "and they warn't of no more use than the other 
plant."
The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes 
with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head, and said, with a deep 
sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was 
up.
"And yet," said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, ait's a sad 
thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it."
"So it is," said Mr. Sikes. "Worse luck!"
A long silence ensued, during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought 
with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. 
Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of 
irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if 
she had been deaf to all that passed.
"Fagin," said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed, "is it 
worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?"
"Yes," said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
"Is it a bargain?" inquired Sikes.
"Yes, my dear, yes," rejoined the Jew, his eyes glistening, and every 
muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had 
awakened.
"Then," said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, "let 
it come off as soon as you like. Toby and I were over the garden wall the 
night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's 
barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and 
softly."
"Which is that, Bill?" asked the Jew eagerly.
"Why," whispered Sikes," as you cross the lawn -"
"Yes, yes," said the Jew, bending his head forward with his eyes almost 
staring out of it.
"Umph!" cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, 
looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. "Never 
mind what part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to 
be on the safe side when one deals with you."
"As you like, my dear, as you like," replied the Jew. "Is there no help 
wanted, but yours and Toby's?"
"None," said Sikes. "'Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both 
got; the second you must find us."
"A boy!" exclaimed the Jew. "Oh! then it's a panel, eh?"
"Never mind wot it is!" replied Sikes. "I want a boy, and he mustn't be a 
big un. Lord!" said Sikes reflectively, "if I'd only got that young boy of 
Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out 
by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent 
Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was earning 
money, teaches him to read and write, and in times makes 'prentice of him. 
And so they go on," said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection 
of his wrongs, "so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's 
a Providence they haven't), we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the 
whole trade, in a year or two."
"No more we should," acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during 
this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. "Bill!"
"What now?" inquired Sikes.
The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; 
and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. 
Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution 
unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch 
him a jug of beer.
"You don't want any beer," said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her 
seat very composedly.
"I tell you I do!" replied Sikes.
"Nonsense," rejoined the girl coolly. "Go on, Fagin. I know what he is 
going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me."
The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some 
surprise.
"Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?" he asked at length. 
"You've known her long enough to trust her, or the devil's in it. She ain't 
one to blab. Are you, Nancy?"
"I should think not!" replied the young lady, drawing her chair up to the 
table, and putting her elbows upon it.
"No, no, my dear, I know you're not," said the Jew; "but -" and again the 
old man paused.
"But wot?" inquired Sikes.
"I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my 
dear, as she was the other night," replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a 
glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into 
sundry exclamations of "Keep the game a-going!"
"Never say die!" and the like. These seemed to have the effect of 
reassuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied 
air, and resumed his seat, as did Mr. Sikes likewise.
"Now, Fagin," said Nancy, with a laugh; "tell Bill at once, about Oliver!"
"Ha! you're a clever one, my dear; the sharpest girl I ever saw!" said the 
Jew, patting her on the neck. "It was about Oliver I was going to speak, 
sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!"
"What about him?" demanded Sikes.
"He's the boy for you, my dear," replied the Jew, in a hoarse whisper, 
laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
"He!" exclaimed Sikes.
"Have him, Bill!" said Nancy. "I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't 
be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you ,want, if he's 
only to open a door for you. Depend upon it, he's a safe one, Bill."
"I know he is," rejoined Fagin. "He's been in good training these last few 
weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others 
are all too big."
"Well, he is just the size I want," said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
"And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear," interposed the Jew; "he 
can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough."
"Frighten him!" echoed Sikes. "It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If 
there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work, in for a 
penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, 
before you send him. Mark my words!" said the robber, poising a crowbar, 
which he had drawn from under the bedstead.
"I've thought of it all," said the Jew, with energy. "I've - I've had my 
eye upon him, my dears, close - close. Once let him feel that he is one of 
us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's 
ours! Ours for his life! Oho! It couldn't have come about better!" The old 
man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders 
into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.
"Ours!" said Sikes. "Yours, you mean."
"Perhaps I do, my dear," said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. "Mine, if you 
like, Bill."
"And wot," said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, "wot 
makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there 
are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick 
and choose from?"
"Because they're of no use to me, my dear," replied the Jew, with some 
confusion, a not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they get 
into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed, my 
dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides," said the 
Jew, recovering his self-possession, "he has us now if he could only give 
us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how 
he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a 
robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being 
obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way - which would be 
dangerous, and we should lose by it besides."
"When is it to be done?" asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation 
on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received 
Fagin's affectation of humanity.
"Ah, to be sure," said the Jew; "when is it to be done, Bill?"
"I planned with Toby, the night arter tomorrow," rejoined Sikes, in a surly 
voice, "if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy."
"Good," said the Jew; "there's no moon."
"No," rejoined Sikes.
"It's all arranged, about bringing off the swag, is it?" asked the Jew.
Sikes nodded.
"And about -"
"Oh, ah, it's all planned," rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. "Never mind 
particulars. You'd better bring the boy here tomorrow night. I shall get 
off the stones an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep 
the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do."
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was 
decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night 
had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, 
if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to 
accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than 
anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for 
the purposes (If the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to 
the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes 
should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible 
by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might befall him, or any 
punishment with which it might be necessary to visit him; it being 
understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any 
representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be 
confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony 
of flash Toby Crackit.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a 
furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling 
forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild 
execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted 
upon producing his box of housebreaking tools; which he had no sooner 
stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and 
properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar 
beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, 
and went to sleep where he fell.
"Good-night, Nancy," said the Jew muffling himself up as before.
"Good-night."
Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her narrowly. There was no 
flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby 
Crackit himself could be.
The Jew again bade her good-night, and bestowing a sly kick upon the 
prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.
"Always the way!" muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. "The 
worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some 
long-forgotten feeling; and the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! 
ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!"
Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his 
way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode, where the Dodger was 
sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.
"Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him," was his first remark as they 
descended the stairs.
"Hours ago," replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. "Here he is!"
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with 
anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like 
death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it 
wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but 
an instant, fled to heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time 
to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
"Not now," said the Jew, turning softly away. "Tomorrow. Tomorrow."



Chapter 20

Wherein Oliver Is Delivered Over To Mr. William Sikes.

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that 
a new pair of shoes, with strong, thick soles, had been placed at his 
bedside, and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased 
with the discovery, hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; 
but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast 
along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his 
alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.
"To - to - stop there, sir?" asked Oliver anxiously.
"No, no, my dear. Not to stop there," replied the Jew. "We shouldn't like 
to lose you. Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! 
ha! ha! We won't be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh, no no!"
The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, 
looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he 
knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could.
"I suppose," said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, "you want to know 
what you're going to Bill's for - eh, my dear?"
Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading 
his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.
"Why, do you think?" inquired Fagin, parrying the question.
"Indeed I don't know, sir," replied Oliver.
"Bah!" said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a 
close perusal of the boy's face. "Wait till Bill tells you, then."
The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater curiosity 
on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, 
he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his 
own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other 
opportunity, for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night, when he 
prepared to go abroad.
"You may burn a candle," said the Jew, putting one upon the table. "And 
here's a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!"
"Good-night!" replied Oliver softly.
The Jew walked to the door, looking over his shoulder at the boy as he 
went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.
Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light 
it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that 
the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from 
the dark end of the room.
"Take heed, Oliver! take heed!" said the old man, shaking his right hand 
before him in a warning manner. "He's a rough man, and thinks nothing of 
blood when his Own is up. Whatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he 
bids you. Mind!" Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered 
his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, 
nodding his head, left the room.
Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and 
pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more 
he thought of the Jew's admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its 
real purpose and meaning. He could think of no bad object to be attained by 
sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his 
remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that 
he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the 
housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose, could be 
engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much 
where he was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained 
lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the 
candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, began to 
read.
He turned over the leaves carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage 
which attracted his attention he soon became intent upon the volume. It was 
a history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were 
soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the 
blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely 
wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which 
would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at 
last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that 
in their horror they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet 
to end their agony. Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at 
dead of night, had been tempted (as they said) and led on, by their own bad 
thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the 
limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid, 
that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon 
them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow 
murmurs, by the spirits of the dead.
In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. 
Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such 
deeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for 
crimes so fearful and appalling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and 
besought in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his 
present dangers; and that if any aid were to' be raised up for a poor, 
outcast boy, who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might 
come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in the midst 
of wickedness and guilt.
He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his 
hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.
"What's that?" he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure 
standing by the door. "Who's there?"
"Me. Only me," replied a tremulous voice.
Oliver raised the candle above his head, and looked towards the door. It 
was Nancy.
"Put down the light," said the girl, turning away her head; "it hurts my 
eyes."
Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. The 
girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him, and wrung her 
hands; but made no reply.
"God forgive me!" she cried, after a while; "I never thought of this."
"Has anything happened?" asked Oliver. "Can I help you? I will if I can. I 
will, indeed.
She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling 
sound, gasped for breath.
"Nancy!" cried Oliver, "what is it?"
The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, 
suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her, and shivered with cold.
Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for 
a little time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and 
looked round.
"I don't know what comes over me sometimes," said she, affecting to busy 
herself in arranging her dress; "it's this damp, dirty room, I think. Now, 
Nolly, dear, are you ready?"
"Am I to go with you?" asked Oliver.
"Yes; I have come from Bill," replied the girl. "You are to go with me."
"What for?" asked Oliver, recoiling.
"What for?" echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the 
moment they encountered the boy's face. "Oh! For no harm."
"I don't believe it," said Oliver, who had watched her closely.
"Have it your own way," rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. "For no 
good, then."
Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl's better feelings, 
and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his 
helpless state. But, then, the thought darted across his mind that it was 
barely eleven o'clock; and that many people were still in the streets, of 
whom surely some might be found to give credence to his tale. As the 
reflection occurred to him, he stepped forward; and said, somewhat hastily, 
that he was ready.
Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his 
companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke and cast upon him a look 
of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been 
passing in his thoughts.
"Hush!" said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she 
looked cautiously round. "You can't help yourself. I have tried hard for 
you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are 
to get loose from here, this is not the time."
Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great 
surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and 
agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.
"I have saved you from being ill - used once, and I will again, and I do 
now," continued the girl aloud; "for those who would have fetched you, if I 
had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your 
being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself 
and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for 
you already, as true as God sees me show it."
She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and 
continued, with great rapidity:
"Remember this! And don't let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could 
help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don't mean to harm you; 
whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you 
is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!"
She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing 
out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, 
quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, 
when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same 
vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him 
in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, 
but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant.
The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his 
ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick 
and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he 
came there, when the carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew's steps 
had been directed on the previous evening.
For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, 
and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl's voice was in his ear, 
beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the 
heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; for he was 
already in the house, and the door was shut.
"This way," said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. "Bill!"
"Hallo!" replied Sikes, appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. 
"Oh! That's the time of day. Come on!"
This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty 
welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes's temperament. Nancy, appearing much 
gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.
"Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom," observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. 
"He'd have been in the way."
"That's right," rejoined Nancy.
"So you've got the kid," said Sikes, when they had all reached the room, 
closing the door as he spoke.
"Yes, here he is," replied Nancy.
"Did he come quiet?" inquired Sikes.
"Like a lamb," rejoined Nancy.
"I'm glad to hear it," said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; "for the sake 
of his young carcass, as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, 
young un, and let me read you a lecture, which is as well got over at 
once."
Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw 
it into a corner; and then taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by 
the table, and stood the boy in front of him.
"Now, first, do you know wot this is?" inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-
pistol which lay on the table.
Oliver replied in the affirmative.
"Well, then, look here," continued Sikes. "This is powder; that 'ere's a 
bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin'."
Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and 
Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.
"Now it's loaded," said Mr Sikes, when he had finished.
"Well," said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist tightly, and putting the 
barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy 
could not repress a start; "if you speak a word when you're out o' doors 
with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head 
without notice. So, if you do make up your mind to speak without leave, say 
your prayers first."
Having bestowed a scowl upon the object of this warning, to increase its 
effect, Mr. Sikes continued:
"As near as I know, there isn't anybody as would be asking very partickler 
arter you, if you was disposed of; so I needn't take this devil-and-all of 
trouble to explain matters to you, if it warn't for your own good. D'ye 
hear me?"
"The short and the long of what you mean," said Nancy, speaking very 
emphatically, and slightly frowning at Oliver as if to bespeak his serious 
attention to her words, "is, that if you're crossed by him in this job you 
have on hand, you'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards, by shooting 
him through the head, and will take your chance of swinging for it, as you 
do for a great many other things in the way of business, every month of 
your life."
"That's it!" observed Mr. Sikes approvingly; "women can always put things 
in fewest words. - Except when it's blowing up; and then they lengthens it 
out. And now that he's thoroughly up to it, let's have some supper, and get 
a snooze before starting."
In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth; and, 
disappearing for a few minutes, presently returned with a pot of porter and 
a dish of sheep's heads; which gave occasion to several pleasant witticisms 
on the part of Mr. Sikes, founded upon the singular coincidence of 
"jemmies" being a cant name, common to them. and also to an ingenious 
implement much used in his profession. Indeed, the worthy gentleman, 
stimulated perhaps by the immediate prospect of being on active service, 
was in great spirits and good-humour; in proof whereof, it may be here 
remarked, that he humorously drank all the beer at a draught, and did not 
utter, on a rough calculation, more than fourscore oaths during the whole 
progress of the meal.
Supper being ended - it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great 
appetite for it - Mr. Sikes disposed of a couple of glasses of spirits and 
water, and threw himself on the bed; ordering Nancy, with many imprecations 
in case of failure, to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself 
in his clothes, by command of the same authority, on a mattress upon the 
floor; and the girl, mending the fire, sat before it, in readiness to rouse 
them at the appointed time.
For a long time Oliver lay awake, thinking it not impossible that Nancy 
might seek that opportunity of whispering some further advice; but the girl 
sat brooding over the fire, without moving, save now and then to trim the 
light. Weary with watching and anxiety, he at length fell asleep.
When he awoke, the table was covered with tea-things, and Sikes was 
thrusting various articles into the pockets of his greatcoat, which hung 
over the back of a chair; while Nancy was busily engaged in preparing 
breakfast. It was not yet daylight; for the candle was still burning, and 
it was quite dark outside. A sharp rain, too, was beating against the 
window-panes; and the sky looked black and cloudy.
"Now, then!" growled Sikes, as Oliver started up; "half-past five! Look 
sharp, or you'll get no breakfast; for it's late as it is."
Oliver was not long in making his toilet; and having taken some breakfast, 
he replied to a surly inquiry from Sikes, by saying that he was quite 
ready.
Nancy, scarcely looked at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie round 
his throat, and Sikes gave him a large, rough cape to button over his 
shoulders. Thus attired, he gave his hand to the robber, who, merely 
pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had that same pistol in 
a side-pocket of his greatcoat, clasped it firmly in his, and, exchanging a 
farewell with Nancy, led him away.
Oliver turned, for an instant, when they reached the door, in the hope of 
meeting a look from the girl. But she had resumed her old seat in front of 
the fire, and sat, perfectly motionless, before it.



Chapter 21

The Expedition.

It was a cheerless morning when they got into the street; blowing and 
raining hard; and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had been 
very wet; for large pools of water had collected in the road; and the 
kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the coming day in 
the sky; but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom of the scene: the 
sombre light only serving to pale that which the street lamps afforded, 
without shedding any warmer or brighter tints upon the wet housetops, and 
dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody stirring in that quarter of the 
town; for the windows of the houses were all closely shut; and the streets 
through which they passed, were noiseless and empty.
By the time they had turned into Bethnal Green Road, the day had fairly 
begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished; a few country 
wagons were slowly toiling on, towards London; and now and then, a 
stagecoach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by; the driver bestowing, as 
he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy wagoner who, by keeping on the 
wrong side of the road, had endangered his arriving at the office, a 
quarter of a minute after his time. The public-houses, with gas-lights 
burning inside, were already open. By degrees, other shops began to be 
unclosed, and a few scattered people were met with. Then, came straggling 
groups of labourers going to their work; then, men and women with fish-
baskets on their heads; donkey carts laden with vegetables; chaise-carts 
filled with live stock or whole carcasses of meat; milk-women with pails: 
an unbroken concourse of people, trudging out with various supplies to the 
eastern suburbs of the town. As they approached the city, the noise and 
traffic gradually increased: when they threaded the streets between 
Shoreditch and Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. 
It was as light as it was likely to be, till night came on again; and the 
busy morning of half the London population had begun.
Turning down Sun Street and Crown Street, and crossing Finsbury Square, Mr. 
Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell Street, into Barbican; thence into Long 
Lane, and so into Smithfield; from which latter place are a tumult of 
discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with amazement.
It was market morning. The ground was covered, nearly ankle-deep, with 
filth and mire; a thick steam perpetually rising from the reeking bodies of 
the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest upon the 
chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre of the large 
area, and as many temporary pens as could be crowded into the vacant space, 
were filled with sheep; tied up to posts by the gutter side were long lines 
of beasts and oxen, three or four deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, 
hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers, and vagabonds of every low grade, were 
mingled together in a mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking of dogs, 
the bellowing and plunging of oxen, the bleating of sheep, the grunting and 
squeaking of pigs; the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling 
on all sides; the ringing of bells and roar of voices, that issued from 
every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping and 
yelling; the hideous and discordant din that resounded from every corner of 
the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty figures 
constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the throng, 
rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite confounded the 
senses.
Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the thickest 
of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention on the numerous sights and 
sounds, which so astonished the boy. He nodded, twice or thrice, to a 
passing friend; and, resisting as many invitations to take a morning dram, 
pressed steadily onward, until they were clear of the turmoil, and had made 
their way through Hosier Lane into Holborn.
"No, young 'un!" said Sikes, looking up at the clock of St. Andrew's 
Church, "hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don't lag beyind 
already, Lazylegs!"
Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a jerk at his little companion's 
wrist; Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot, between a fast walk 
and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the housebreaker as well as he 
could.
They held their course at this rate, until they had passed Hyde Park 
corner, and were on their way to Kensington, when Sikes relaxed his pace, 
until an empty cart, which was at some little distance behind, came up. 
Seeing "Hounslow" written on it, he asked the driver, with as much civility 
as he could assume. if he would give them a lift as far as Isleworth.
"Jump up," said the man. "Is that your boy?"
"Yes; he's my boy," replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting his 
hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.
"Your father walks rather too quick for you, don't he, my man?" inquired 
the driver, seeing that Oliver was out of breath.
"Not a bit of it," replied Sikes, interposing. "He's used to it. Here, take 
hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!"
Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver, 
pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest himself.
As they passed the different mile-stones. Oliver wondered, more and more, 
where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith, Chiswick, 
Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they went on as steadily as 
if they had only just begun their journey. At length they came to a public-
house called the Coach and Horses: a little way beyond which another road 
appeared to turn off. And here, the cart stopped.
Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand all 
the while; and lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious look upon him, 
and rapped the side-pocket with his fist, in a significant manner.
"Good-bye, boy," said the man.
"He's sulky," replied Sikes, giving him a shake; "he's sulky. A young dog! 
Don't mind him."
"Not I!" rejoined the other, getting into his cart. "It's a fine day after 
all." And he drove away.
Sikes waited until he had fairly gone; and then, telling Oliver he might 
look about him if he wanted, once again led him onward on his journey.
They turned round to the left, a short way past the public-house; and then, 
taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time; passing many large 
gardens and gentlemen's houses on both sides of the way, and stopping for 
nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town. Here against the wall 
of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty large letters "Hampton." They 
lingered about, in the fields, for some hours. At length, they came back 
into the town; and, turning into an old public-house with a defaced 
signboard, ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.
The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room, with a great beam across the 
middle of the ceiling, and benches, with high backs to them, by the fire; 
on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and 
smoking. They took no notice of Oliver, and very little of Sikes; and, as 
Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade sat in a 
corner by themselves, without being much troubled by their company.
They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat so long after it, while Mr. 
Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver began to feel 
quite certain they were not going any farther. Being much tired with the 
walk, and getting up so early, he dozed a little at first; then, quite 
overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the tobacco, fell asleep.
It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing 
himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy in 
close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint of 
ale.
"So, you're going on to Lower Halliford, are you?" inquired Sikes.
"Yes, I am," replied the man, who seemed a little the worse - or better, as 
the case might be - for drinking; "and not slow about it neither. My horse 
hasn't got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in the 
mornin'; and he won't be long a-doing of it. Here's luck to him! Ecod! he's 
a good un."
"Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?" demanded Sikes, 
pushing the ale towards his new friend.
"If you're going directly, I can," replied the man, looking out of the pot. 
"Are you going to Halliford?"
"Going on to Shepperton," replied Sikes.
"I'm your man, as far I go," replied the other. "Is all paid, Becky?"
"Yes, the other gentleman's paid," replied the girl.
"I say!" said the man, with tipsy gravity; "that won't do, you know."
"Why not?" rejoined Sikes. "You're a-going to accommodate us, and wot's to 
prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?"
The stranger reflected upon this argument, with a very profound face; and 
having done so, seized Sikes by the hand, and declared he was a real good 
fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking; as, if he had been 
sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.
After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company good-
night, and went out; the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as they did 
so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see the party 
start.
The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing 
outside, ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without any 
further ceremony; and the man to whom he belonged, having lingered for a 
minute or two to bear him up," and to defy the hostler and the world to 
produce his equal, mounted also. Then, the hostler was told to give the 
horse his head; and, his head being given to him, he made a very unpleasant 
use of it, tossing it into the air with great disdain, and running into the 
parlour windows over the way; after performing those feats, and supporting 
himself for a short time on his hind legs, he started off at great speed, 
and rattled out of the town right gallantly.
The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river and the marshy 
ground about, and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was piercing 
cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken, for the driver 
had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him into conversation. 
Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the cart, bewildered with alarm 
and apprehension, and figuring strange objects in the gaunt trees, whose 
branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some fantastic joy at the 
desolation of the scene.
As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a light in 
the ferry-house window opposite, which streamed across the road, and threw 
into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves beneath it. There was a 
dull sound of falling water not far off; and the leaves of the old tree 
stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed like quiet music for the repose 
of the dead.
Sunbury was passed through; and they came again into the lonely road. Two 
or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took Oliver by 
the hand, and they once again walked on.
They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected; but 
still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes and over 
cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights of a town at 
no great distance. On looking intently forward. Oliver saw that the water 
was just below them, and that they were coming to the foot of a bridge.
Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then turned 
suddenly down a bank upon the left.
"The water!" thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. "He has brought me to 
this lonely place to murder me!"
He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for his 
young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house, all 
ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the dilapidated 
entrance; and one storey above; but no light was visible. The building was 
dark, dismantled, and to, all appearance, uninhabited. Sikes, with Oliver's 
hand still in his, softly approached the low porch, and raised the latch. 
The door yielded to the pressure, and they passed in together.



Chapter 22

The Burglary

"Hollo!" cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the 
passage.
"Don't make such a row," said Sikes, bolting the door. "Show a glim, Toby."
"Aha! my pal!" cried the same voice. "A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the 
gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient."
The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the 
person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers; for the noise of a 
wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct 
muttering, as of a man between asleep and awake.
"Do you hear?" cried the same voice. "There's Bill Sikes in the passage 
with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you took 
laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any fresher now, or 
do you want the iron candlestick to wake you thoroughly?"
A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the 
room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on the 
right hand, first, a feeble candle, and next, the form of the same 
individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the 
infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at the 
public-house on Saffron Hill.
"Bister Sikes!" exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; "cub id, 
sir; cub id."
"Here! you get on first," said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him. 
"Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels."
Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him; and 
they entered a low, dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken 
chairs, a table, and a very old couch; on which, with his legs much higher 
than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long clay pipe. 
He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with large brass 
buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring, shawl-pattern waistcoat; 
and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was) had no very great quantity 
of hair, either upon his head or face; but what he had, was of a reddish 
dye, and tortured into long corkscrew curls, through which he occasionally 
thrust some very dirty fingers, ornamented with large, common rings. He was 
a trifle above the middle size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but 
this circumstance by no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-
boots, which he contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively 
satisfaction.
"Bill, my boy!" said this figure, turning his head towards the door, "I'm 
glad to see you. I was almost afraid you'd given it up; in which case I 
should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!"
Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes rested 
on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting posture, and 
demanded who that was.
"The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the fire.
"Wud of Bister Fagid's lads," exclaimed Barney, with a grin.
"Fagin's, eh!" exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. "Wot an inwalable boy 
that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels! His mug is a fortun' 
to him."
"There- that's enough of that," interposed Sikes impatiently; and stooping 
over his recumbent friend, he whispered a few words in his ear; at which 
Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a long stare of 
astonishment.
"Now," said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, "if you'll give us something to 
eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or in me, 
at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself; for you'll 
have to go out with us again tonight, though not very far off."
Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool to 
the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarcely knowing where 
he was, or what was passing around him.
"Here," said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food and a 
bottle upon the table; "success to the crack!" He rose to honour the toast; 
and carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced to the table, 
filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents. Mr. Sikes did the 
same.
"A drain for the boy," said Toby, half-filling a wine glass. "Down with it, 
innocence."
"Indeed," said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face; "indeed, I 
-"
"Down with it!" echoed Toby. "Do you think I don't know what's good for 
you? Tell him to drink it, Bill."
"He had better!" said Sikes, clapping his hand upon his pocket. "Burn my 
body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink it, 
you perwerse imp; drink it!"
Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily 
swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a violent 
fit of coughing; which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and even drew a 
smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.
This done, and Sikes having finished his appetite (Oliver could eat nothing 
but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the two men laid 
themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained his stool by the 
fire; and Barney, wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself on the floor, 
close outside the fender.
They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but 
Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals upon the fire. Oliver fell 
into a heavy doze, imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes, or 
wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other of the 
scenes of the past day, when he was roused by Toby Crackit jumping up and 
declaring it was half-past one.
In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively 
engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their necks 
and chins in large, dark shawls, and drew on their greatcoats; while 
Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he 
hastily crammed into the pockets.
"Barkers for me, Barney," said Toby Crackit.
"Here they are," replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. "You loaded 
them yourself."
"All right!" replied Toby, stowing them away. "The persuaders?"
"I've got 'em," replied Sikes."
"Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies - nothing forgotten?" inquired Toby, 
fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.
"All right," rejoined his companion. "Bring them bits of timber, Barney. 
That's the time of day."
With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who, having 
delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening Oliver's cape.
"Now then!" said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver, who was completely stupefied by the unwonted exercise, and the air, 
and the drink which had been forced upon him, put his hand mechanically 
into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.
"Take his other hand, Toby," said Sikes. "Look out, Barney."
The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet. The 
two robbers issued forth, with Oliver between them. Barney, having made all 
fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.
It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in the 
early part of the night, and the atmosphere was so damp, that, although no 
rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes after leaving 
the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture that was floating 
about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards the lights which he had 
seen before. They were at no great distance off; and, as they walked pretty 
briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.
"Slap through the town," whispered Sikes; "there'll be nobody in the way, 
tonight, to see us."
Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little 
town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at 
intervals from some bedroom window; and the hoarse barking of dogs 
occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody abroad. 
They had cleared the town, as the church bell struck two.
Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After 
walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house 
surrounded by a wall, to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely pausing 
to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.
"The boy next," said Toby. "Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him."
Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the arms; 
and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass on the 
other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously towards the 
house.
And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and terror, 
saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the objects of the 
expedition. He clasped his hands together, and involuntarily uttered a 
subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came before his eyes; the cold sweat 
stood upon his ashy face; his limbs failed him; and he sank upon his knees.
"Get up!" murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol from 
his pocket; "get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass."
"Oh! for God's sake let me go!" cried Oliver; "let me run away and die in 
the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray have 
mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the bright 
angels that rest in heaven, have mercy upon me!"
The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had cocked 
the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his hand upon the 
boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house.
"Hush!" cried the man; "it won't answer here. Say another word, and I'll do 
your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no noise, and is 
quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench the shutter open. 
He's game enough now, I'll engage. I've seen older hands of his age took 
the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold night."
Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending Oliver 
on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little noise. 
After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to which he 
had referred, swung open on its hinges.
It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the 
ground, at the back of the house, which belonged to a scullery, or small 
brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so small, that 
the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to defend it more 
securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size 
nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sikes's art sufficed to overcome 
the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood wide open also.
"Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lamp from his 
pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; "I'm a-going to put 
you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore 
you, and along the little hall, to the street door; unfasten it, and let us 
in."
"There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach," interposed Toby. 
"Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill, with a 
jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em; which is the old lady's 
arms."
"Keep quiet, can't you?" replied Sikes, with a threatening look. "The room 
door is open, is it?"
"Wide," replied Toby, after peeping into to satisfy himself. "That game of 
that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog, 
who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels 
wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away tonight. So neat!"
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed 
without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get to 
work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it on the 
ground; and then by planting himself firmly with his head against the wall 
beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to make a step of 
his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting upon him, put 
Oliver gently through the window with his feet first; and, without leaving 
hold of his collar, planted him safely on the floor inside.
"Take this lantern," said Sikes, looking into the room. "You see the stairs 
afore you?"
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, "Yes." Sikes, pointing to the 
street door with the pistol barrel, briefly advised him to take notice that 
he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would fall dead 
that instant.
"It's done in a minute," said Sikes, in the same low whisper. "Directly I 
leave go of you, do your work. Hark!"
"What's that?" whispered the other man.
They listened intently.
"Nothing," said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. "Now!"
In the short time he had had to collect his senses, 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! Damnation, 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; 
and a cold, deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart; and he saw or heard 
no more.



Chapter 23

Which Contains The Substance Of A Pleasant Conversation Between Mr. Bumble 
And A Lady; And Shows That Even A Beadle May Be Susceptible On Some Points.

The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard 
thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and 
corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad; which, as if 
expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up in 
clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in air. 
Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed and fed 
to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and for the 
homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many hunger-worn 
outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times, who, let 
their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a more bitter 
world.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron 
of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the 
birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her 
own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a 
small, round table, on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished 
with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons enjoy. 
In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea. As she 
glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all possible 
kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction 
evidently increased - so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.
"Well!" said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking 
reflectively at the fire; "I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to be 
grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!"
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring he mental blindness 
of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver spoon (private 
property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded 
to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The 
black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. 
Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's hand.
"Drat the pot!" said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the 
hob; "a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What use is 
it of, to anybody! Except," said Mrs. Corney, pausing - "except to a poor, 
desolate creature like me. Oh, dear!"
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting 
her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and 
the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr. Corney 
(who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was 
overpowered.
"I shall never get another!" said Mrs. Corney pettishly; "I shall never get 
another - like him."
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is 
uncertain. It might have been the latter, for Mrs. Corney looked at it as 
she spoke, and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup, 
when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room door.
"Oh, come in with you!" said Mrs. Corney sharply. "Some of the old women 
dying, I suppose. They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand there, 
letting the cold air in, don't. What's amiss now, eh?"
"Nothing, ma'am, nothing," replied a man's voice.
"Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, "is that Mr. 
Bumble?"
"At your service, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to 
rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat: and who now made 
his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the 
other. "Shall I shut the door, ma'am?"
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety 
in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble 
taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it 
without permission.
"Hard weather, Mr. Bumble," said the matron.
"Hard, indeed, ma'am," replied the beadle. "Anti-parochial weather, this, 
ma'am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of 
twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed 
afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented."
"Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?" said the matron, sipping 
her tea.
"When, indeed, ma'am!" rejoined Mr. Bumble. "Why, here's one man that, in 
consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good 
pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma'am? Is he grateful? Not a 
copper farthing's worth of it! What does he do, ma'am, but ask for a few 
coals; if it's only a pocket-handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would 
he do with coals? Toast his cheese with 'em, and then come back for more. 
That's the way with these people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals 
today, and they'll come back for another, the day after tomorrow, as brazen 
as alabaster."
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; 
and the beadle went on.
"I never," said Mr. Bumble, "see anything like the pitch it's got to. The 
day afore yesterday, a man - you have been a married woman, ma'am, and I 
may mention it to you - a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. 
Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door when he has got 
company coming to dinner, and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he 
wouldn't go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer sent him 
out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. 'My heart! ' says the 
ungrateful villain, 'what's the use of this to me? You might as well give 
me a pair of iron spectacles!' 'Very good,' says our overseer, taking 'em 
away again, 'you won't get anything else here.' 'Then I'll die in the 
streets!' says the vagrant. 'Oh, no, you won't, says our overseer.'"
"Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?" interposed 
the matron. "Well, Mr. Bumble?"
"Well, ma'am," rejoined the beadle, "he went away; and he did die in the 
streets. There's a obstinate pauper for you!"
"It beats anything I could have believed," observed the matron 
emphatically. "But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, 
anyway, Mr. Bumble? You're a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. 
Come."
"Mrs. Corney," said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of 
superior information, "out-of-door relief, properly managed - properly 
managed, ma'am - is the parochial safeguard. The great principle of out-of-
door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don't want; and then 
they get tired of coming."
"Dear me!" exclaimed Mrs. Corney. "Well, that is a good one, too!"
"Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma'am," returned Mr. Bumble, "that's the great 
principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases that get 
into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that sick families 
have been relieved with slices of cheese. That's the rule now, Mrs. Corney, 
all over the country. But, however," said the beadle, stopping to unpack 
his bundle, "these are official secrets, ma'am; not to be spoken of; 
except, as I may say, among the parochial officers, such as ourselves. This 
is the port wine, ma'am, that the Board ordered for the infirmary: real, 
fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a 
bell; and no sediment!"
Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test 
its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers; 
folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in 
his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
"You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble," said the matron.
"It blows, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, "enough 
to cut one's ears off."
The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving 
towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her 
good-night, bashfully inquired whether - whether he wouldn't take a cup of 
tea?
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and 
stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly 
seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little 
teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat 
down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she 
coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr. 
Bumble coughed - louder this time than he had coughed yet.
"Sweet, Mr. Bumble?" inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
"Very sweet, indeed, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. 
Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was 
that beadle at that moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a 
handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the 
splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, 
occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious 
effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to facilitate 
his operations in the tea and toast department.
"You have a cat, ma'am, I see," said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in 
the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; "and kittens too, I 
declare!"
"I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think," replied the matron. 
"They're so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful, that they are quite 
companions for me."
"Very nice animals, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble approvingly; "so very 
domestic."
"Oh, yes!" rejoined the matron, with enthusiasm; "so fond of their home, 
too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure."
"Mrs. Corney, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with 
his teaspoon. "I mean to say this, ma'am, that any cat, or kitten, that 
could live with you, ma'am, and not be fond of its home, must be a ass, 
ma'am."
"Oh, Mr. Bumble!" remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
"It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, slowly 
flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him 
doubly impressive; "I would drown it myself, with pleasure."
"Then you're a cruel man," said the matron vivaciously, as she held out her 
hand for the beadle's cup; "and a very hard-hearted man besides."
"Hard-hearted, ma'am?" said Mr. Bumble. "Hard?" Mr. Bumble resigned his cup 
without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as she took it; 
and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a 
mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the 
fire.
It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting 
opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the 
fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and still 
keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and Mrs. 
Corney; which proceeding some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to 
admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble's part: he 
being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity, to give 
utterance to certain soft nothings, which, however well they may become the 
lips of the light and thoughtless, so seem immeasurably beneath the dignity 
of judges of the land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord 
mayors, and other great public functionaries but more particularly beneath 
the stateliness and gravity of a beadle; who (as is well known) should be 
the sternest and most inflexible among them all.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were of 
the best), it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, 
that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair 
by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself 
and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the 
circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was 
seated. Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble 
stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been 
scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. 
Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these 
consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble 
another cup of tea.
"Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?" said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking 
up into the matron's face; "are you hardhearted, Mrs. Corney?"
"Dear me!" exclaimed the matron, "what a very curious question from a 
single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?"
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast; 
whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed 
the matron.
"Mr. Bumble!" cried that discreet lady in a whisper, for the fright was so 
great, that she had quite lost her voice: "Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!" Mr. 
Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round 
the matron's waist.
As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would have 
screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was rendered 
unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door; which was no sooner heard, 
than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and began 
dusting them with great violence; while the matron sharply demanded who was 
there. It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the 
efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, 
that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.
"If you please, mistress," said a withered old female pauper, hideously 
ugly, putting her head in at the door, "old Sally is a-going fast."
"Well, what's that to me?" angrily demanded the matron. "I can't keep her 
alive, can I?"
"No, no, mistress," replied the old woman, "nobody can; she's far beyond 
the reach of help. I've seen a many people die; little babies and great 
strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough. But she's 
troubled in her mind; and when the fits are not on her; and that's not 
often, for she is dying very hard - she says she has got something to tell, 
which you must hear. She'll never die quiet till you come, mistress."
At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of 
invectives against old women who couldn't even die without purposely 
annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she 
hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came back, 
lest anything particular should occur; and bidding the messenger walk fast, 
and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from the room 
with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.
Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He 
opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely 
inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, 
and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat 
corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the 
table. Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off 
the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back 
towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of 
the furniture.



Chapter 24

Treats Of A Very Poor Subject - But Is A Short One, And May Be Found Of 
Importance In This History.

It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the 
matron's room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her 
face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque shaping 
of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand.
Alas! How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with their 
beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them 
as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have 
lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave 
Heaven's surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the 
dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the long-
forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very look of 
early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those who knew 
them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin's side in awe, and see 
the angel even upon earth.
The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering 
some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; and being at 
length compelled to pause for breath, gave the light into her hand, and 
remained behind to follow as she might; while the more nimble superior made 
her way to the room where the sick woman lay.
It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end. 
There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary's 
apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
"Cold night, Mrs. Corney," said this young gentleman, as the matron 
entered.
"Very cold, indeed, sir," replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, 
and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.
"You should get better coals out of your contractors," said the 
apothecary's deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty 
poker; "these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night."
"They're the Board's choosing, sir," returned the matron. "The least they 
could do, would be to keep us pretty warm; for our places are hard enough."
The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
"Oh!" said - the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had 
previously quite forgotten the patient, "it's all U. P. there, Mrs. 
Corney."
"It is, is it, sir?" asked the matron.
"If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised," said the 
apothecary's apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. "It's a break-
up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?"
The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the 
affirmative.
"Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row, ' said 
the young man. "Put the light on the floor. She won't see it there."
The attendant did as she was told, shaking her head mean while, to intimate 
that the woman would not die so easily; having done so; she resumed her 
seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The 
mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, 
and sat at the foot of the bed.
The apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the 
toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire, and made good use of it 
for ten minutes or so; when, apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. 
Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.
When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the 
bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch 
the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and 
made their ugliness appear terrible as, in this position, they began to 
converse in a low voice.
"Did she say any more, my dear, while I was gone?" inquired the messenger.
"Not a word," replied the other. "She plucked and tore at her arms for a 
little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn't 
much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain't so weak for an 
old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!"
"Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?" demanded the 
first.
"I tried to get it down," rejoined the other. "But her teeth were tight 
set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to 
get it back again. So I drank it; and it did me good!"
Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the 
two hags cowered nearer the fire, and chuckled heartily.
"I mind the time," said the first speaker, "when she would have done the 
same, and made rare fun of it afterwards."
"Ay, that she would," rejoined the other; "she had a merry heart. A many, 
many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as wax-work. My old 
eyes have seen them - ay, and those old hands touched them, too; for I have 
helped her, scores of times."
Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature shook 
them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought out an 
old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few grains into 
the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into her own. While 
they were thus employed, the matron, who had been impatiently watching 
until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor, joined them by the 
fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?
"Not long, mistress," replied the second woman, looking up into her face. 
"We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He'll be 
here soon enough for us all."
"Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!" said the matron sternly. "You, 
Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?"
"Often," answered the first woman.
"But will never be again," added the second one; "that is, she'll never 
wake again but once- and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!"
"Long or short," said the matron snappishly, "she won't find me here when 
she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing. 
It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I 
won't- that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a 
fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!"
She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned 
towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself 
upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.
"Who's that?" she cried in a hollow voice.
"Hush, hush!" said one of the women, stooping over her. "Lie down, lie 
down!"
"I'll never lie down again alive!" said the woman, struggling. "I will tell 
her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear."
She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the 
bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the 
two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
"Turn them away," said the woman drowsily; "make haste! make haste!"
The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous 
lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends; 
and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her, 
when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned 
to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and 
cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not 
unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the 
apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-
water which had been privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, 
by the worthy old ladies themselves.
"Now listen to me," said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great effort 
to revive one latent spark of energy. "In this very room - in this very bed 
- I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought into the house 
with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all soiled with dust and 
blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think - what was the year 
again!"
"Never mind the year," said the impatient auditor; "what about her?"
"Ay," murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, 
"what about her? - what about - I know!" she cried, jumping fiercely up, 
her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head - "I robbed her, so I 
did! She wasn't cold - I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole it!"
"Stole what, for God's sake?" cried the matron, with a gesture as if she 
would call for help.
"It!" replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. "The only 
thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but 
she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you! 
Rich gold, that might have saved her life!"
"Gold!" echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. 
"Go on, go on - yes - what of it? Who was the mother? When was it?"
"She charged me to keep it safe," replied the woman, with a groan, "and 
trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she 
first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death, perhaps, 
is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it 
all!"
"Known what?" asked the other. "Speak!"
"The boy grew so like his mother," said the woman, rambling on, and not 
heeding the question, "that I could never forget it when I saw his face. 
Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait; 
there's more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?"
"No, no," replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as 
they came more faintly from the dying woman. "Be quick, or it may be too 
late!"
"The mother," said the woman, making a more violent effort than before - 
"the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my 
ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when 
it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. ' 
And oh, kind Heaven! ' she said, folding her thin hands together, ' whether 
it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and 
take pity upon a lonely, desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!"'
"The boy's name?" demanded the matron.
"They called him Oliver," replied the woman feebly. "The gold I stole was -
"
"Yes, yes - what?" cried the other.
She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back 
instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting 
posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some 
indistinct sounds in her throat and fell lifeless on the bed.
"Stone dead!" said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door 
was opened.
"And nothing to tell, after all," rejoined the matron, walking carelessly 
away.
The two crones, to all appearances, too busily occupied in the preparations 
for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering 
about the body.



Chapter 25

Wherein This History Reverts To Mr. Fagin And Company.

While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in 
the old den - the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl - 
brooding over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, 
with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more 
cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms 
folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, 
abstractedly, on the rusty bars.
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. 
Chitling, all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against 
Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named 
gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional 
interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal 
of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served, 
he bestowed a variety of earnest glances, wisely regulating his own play by 
the result of his observations upon his neighbour's cards. It being a cold 
night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom, within 
doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he only 
removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for 
refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with 
gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.
Master Bates was also attentive to his play; but being of a more excitable 
nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more 
frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in 
many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific 
rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more 
than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these 
improprieties; all of which remonstrances Master Bates received in 
extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be "blowed," or to 
insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned 
witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited 
considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable that 
the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the 
circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the 
highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of 
every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in all 
his born days.
"That's two doubles and the rub," said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, 
as he drew half a crown from his waistcoat pocket. "I never see such a 
feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we've good cards, 
Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em."
Either the matter or the manner of this remark, which was made very 
ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of 
laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what 
was the matter.
"Matter, Fagin!" cried Charley. "I wish you had watched the play. Tommy 
Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against the 
Artful and him."
"Ay, ay!" said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that 
he was at no loss to understand the reason. "Try 'em again, Tom; try 'em 
again."
"No more of it for me, thankee, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling; "I've had 
enough. That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no standing 
again' him."
"Ha! ha! my dear," replied the Jew, "you must get up very early in the 
morning, to win against the Dodger."
"Morning!" said Charley Bates; "you must put your boots on overnight, and 
have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if 
you want to come over him."
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and 
offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a 
shilling a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this 
time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan 
of Newgate on the table with a piece of chalk which had served him in lieu 
of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.
"How precious dull you are, Tommy!" said the Dodger, stopping short when 
there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. "What do you 
think he's thinking of, Fagin?"
"How should I know, my dear?" replied the Jew, looking round as he plied 
the bellows. "About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the 
country, that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?"
"Not a bit of it," replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as 
Mr. Chitling was about to reply. "What do you say, Charley?"
"I should say," replied Master Bates, with a grin, "that he was uncommon 
sweet upon Betsy. See how he's a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here's a merry-go-
rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!"
Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of 
the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such 
violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where 
(the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length until 
his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began another 
laugh.
"Never mind him, my dear," said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and giving 
Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows. "Betsy's a 
fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her."
"What I mean to say, Fagin," replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face, 
"is, that that isn't anything to anybody here."
"No more it is," replied the Jew; "Charley will talk. Don't mind him, my 
dear; don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and you 
will make your fortune."
"So I do do as she bids me," replied Mr. Chitling; "I shouldn't have been 
milled, if it hadn't been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for 
you; didn't it, Fagin? And what's six weeks of it? It must come, some time 
or another, and why not in the winter time when you don't want to go out a-
walking so much; eh, Fagin?"
"Ah, to be sure, my dear," replied the Jew.
"You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you," asked the Dodger, winking 
upon Charley and the Jew, "if Bet was all right?"
"I mean to say that I shouldn't," replied Tom angrily. "There, now. Ah! 
Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?"
"Nobody, my dear," replied the Jew; "not a soul, Tom. I don't know one of 
'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear."
"I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?" 
angrily pursued the poor, half-witted dupe. "A word from me would have done 
it; wouldn't it, Fagin?"
"To be sure it would, my dear," replied the Jew.
"But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?" demanded Tom, pouring question upon 
question with great volubility.
"No, no, to be sure," replied the Jew; "you were too stout-hearted for 
that. A deal too stout, my dear!"
"Perhaps I was," rejoined Tom, looking round; "and if I was, what's to 
laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?"
The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to 
assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the 
company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But, 
unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never 
more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a 
violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary 
ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, 
being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so 
well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and caused 
him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath, while Mr. 
Chitling looked on in intense dismay.
"Hark!" cried the Dodger, at this moment, 'II heard the tinkler." Catching 
up the light, he crept softly upstairs.
The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in 
darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered to 
Fagin mysteriously.
"What!" cried the Jew, "alone?"
The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle 
with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that 
he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly 
office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his directions.
The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his 
face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and 
feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head.
"Where is he?" he asked.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave 
the room.
"Yes," said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; "bring him down. Hush! 
Quiet, Charley I Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!"
This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was 
softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabouts, 
when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and 
followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried 
glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the 
lower portion of his face, and disclosed, all haggard, unwashed, and 
unshorn, the features of flash Toby Crackit.
"How are you, Faguey?" said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. "Pop that 
shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I 
cut; that's the time of day I You'll be a fine young cracksman afore the 
old file now." With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding 
it round his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the 
hob.
"See there, Faguey," he said, pointing disconsolately to his top-boots; 
"not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of 
blacking, by Jove! But don't look at me in that way, man. All in good time. 
I can't talk about business till I've eat and drank; so produce the 
sustenance, and let's have a quiet fill-out for the first time these three 
days!"
The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the 
table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.
To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the 
conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching 
his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the 
intelligence he brought; but in vain. He looked tired and worn, but there 
was the same complacent repose upon his features that they always wore; and 
through dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the 
self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then, the Jew, in an agony of 
impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down 
the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. 
Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could 
eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a 
glass of spirit-and-water, and composed himself for talking.
"First and foremost, Faguey -" said Toby.
"Yes, yes!" interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits-and-water, and to declare 
that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low 
mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he 
quietly resumed: "First and foremost, Faguey," said the housebreaker, 
"how's Bill?"
"What!" screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
"Why, you don't mean to say -" began Toby, turning pale.
"Mean!" cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. "Where are they? 
Sikes and the boy? Where are they?" Where have they been? Where are they 
hiding? Why have they not been here?"
"The crack failed," said Toby, faintly.
"I know it," replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and 
pointing to it. "What more?"
"They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him 
between us - straight as the crow flies - through hedge and ditch. They 
gave chase. Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon us."
"The boy?" gasped the Jew.
"Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take 
him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon 
our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted 
company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that's all 
I know about him."
The Jew stopped to hear no more; but, uttering a loud yell, and twining his 
hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.



Chapter 26

In Which A Mysterious Character Appears Upon The Scene; And Many Things, 
Inseparable From This History, Are Done And Performed.

The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover the 
effect of Toby Crackit's intelligence. He had relaxed nothing of his 
unusual speed; but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and 
disordered manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage, and a 
boisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his danger, drove him back 
upon the pavement. Avoiding, as much as possible, all the main streets, and 
skulking only through the byways and alleys, he at length emerged on Snow 
Hill. Here he walked even faster than before; nor did he linger until he 
had again turned into a court; when, as if conscious that he was now in his 
proper element, he fell into his usual shuffling pace, and seemed to 
breathe more freely.
Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, there opens, 
upon the right hand as you come out of the city, a narrow and dismal alley, 
leading to Saffron Hill. In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge 
bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for 
here reside the traders who purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of 
these handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the windows or 
flaunting from the door-posts - and the shelves, within, are piled with 
them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its barber, its 
coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse. It is a 
commercial colony of itself - the emporium of petty larceny; visited at 
early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants, who traffic in 
dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they come. Here, the 
clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant, display their goods, as 
signboards to the petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and 
heaps of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the 
grimy cellars.
It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to the sallow 
denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out to buy or 
sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to their 
salutations in the same way; but bestowed no closer recognition until he 
reached the farther end of the alley; when he stopped, to address a 
salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as much of his person into a 
child's chair as the chair would hold, and was smoking a pipe at his 
warehouse door.
"Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!" said this 
respectable trader, in acknowledgement of the Jew's inquiry after his 
health.
"The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively," said Fagin, elevating his 
eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.
"Well, I've heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before," replied the 
trader; "but it soon cools down again; don't you find it so?'
Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron Hill, 
he inquired whether any one was up yonder tonight.
"At the Cripples?" inquired the man.
The Jew nodded.
"Let me see," pursued the merchant, reflecting. "Yes, there's some half-
dozen of 'em gone in, that I knows. I don't think your friend's there."
"Sikes is not, I suppose?" inquired the Jew, with a disappointed 
countenance.
"Non istwentus, as the lawyers say," replied the little man, shaking his 
head, and looking amazingly sly. "Have you got anything in my line 
tonight?"
"Nothing tonight," said the Jew, turning away.
"Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?" cried the little man, calling 
after him. "Stop! I don't mind if I have a drop there with you!"
But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he preferred 
being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very easily 
disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was, for a time, 
bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively's presence. By the time he had got 
upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively, after ineffectually 
standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight of him, again forced 
himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a shake of the head with a 
lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and mistrust were plainly 
mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.
The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples, which was the sign by which the 
establishment was familiarly known to its patrons, was the public-house in 
which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured. Merely making a sign to a 
man at the bar, Fagin walked straight upstairs, and opening the door of a 
room, and softly insinuating himself into the chamber, looked anxiously 
about, shading his eyes with his hand, as if in search of some particular 
person.
The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was 
prevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded red, 
from being visible outside. The ceiling was blackened, to prevent its 
colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the place was so 
full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely possible to 
discern anything more. By degrees, however, as some of it cleared away 
through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused as the noises 
that greeted the ear, might be made out; and, as the eye grew more 
accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware of the 
presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a long 
table, at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of office in 
his hand; while a professional gentleman, with a bluish nose, and his face 
tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a jingling piano in a 
remote corner.
As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over the 
keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a song; 
which, having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the company 
with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the accompanist played 
the melody all through, as loud as he could. When this was over, the 
chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the professional gentleman on the 
chairman's right and left volunteered a duet, and sang it, with great 
applause.
It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from among 
the group. There was the chairman himself (the landlord of the house), a 
coarse, rough, heavy-built fellow, who, while the songs were proceeding, 
rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give himself up to 
joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and an ear for 
everything that was said- and sharp ones, too. Near him were the singers, 
receiving, with professional indifference, the compliments of the company, 
and applying themselves, in turn, to a dozen proffered glasses of spirits-
and-water, tendered by their more boisterous admirers; whose countenances, 
expressive of almost every vice in almost every grade, irresistibly 
attracted the attention, by their very repulsiveness. Cunning, ferocity, 
and drunkenness in all its stages, were there, in their strongest aspects; 
and women, some with the last lingering tinge of their early freshness 
almost fading as you looked, others with every mark and stamp of their sex 
utterly beaten out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy 
and crime - some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the 
prime of life - formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary 
picture.
Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face 
while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without meeting 
that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in catching the eye 
of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him slightly, and left 
the room, as quietly as he had entered it.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?" inquired the man. as he followed him 
out to the landing. "Won't you join us? They'll be delighted, every one of 
'em."
The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, "Is he here?"
"No," replied the man.
"And no news of Barney?" inquired Fagin.
"None," replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. "He won't stir 
till it's all safe. Depend on it, they're on the scent down there; and that 
if he moved, he'd blow upon the thing at once. He's all right enough Barney 
is, else I should have heard of him. I'll pound it, that Barney's managing 
properly. Let him alone for that."
"Will he be here tonight?" asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis on the 
pronoun as before.
"Monks, do you mean?" inquired the landlord, hesitating.
"Hush!" said the Jew. "Yes."
"Certain," replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; "I expected 
him here before now. If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be -"
"No, no," said the Jew hastily; as though, however desirous he might be to 
see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his absence. 
"Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me tonight. No, 
say tomorrow. As he is not here, tomorrow will be time enough."
"Good!" said the man. "Nothing more?"
"Not a word now," said the Jew, descending the stairs. -
"I say," said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a hoarse 
whisper; "what a time this would be for a sell! I've got Phil Barker here; 
so drunk, that a boy might take him.
"Aha! But it's not Phil Barker's time," said the Jew, looking up. "Phil has 
something more to do, before we can afford to part with him; so go back to 
the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry lives - while they last. 
Ha! ha! ha!"
The landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh; and returned to his guests. 
The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its former 
expression of anxiety and thought. After a brief reflection, he called a 
hack cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green. He dismissed 
him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's residence, and performed 
the short remainder of the distance, on foot.
"Now," muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, "if there is any deep 
play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you are."
She was in her room, the woman said. Fagin crept softly upstairs, and 
entered it without any previous ceremony. The girl was alone; lying with 
her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it. "She has been 
drinking," thought the Jew coolly, "or perhaps she is only miserable."
The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the noise 
thus occasioned roused the girl. She eyed his crafty face narrowly, as she 
inquired whether there was any news, and as she listened to his recital of 
Toby Crackit's story. When it was concluded, she sank into her former 
attitude, but spoke not a word. She pushed the candle impatiently away; and 
once or twice as she feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet 
upon the ground; but this was
During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to 
assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly 
returned. Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice or 
thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the girl 
heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone. At length he made 
another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his most 
conciliatory tone.
"And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?"
The girl moaned out some half-intelligible reply, that she could not tell; 
and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be crying.
"And the boy, too," said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse of 
her face. "Poor leetle child! Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!"
"The child," said the girl, suddenly looking up, "is better where he is, 
than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies dead in 
the ditch, and that his young bones may rot there."
"What!" cried the Jew, in amazement.
"Ay, I do," returned the girl, meeting his gaze. "I shall be glad to have 
him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over. I can't bear to 
have him about me. The sight of him turns me against myself, and all of 
you."
"Pooh!" said the Jew scornfully. "You're drunk."
"Am I?" cried the girl bitterly. "It's no fault of yours, if I am not! 
You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except now - the 
humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?"
"No!" rejoined the Jew furiously. "It does not."
"Change it, then!" responded the girl, with a laugh.
"Change it!" exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his 
companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, "I WILL 
change it! Listen to me, you drab. Listen to me, who with six words, can 
strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat between my fingers 
now. If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind him; if he gets off free, 
and, dead or alive, fails to restore him to me; murder him yourself if you 
would have him escape Jack Ketch. And do it the moment he sets foot in this 
room, or mind me, it will be too late!"
"What is all this?" cried the girl involuntarily.
"What is it?" pursued Fagin, mad with rage. "When the boy's worth hundreds 
of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way of getting 
safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could whistle away the 
lives of! And me bound, too, to a born devil that only wants the will, and 
has the power to, to -"
Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that instant 
checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole demeanour. A moment 
before, his clenched hands had grasped the air; his eyes had dilated; and 
his face grown livid with passion; but now, he shrank into a chair, and, 
cowering together, trembled with the apprehension of having himself 
disclosed some hidden villainy. After a short silence, he ventured to look 
round at his companion. He appeared somewhat reassured, on beholding her in 
the same listless attitude from which he had first roused her.
"Nancy, dear!" croaked the Jew, in his usual voice. "Did you mind me, 
dear?"
"Don't worry me now, Fagin!" replied the girl, raising her head languidly. 
"If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has done many a 
good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and when he can't he 
won't; so no more about that."
"Regarding this boy, my dear?" said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his hands 
nervously together.
"The boy must take his chance with the rest," interrupted Nancy hastily; 
"and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way, and out of 
yours- that is, if Bill comes to no harm. And if Toby got clear off, Bill's 
pretty sure to be safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby any time."
"And about what I was saying, my dear?" observed the Jew, keeping his 
glistening eye steadily upon her.
"You must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do," 
rejoined Nancy; "and if it is, you had better wait till tomorrow. You put 
me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again."
Fagin put several other questions, all with the same drift of ascertaining 
whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but, she answered 
them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his searching looks 
that his original impression of her being more than a trifle in liquor, was 
confirmed. Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a failing which was very 
common among the Jew's female pupils; and in which, in their tenderer 
years, they were rather encouraged than checked. Her disordered appearance, 
and a wholesale perfume of Geneva which pervaded the apartment, afforded 
strong confirmatory evidence of the justice of the Jew's supposition; and 
when, after indulging in the temporary display of violence above described, 
she subsided, first into dullness, and afterwards into a compound of 
feelings; under the influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in 
the next gave utterance to various exclamations of "Never say die!" and 
divers calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a 
lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable experience 
of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction, that she was 
very far gone indeed.
Having eased his mind by this discovery, and having accomplished his 
twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard, and 
of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned, Mr. Fagin 
again turned his face homeward; leaving his young friend asleep, with her 
head upon the table.
It was within an hour of midnight. The weather being dark, and piercing 
cold, he had no great temptation to loiter. The sharp wind that scoured the 
streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as of dust and mud, for 
few people were abroad, and they were to all appearance hastening fast 
home. It blew from the right quarter for the Jew, however, and straight 
before it he went; trembling, and shivering, as every fresh gust drove him 
rudely on his way. He had reached the corner of his own street, and was 
already fumbling in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged 
from a projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the 
road, glided up to him unperceived.
"Fagin!" whispered a voice close to his ear.
"Ah!" said the Jew, turning quickly round, "is that -"
"Yes!" interrupted the stranger. "I have been lingering here these two 
hours. Where the devil have you been?"
"On your business, my dear," replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his 
companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke. "On your business all 
night."
"Oh, of course!" said the stranger, with a sneer. "Well; and what's come of 
it?"
"Nothing good," said the Jew.
"Nothing bad, I hope?" said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a 
startled look on his companion.
The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger, 
interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this time 
arrived; remarking, that he had better say what he had got to say, under 
cover; for his blood was chilled with standing about so long, and the wind 
blew through him.
Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking home 
a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered something about 
having no fire; but, his companion repeating his request in a peremptory 
manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to close it softly, while 
he got a light.
"It's as dark as the grave," said the man, groping forward a few steps. 
"Make haste!"
"Shut the door," whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he spoke 
it closed with a loud noise.
"That wasn't my doing," said the other man, feeling his way. "The wind blew 
it to, or it shut of its own accord; one or the other. Look sharp with the 
light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in this confounded 
hole."
Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs. After a short absence, he 
returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby Crackit was 
asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in the front one. 
Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way upstairs.
"We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear," said the Jew, 
throwing open a door on the first floor; "and as there are holes in the 
shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set the candle 
on the stairs. There!"
With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper 
flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door. This done, he led the 
way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a broken 
armchair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which stood behind the 
door. Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat himself with the air 
of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the armchair opposite, they sat 
face to face. It was not quite dark; for the door was partially open; and 
the candle outside, threw a feeble reflection on the opposite wall.
They conversed for some time in whispers. Though nothing of the 
conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and 
there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be 
defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the latter 
was in a state of considerable irritation. They might have been talking, 
thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks - by which name the Jew 
had designated the strange man several times in the course of their 
colloquy - said, raising his voice a little:
"I tell you again, it was badly planned. Why not have kept him here among 
the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pick-pocket of him at once?"
"Only hear him!" exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
"Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?" 
demanded Monks sternly. "Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores of 
times? If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't you 
have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom perhaps for 
life?"
"Whose turn would that have served, my dear?" inquired the Jew humbly.
"Mine," replied Monks.
"But not mine," said the Jew submissively. "He might have become of use to 
me. When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only reasonable that the 
interests of both should be consulted; is it not, my good friend?"
"What then?" demanded Monks.
"I saw it was not easy to train him to the business," replied the Jew; "he 
was not like the other boys in the same circumstances."
"Curse him, no!" muttered the man, "or he would have been a thief, long 
ago."
"I had no hold upon him to make him worse," pursued the Jew, anxiously 
watching the countenance of his companion. "His hand was not in. I had 
nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the beginning or 
we labour in vain. What could I do? Send him out with the Dodger and 
Charley? We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I trembled for us all."
"That was not my doing," observed Monks.
"No, no, my dear!" renewed the Jew. "And I don't quarrel with it now; 
because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes upon 
the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you were 
looking for. Well! I got him back for you by means of the girl; and then 
she begins to favour him."
"Throttle the girl!" said Monks impatiently.
"Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear," replied the Jew, 
smiling; "and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one of 
these days, I might be glad to have it done. I know what these girls are, 
Monks, well. As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll care no more for 
him, than for a block of wood. You want him made a thief. If he is alive, I 
can make him one from this time; and if - if -" said the Jew, drawing 
nearer to the other - "it's not likely, mind - but if the worst comes to 
the worst, and he is dead -"
"It's no fault of mine if he is!" interposed the other man, with a look of 
terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands. "Mind that, Fagin! 
I had no hand in it. Anything but his death, I told you from the first. I 
won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts a man besides. If they 
shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear me? Fire this infernal den! 
What's that?"
"What?" cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both arms, 
as he sprang to his feet. "Where?"
"Yonder!" replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall. "The shadow! I saw 
the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the wainscot like 
a breath!"
The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room. The 
candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been placed. It 
showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white faces. They 
listened intently; but a profound silence reigned throughout the house.
"It's your fancy," said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his 
companion.
"I'll swear I saw it!" replied Monks, trembling. "It was bending forward 
when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away."
The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and, 
telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs. They 
looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare and empty. They descended 
into the passage, and thence into the cellars below. The green damp hung 
upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug glistened in the light 
of the candle; but all was still as death.
"What do you think now?" said the Jew, there's not a creature in the house 
except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!"
As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket; and 
explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them in, to 
prevent any intrusion on the conference.
This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His 
protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they proceeded 
in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he gave vent to 
several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have been his excited 
imagination. He declined any renewal of the conversation, however, for that 
night; suddenly remembering that it was past one o'clock. And so the 
amiable couple parted.



Chapter 27

Atones For The Unpoliteness Of A Former Chapter, Which Deserted A Lady Most 
Unceremoniously.

As it would be by no means seemly in a humble author to keep so mighty a 
personage as a beadle waiting, with his back to the fire, and the skirts of 
his coat gathered up under his arms, until such time as it might suit his 
pleasure to relieve him; and as it would still less become his station, or 
his gallantry, to involve in the same neglect a lady on whom that beadle 
had looked with an eye of tenderness and affection, and in whose ear he had 
whispered sweet words, which, coming from such a quarter, might well thrill 
the bosom of maid or matron of whatsoever degree; the historian whose pen 
traces these words - trusting that he knows his place, and that he 
entertains a becoming reverence for those upon earth to whom high and 
important authority is delegated - hastens to pay them that respect which 
their position demands, and to treat them with all that duteous ceremony 
which their exalted rank, and (by consequence) great virtues, imperatively 
claim at his hands. Towards this end, indeed, he had purposed to introduce, 
in this place, a dissertation touching the divine right of beadles, and 
elusidative of the position, that a beadle can do no wrong; which could not 
fail to have been both pleasurable and profitable to the right-minded 
reader, but which he is unfortunately compelled, by want of time and space, 
to postpone to some more convenient and fitting opportunity; on the arrival 
of which, he will be prepared to show, that a beadle properly constituted - 
that is to say, a parochial beadle, attached to a parochial workhouse, and 
attending in his official capacity the parochial church - is, in right and 
virtue of his office, possessed of all the excellences and best qualities 
of humanity; and that to none of those excellences, can mere companies' 
beadles, or court-of-law beadles, or even chapel-of-ease beadles (save the 
last, and they in a very lowly and inferior degree), lay the remotest 
sustainable claim.
Mr. Bumble had recounted the teaspoons, reweighed the sugar-tongs, made a 
closer inspection of the milk-pot, and ascertained to a nicety the exact 
condition of the furniture, down to the very horse-hair seats of the 
chairs; and had repeated each process full half a dozen times, before he 
began to think that it was time for Mrs. Corney to return. Thinking begets 
thinking; and, as there were no sounds of Mrs. Corney's approach, it 
occurred to Mr. Bumble that it would be an innocent and virtuous way of 
spending the time, if he were further to allay his curiosity by a cursory 
glance at the interior of Mrs. Corney's chest of drawers.
Having listened at the keyhole, to assure himself that nobody was 
approaching the chamber, Mr. Bumble beginning at the bottom, proceeded to 
make himself acquainted with the contents of the three long drawers; which, 
being filled with various garments of good fashion and texture, carefully 
preserved between two layers of old newspapers, speckled with dried 
lavender, seemed to yield him exceeding satisfaction. Arriving, in course 
of time, at the right-hand corner drawer (in which was a key), and 
beholding therein a small padlocked box, which, being shaken, gave forth a 
pleasant sound, as of the chinking of coin, Mr. Bumble returned with a 
stately walk to the fireplace, and, resuming his old attitude, said, with a 
grave and determined air, "I'll do it!" He followed up this remarkable 
declaration, by shaking his head in a waggish manner for ten minutes, as 
though he were remonstrating with himself for being such a pleasant dog; 
and then he took a view of his legs in profile, with much seeming pleasure 
and interest.
He was still placidly engaged in this latter survey, when Mrs. Corney, 
hurrying into the room, threw herself, in a breathless state, on a chair by 
the fireside, and covering her eyes with one hand, placed the other over 
her heart, and gasped for breath.
"Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble, stooping over the matron, "what is this, 
ma'am? Has anything happened, ma'am? Pray answer me; I'm on - on -" Mr. 
Bumble, in his alarm, could not immediately think of the word 
"tenterhooks," so he said "broken bottles."
"Oh, Mr. Bumble!" cried the lady, "I have been so dreadfully put out!"
 "Put out, ma'am!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble; "who has dared to - I know!" said 
Mr. Bumble, checking himself, with native majesty, "this is them wicious 
paupers!"
"It's dreadful to think of!" said the lady, shuddering.
"Then don't think of it, ma'am," rejoined Mr. Bumble.
"I can't help it," whimpered the lady.
"Then take something, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble soothingly. "A little of the 
wine?"
"Not for the world!" replied Mrs. Corney. "I couldn't - oh! The top shelf 
in the right-hand corner - oh!" Uttering these words, the good lady 
pointed, distractedly, to the cupboard, and underwent a convulsion from 
internal spasms. Mr. Bumble rushed to the closet; and, snatching a pint 
green glass bottle from the shelf thus incoherently indicated, filled a tea-
cup with its contents, and held it to the lady's lips.
"I'm better now," said Mrs. Corney, falling back, after drinking half of 
it.
Mr. Bumble raised his eyes piously to the ceiling in thankfulness; and, 
bringing them down again to the brim of the cup, lifted it to his nose.
"Peppermint," exclaimed Mrs. Corney, in a faint voice, smiling gently on 
the beadle as she spoke. "Try it! There's a little - a little something 
else in it."
Mr. Bumble tasted the medicine with a doubtful look; smacked his lips; took 
another taste; and put the cup down empty.
"It's very comforting," said Mrs. Corney.
"Very much so indeed, ma'am," said the beadle. As he spoke, he drew a chair 
beside the matron, and tenderly inquired what had happened to distress her.
"Nothing," replied Mrs. Corney. "I am a foolish, excitable, weak creetur."
"Not weak, ma'am," retorted Mr. Bumble, drawing his chair a little closer. 
"Are you a weak creetur, Mrs. Corney?"
"We are all weak creeturs," said Mrs. Corney, laying down a general 
principle.
"So we are," said the beadle.
Nothing was said, on either side, for a minute or two afterwards. By the 
expiration of that time, Mr. Bumble had illustrated the position by 
removing his left arm from the back of Mrs. Corney's chair, where it had 
previously rested, to Mrs. Corney's apron string, round which it gradually 
became entwined.
"We are all weak creeturs," said Mr. Bumble.
Mrs. Corney sighed.
"Don't sigh, Mrs. Corney," said Mr. Bumble.
"I can't help it," said Mrs. Corney. And she sighed again.
"This is a very comfortable room, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble, looking round. 
"Another room, and this, ma'am, would be a complete thing."
"It would be too much for one," murmured the lady.
"But not for two, ma'am," replied Mr. Bumble, in soft accents. "Eh, Mrs. 
Corney?"
Mrs. Corney drooped her head when the beadle said this; the beadle drooped 
his, to get a view of Mrs. Corney's face. Mrs. Corney, with great 
propriety, turned her head away, and released her hand to get at her pocket-
handkerchief; but insensibly replaced it in that of Mr. Bumble.
"The Board allow you coals, don't they, Mrs. Corney?" inquired the beadle, 
affectionately pressing her hand.
"And candles," replied Mrs. Corney, slightly returning the pressure.
"Coals, candle, and house-rent free," said Mr. Bumble. "Oh, Mrs. Corney, 
what an angel you are!"
The lady was not proof against this burst of feeling. She sank into Mr. 
Bumble's arms; and that gentleman in his agitation, imprinted a passionate 
kiss upon her chaste nose.
"Such porochial perfection!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble rapturously. "You know 
that Mr. Slout is worse tonight, my fascinator?"
"Yes," replied Mrs. Corney bashfully.
"He can't live a week, the doctor says," pursued Mr. Bumble. "He is the 
master of this establishment; his death will cause a wacancy; that wacancy 
must be filled up. Oh, Mrs. Corney, what a prospect this opens! What a 
opportunity for a jining of hearts and housekeepings!"
Mrs. Corney sobbed.
"The little word?" said Mr. Bumble, bending over the bashful beauty. "The 
one little, little, little word, my blessed Corney?"
"Ye - ye - yes!" sighed out the matron.
"One more," pursued the beadle; "compose your darling feelings for only one 
more. When is it to come off?" Mrs. Corney twice essayed to speak: and 
twice failed. At length summoning up courage, she threw her arms round Mr. 
Bumble's neck, and said, it might be as soon as ever he pleased, and that 
he was "a irresistible duck."
Matters being thus amicably and satisfactorily arranged, the contract was 
solemnly ratified in another tea-cupful of the peppermint mixture; which 
was rendered the more necessary, by the flutter and agitation of the lady's 
spirits. While it was being disposed of, she acquainted Mr. Bumble with the 
old woman's decease.
"Very good," said that gentleman, sipping his peppermint; "I'll call at 
Sowerberry's as I go home, and tell him to send tomorrow morning. Was it 
that as frightened you, love?"
"It wasn't anything particular, dear," said the lady evasively.
"It must have been something, love," urged Mr. Bumble. "Won't you tell your 
own B.?"
"Not now," rejoined the lady; "one of these days. After we're married, 
dear."
"After we're married!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble. "It wasn't any impudence from 
any of them male paupers as -"
"No, no, love!" interposed the lady hastily.
"If I thought it was," continued Mr. Bumble; "if I thought as any of 'em 
dared to lift his wulgar eyes to that lovely countenance -"
"They wouldn't have dared to do it, love," responded the lady.
"They had better not!" said Mr. Bumble, clenching his fist. "Let me see any 
man, porochial or extra-porochial, as would presume to do it; and I can 
tell him that he wouldn't do it a second time!"
Unembellished by any violence of gesticulation, this might have seemed no 
very high compliment to the lady's charms; but, as Mr. Bumble accompanied 
the threat with many warlike gestures, she was much touched with this proof 
of his devotion, and protested, with great admiration, that he was indeed a 
dove.
The dove then turned up his coat collar, and put on his cocked hat; and, 
having exchanged a long and affectionate embrace with his future partner, 
once again braved the cold wind of the night; merely pausing, for a few 
minutes, in the male paupers' ward, to abuse them a little, with the view 
of satisfying himself that he could fill the office of workhouse-master 
with needful acerbity. Assured of his qualifications, Mr. Bumble left the 
building with a light heart, and bright visions of his future promotion, 
which served to occupy his mind until he reached the shop of the 
undertaker.
Now, Mr. and Mrs. Sowerberry having gone out to tea and supper, and Noah 
Claypole not being at any time disposed to take upon himself a greater 
amount of physical exertion than is necessary to a convenient performance 
of the two functions of eating and drinking, the shop was not closed, 
although it was past the usual hour of shutting up. Mr. Bumble tapped with 
his cane on the counter several times; but, attracting no attention, and 
beholding a light shining through the glass window of the little parlour at 
the back of the shop, he made bold to peep in and see what was going 
forward; and when he saw what was going forward, he was not a little 
surprised.
The cloth was laid for supper; the table was covered with bread-and-butter, 
plates and glasses; a porter pot and a wine-bottle. At the upper end of the 
table, Mr. Noah Claypole lolled negligently in an easy-chair, with his legs 
thrown over one of the arms, an open clasp-knife in one hand, and a mass of 
buttered bread in the other. Close beside him stood Charlotte, opening 
oysters from a barrel, which Mr. Claypole condescended to swallow, with 
remarkable avidity. A more than ordinary redness in the region of the young 
man's nose, and a kind of fixed wink in his right eye, denoted that he was 
in a slight degree intoxicated; these symptoms were confirmed by the 
intense relish with which he took his oysters, for which nothing but a 
strong appreciation of their cooling properties in cases of internal fever, 
could have sufficiently accounted.
"Here's a delicious fat one, Noah, dear!" said Charlotte; "try him, do; 
only this one."
"What a delicious thing is a oyster!" remarked Mr. Claypole, after he had 
swallowed it. "What a pity it is, a number of 'em should ever make you feel 
uncomfortable; isn't it, Charlotte?"
"It's quite a cruelty," said Charlotte.
"So it is," acquiesced Mr. Claypole. "Ain't yer fond of oysters?"
"Not overmuch," replied Charlotte. "I like to see you eat 'em, Noah, dear, 
better than eating 'em myself."
"Lord!" said Noah reflectively; "how queer!"
"Have another," said Charlotte. "Here's one with such a beautiful, delicate 
beard!"
"I can't manage any more," said Noah. "I'm very sorry. "Come here, 
Charlotte, and I'll kiss yer."
"What!" said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. "Say that again, sir."
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr. Claypole, 
without making any further change in his position than suffering his legs 
to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken terror.
"Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!" said Mr. Bumble. "How dare you 
mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you insolent 
minx? Kiss her!" exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation. "Faugh!"
"I didn't mean to do it!" said Noah, blubbering. "She's always a-kissing of 
me, whether I like it, or not."
"Oh, Noah," cried Charlotte reproachfully.
"Yer are; yer know yer are!" retorted Noah. "She's always a-doin' of it. 
Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and makes all 
manner of love!"
"Silence!" cried Mr. Bumble sternly. "Take yourself downstairs, ma'am. 
Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes home, 
at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr. Bumble said 
he was to send a old woman's shell after breakfast tomorrow morning. Do you 
hear, sir? Kissing!" cried Mr. Bumble, holding up his hands. "The sin and 
wickedness of the lower orders in this porochial district is frightful! If 
Parliament don't take their abominable courses under consideration, this 
country's ruined, and the character of the peasantry gone for ever!" With 
these words, the beadle strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the 
undertaker's premises.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have made 
all necessary preparations for the old woman's funeral, let us set on foot 
a few inquiries after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether he be still 
lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.



Chapter 28

Looks After Oliver, And Proceeds With His Adventures.

"Wolves tear your throats!" muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. "I wish I 
was among some of you; you'd howl the hoarser for it."
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate ferocity 
that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body of the wounded 
boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an instant, to look 
back at his pursuers.
There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud 
shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the 
neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm-bell, resounded in 
every direction.
"Stop, you white-livered hound!" cried the robber, shouting after Toby 
Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead. 
"Stop!"
The repetition of the word brought Toby to a dead standstill. For he was 
not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot; and Sikes 
was in no mood to be played with.
"Bear a hand with the boy," cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his 
confederate. "Come back!"
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for 
want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly 
along.
"Quicker!" cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and 
drawing a pistol from his pocket. "Don't play booty with me."
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could 
discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate of 
the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some paces in 
advance of them.
"It's all up, Bill!" cried Toby; "drop the kid, and show 'em your heels." 
With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of being shot 
by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his enemies, fairly 
turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes clenched his teeth; took 
one look around; threw over the prostrate form of Oliver the cape in which 
he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along the front of the hedge, as if to 
distract the attention of those behind, from the spot where the boy lay; 
paused, for a second, before another hedge which met it at right angles; 
and whirling his pistol high in the air, cleared it at a bound, and was 
gone.
"Ho, ho, there!" cried a tremulous voice in the rear. "Pincher! Neptune! 
Come here, come here!"
The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no particular 
relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily answered to the 
command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some distance into the 
field, stopped to take counsel together.
"My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my orders, is," said the fattest 
man of the party, "that we 'mediately go home again."
"I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles," said a 
shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very pale in 
the face, and very polite; as frightened men frequently are.
"I shouldn't wish to appear ill - mannered, gentlemen," said the third, who 
had called the dogs back, "Mr. Giles ought to know."
"Certainly," replied the shorter man; "and whatever Mr. Giles says, it 
isn't our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank my 
stars, I know my sitiwation." To tell the truth, the little man did seem to 
know his situation, and to know perfectly well that it was by no means a 
desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as he spoke.
"You are afraid, Brittles," said Mr. Giles.
"I ain't," said Brittles.
"You are," said Giles.
"You're a falsehood, Mr. Giles," said Brittles.
"You're a lie, Brittles," said Mr. Giles.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles's taunt; and Mr. Giles's taunt 
had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of going home 
again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The third man 
brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.
"I'll tell you what it is, gentlemen," said he, "we're all afraid."
"Speak for yourself, sir," said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the party.
"So I do," replied the man. "It's natural and proper to be afraid, under 
such circumstances. I am."
"So am I," said Brittles; "only there's no call to tell a man he is, so 
bounceably."
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that he was 
afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again with the 
completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest wind of the 
party, and was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely insisted on 
stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.
"But it's wonderful," said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, "what a man 
will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder - I know I 
should - if we'd caught one of them rascals."
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as their 
blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued upon the 
cause of this sudden change in their temperament.
"I know what it was," said Mr. Giles; "it was the gate."
"I shouldn't wonder if it was," exclaimed Brittles, catching at the idea.
"You may depend upon it," said Giles, "that that gate stopped the flow of 
the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was climbing over 
it."
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the same 
unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious, 
therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt regarding 
the time at which the change had taken place, because all three remembered 
that they had come in sight of the robbers at the instant of its 
occurrence.
This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the burglars, 
and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse, and who had 
been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join the pursuit. Mr. 
Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and steward to the old lady of 
the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all work, who, having entered her 
service a mere child, was treated as a promising young boy still, though he 
was something past thirty.
Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very close 
together, notwithstanding, and looking furtively round, whenever a fresh 
gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried back to a tree, 
behind which they had left their lantern, lest its light should inform the 
thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up the light, they made the 
best of their way home, at a good round trot; and long after their dusky 
forms had ceased to be discernible, the light might have been seen 
twinkling and dancing in the distance, like some exhalation of the damp and 
gloomy atmosphere through which it was swiftly borne.
The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along the 
ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the pathways, and 
low places were all mire and water; and the damp breath of an unwholesome 
wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still, Oliver lay motionless 
and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left him.
Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its first 
dull hue - the death of night, rather than the birth of day - glimmered 
faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and terrible in the 
darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually resolved into their 
familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and fast, and pattered noisily 
among the leafless bushes. But Oliver felt it not, as it beat against him; 
for he still lay stretched, helpless and unconscious, on his bed of clay.
At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and 
uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung 
heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with blood. He was 
so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture; when 
he had done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with pain. 
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, urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which seemed to warn him 
that if he lay there, he must surely die, 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.
And now hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his mind. 
He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were angrily 
disputing - for the very words they said, sounded in his ears; and when he 
caught his own attention, as it were, by making some violent effort to save 
himself from falling, he found that he was talking to them. Then, he was 
alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the previous day; and as shadowy people 
passed them, he felt the robber's grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he 
started back at the report of firearms; there rose in the air, loud cries 
and shouts; lights gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as 
some unseen hand bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, 
there ran an undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and 
tormented him incessantly.
Thus he staggered on, creeping almost mechanically, between the bars of 
gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he reached a 
road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused him.
He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house, which 
perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have compassion 
on him; and if they did not, it would be better, he thought, to die near 
human beings, than in the lonely, open fields. He summoned up all his 
strength for one last trial, and bent his faltering steps towards it. As he 
drew nearer to this house, a feeling came over him that he had seen it 
before. He remembered nothing of its details; but the shape and aspect of 
the building seemed familiar to him.
That garden wall! On the grass inside, he had fallen on his knees last 
night, and prayed the two men's mercy. It was the very house they had 
attempted to rob.
Oliver felt such fear come over him when he recognised the place, that, for 
the instant, he forgot the agony of his wound, and thought only of flight. 
Flight! He could scarcely stand; and if he were in full possession of all 
the best powers of his slight and youthful frame, whither could he fly? He 
pushed against the garden gate; it was unlocked, and swung open on its 
hinges. He tottered across the lawn; climbed the steps; knocked faintly at 
the door; and, his whole strength failing him, sank down against one of the 
pillars of the little portico.
It happened that about this time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker were 
recruiting themselves, after the fatigues and terrors of the night, with 
tea and sundries, in the kitchen. Not that it was Mr. Giles's habit to 
admit to too great familiarity the humbler servants, towards whom it was 
rather his wont to deport himself with a lofty affability, which, while it 
gratified, could not fail to remind them of his superior position in 
society. But death, fires, and burglary, make all men equals; so Mr. Giles 
sat with his legs stretched out before the kitchen fender, leaning his left 
arm on the table, while, with his right, he illustrated a circumstantial 
and minute account of the robbery, to which his hearers (but especially the 
cook and housemaid, who were of the party) listened with breathless 
interest.
"It was about half-past two," said Mr. Giles, "or I wouldn't swear that it 
mightn't have been a little nearer three, when I woke up, and, turning 
round in my bed, as it might be so (here Mr. Giles turned round in his 
chair, and pulled the corner of the table-cloth over him to imitate bed-
clothes), I fancied I heerd a noise."
At this point of the narrative the cook turned pale, and asked the 
housemaid to shut the door; who asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who 
pretended not to hear.
"Heerd a noise," continued Mr. Giles. "I says, at first, 'This is 
illusion'; and was composing myself off to sleep, when I heerd the noise 
again, distinct."
"What sort of a noise?" asked the cook.
"A kind of a busting noise," replied Mr. Giles, looking round him.
"More like the noise of powdering a iron bar on a nutmeg-grater," suggested 
Brittles.
"It was, when you heerd it, sir," rejoined Mr. Giles; "but, at this time, 
it had a busting sound. I turned down the clothes ," continued Giles, 
rolling back the tablecloth, "sat up in bed; and listened."
The cook and housemaid simultaneously ejaculated, "Lor!" and drew their 
chairs closer together.
"I heerd it now, quite apparent," resumed Mr. Giles. "'Somebody,' I says, 
'is forcing of a door, or window; what's to be done? I'll call up that poor 
lad, Brittles, and save him from being murdered in his bed; or his throat,' 
I says, 'may be cut, from his right ear to his left, without his ever 
knowing it'."
Here, all eyes were turned upon Brittles, who fixed his upon the speaker, 
and stared at him, with his mouth wide open, and his face expressive of the 
most unmitigated horror.
"I tossed off the clothes," said Giles, throwing away the table-cloth, and 
looking very hard at the cook and housemaid, "got softly out of bed; drew 
on a pair of -"
"Ladies present, Mr. Giles," murmured the tinker.
"Of shoes, sir," said Giles, turning upon him, and laying great emphasis on 
the word; "seized the loaded pistol that always goes upstairs with the 
plate-basket; and walked on tiptoes to his room. ' Brittles,' I says, when 
I had woke him, ' don't be frightened! '"
"So you did," observed Brittles, in a low voice.
"'We're dead men, I think, Brittles,' I says," continued Giles; "'but don't 
be frightened.'"
"Was he frightened?" asked the cook.
"Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Giles. "He was as firm - ah! pretty near as 
firm as I was."
"I should have died at once, I'm sure, if it had been me," observed the 
housemaid.
"You're a woman," retorted Brittles, plucking up a little.
"Brittles is right," said Mr. Giles, nodding his head approvingly; "from a 
woman, nothing else was to be expected. We, being men, took a dark lantern 
that was standing on Brittles's hob, and groped our way downstairs in the 
pitch dark - as it might be so."
Mr. Giles had risen from his seat, and taken two steps with his eyes shut, 
to accompany his description with appropriate action, when he started 
violently, in common with the rest of the company, and hurried back to his 
chair. The cook and housemaid screamed.
"It was a knock," said Mr. Giles, assuming perfect serenity. "Open the 
door, somebody."
Nobody moved.
"It seems a strange sort of a thing, a knock coming at such a time in the 
morning," said Mr. Giles, surveying the pale faces which surrounded him, 
and looking very blank himself; abut the door must be opened. Do you hear, 
somebody?"
Mr. Giles, as he spoke, looked at Brittles; but that young man, being 
naturally modest, probably considered himself nobody, and so held that the 
inquiry could not have any application to him; at all events, he tendered 
no reply. Mr. Giles directed an appealing glance at the tinker; but he had 
suddenly fallen asleep. The women were out of the question.. "If Brittles 
would rather open the door, in the presence of witnesses," said Mr. Giles, 
after a short silence, "I am ready to make one." a SO am I," said the 
tinker, waking up, as suddenly as he had fallen asleep.
Brittles capitulated on these terms; and the party being somewhat reassured 
by the discovery (made on throwing open the shutters) that it was now broad 
day, took their way upstairs, with the dogs in front, and the two women, 
who were afraid to stay below, bringing up the rear. By the advice of Mr. 
Giles, they all talked very loud, to warn any evil-disposed person outside, 
that they were strong in numbers; and by a master-stroke of policy, 
originating in the brain of the same ingenious gentleman, the dogs' tails 
were well pinched, in the hall, to make them bark savagely.
These precautions having been taken, Mr. Giles held on fast by the tinker's 
arm (to prevent his running away, as he pleasantly said), and gave the word 
of command to open the door. Brittles obeyed; the group, peeping timorously 
over each other's shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor 
little Oliver Twist, speechless and exhausted, who raised his heavy eyes, 
and mutely solicited their compassion.
"A boy!" exclaimed Mr. Giles, valiantly pushing the tinker into the 
background. "What's the matter with the Eh? - Why - Brittles - look here - 
don't you know?"
Brittles, who had got behind the door to open it, no sooner saw Oliver, 
than he uttered a loud cry. Mr. Giles, seizing the boy by one leg and one 
arm (fortunately not the broken limb) lugged him straight into the hall, 
and deposited him at full length on the floor thereof.
"Here he is!" bawled Giles, calling, in a state of great excitement, up the 
staircase; "here's one of the thieves, ma'am! Here's a thief, miss! 
Wounded, miss! I shot him, miss; and Brittles held the light."
"In a lantern, miss," cried Brittles, applying one hand to the side of his 
mouth, so that his voice might travel the better.
The two women-servants ran upstairs to carry the intelligence that Mr. 
Giles had captured a robber; and the tinker busied himself in endeavouring 
to restore Oliver, lest he should die before he could be hanged. In the 
midst of all this noise and commotion there was heard a sweet female voice, 
which quelled it in an instant.
"Giles!" whispered the voice from the stair-head.
"I'm here, miss," replied Mr. Giles. "Don't be frightened, miss; I ain't 
much injured. He didn't make a very desperate resistance, miss! I was soon 
too many for him."
"Hush!" replied the young lady; "you frighten my aunt as much as the 
thieves did. Is the poor creature much hurt?"
"Wounded desperate, miss," replied Giles, with indescribable complacency.
"He looks as if he was a-going, miss," bawled Brittles, in the same manner 
as before. "Wouldn't you like to come and look at him, miss, in case he 
should ?"
"Hush, pray, there's a good man!" rejoined the lady. "Wait quietly only one 
instant, while I speak to aunt."
With a footstep as soft and gentle as the voice, the speaker tripped away. 
She soon returned, with the direction that the wounded person was to be 
carried, carefully, upstairs to Mr. Giles's room; and that Brittles was to 
saddle the pony and betake himself instantly to Chertsey; from which place, 
he was to despatch, with all speed, a constable and doctor.
"But won't you take one look at him first, miss?" asked Mr. Giles, with as 
much pride as if Oliver were some bird of rare plumage, that he had 
skilfully brought down. "Not one little peep, miss?"
"Not now, for the world," replied the young lady. "Poor fellow! Oh! treat 
him kindly, Giles, for my sake!"
The old servant looked up at the speaker, as she turned away, with a glance 
as proud and admiring as if she had been his own child. Then, bending over 
Oliver, he helped to carry him upstairs, with the care and solicitude of a 
woman.



Chapter 29

Has An Introductory Account Of The Inmates Of The House, To Which Oliver 
Resorted.

In a handsome room, though its furniture had rather the air of old-
fashioned comfort, than of modern elegance, there sat two ladies at a well-
spread breakfast-table. Mr. Giles, dressed with scrupulous care in a full 
suit of black, was in attendance upon them. He had taken his station some 
halfway between the sideboard and the breakfast-table; and, with his body 
drawn up to its full height, his head thrown back, and inclined the merest 
trifle on one side, his left leg advanced, and his right hand thrust into 
his waistcoat, while his left hung down by his side, grasping a waiter, 
looked like one who laboured under a very agreeable sense of his own merits 
and importance.
Of the two ladies, one was well advanced in years; but the high-backed 
oaken chair in which she sat, was not more upright than she. Dressed with 
the utmost nicety and precision, in a quaint mixture of bygone costume, 
with some slight concessions to the prevailing taste, which rather served 
to point the old style pleasantly than to impair its effect, she sat, in a 
stately manner, with her hands folded on the table before her. Her eyes 
(and age had dimmed but little of their brightness) were attentively fixed 
upon her young companion.
The younger lady was in the lovely bloom and springtime of womanhood; at 
that age, when, if ever angels be for God's good purposes enthroned in 
mortal forms, they may be, without impiety, supposed to abide in such as 
hers.
She was not past seventeen. Cast in so slight and exquisite a mould; so 
mild and gentle; so pure and beautiful; that earth seemed not her element, 
not its rough creatures her fit companions. The very intelligence that 
shone in her deep-blue eye, and was stamped upon her noble head, seemed 
scarcely of her age, or of the world; and yet the changing expression of 
sweetness and good-humour, the thousand lights that played about the face, 
and left no shadow there; above all, the smile, the cheerful, happy smile, 
were made for home and fireside peace and happiness.
She was busily engaged in the little offices of the table. Chancing to 
raise her eyes as the elder lady was regarding her, she playfully put back 
her hair, which was simply braided on her forehead; and threw into her 
beaming look, such an expression of affection and artless loveliness, that 
blessed spirits might have smiled to look upon her.
"And Brittles has been gone upwards of an hour, has he?" asked the old 
lady, after a pause.
"An hour and twelve minutes, ma'am," replied Mr. Giles, referring to a 
silver watch, which he drew forth by a black ribbon.
"He is always slow," remarked the old lady.
"Brittles always was a slow boy, ma'am," replied the attendant. And seeing, 
by the bye, that Brittles had been a slow boy for upwards of thirty years, 
there appeared no great probability of his ever being a fast one.
"He gets worse instead of better, I think," said the elder lady.
"It is very inexcusable in him if he stops to play with any other boys," 
said the young lady, smiling.
Mr. Giles was apparently considering the propriety of indulging in a 
respectful smile himself, when a gig drove up to the garden gate, out of 
which there jumped a fat gentleman, who ran straight up to the door; and 
who, getting quickly into the house by some mysterious process, burst into 
the room, and nearly overturned Mr. Giles and the breakfast-table together.
"I never heard of such a thing!" exclaimed the fat gentleman. "My dear Mrs. 
Maylie - bless my soul - in the silence of night, too - I never heard of 
such a thing!"
With these expressions of condolence, the fat gentleman shook hands with 
both ladies, and drawing up a chair, inquired how they found themselves.
"You ought to be dead; positively dead with the fright," said the fat 
gentleman. "Why didn't you send? Bless me, my man should have come in a 
minute; and so would I; and my assistant would have been delighted; or 
anybody, I'm sure, under such circumstances. Dear, dear! So unexpected! In 
the silence of night, too!"
The doctor seemed especially troubled by the fact of the robbery having 
been unexpected, and attempted in the night-time; as if it were the 
established custom of gentlemen in the house-breaking way to transact 
business at noon, and to make an appointment, by post, a day or two 
previous.
"And you, Miss Rose," said the doctor, turning to the young lady, "I"
"Oh! very much so, indeed," said Rose, interrupting him; "but there is a 
poor creature upstairs, whom aunt wishes you to see."
"Ah! to be sure," replied the doctor, "so there is. That was your 
handiwork, Giles, I understand."
Mr. Giles, who had been feverishly putting the tea-cups to rights, blushed 
very red, and said that he had had that honour.
"Honour, eh?" said the doctor; "well, I don't know; perhaps it's as 
honourable to hit a thief in a back kitchen, as to hit your man at twelve 
paces. Fancy that he fired in the air, and you've fought a duel, Giles."
Mr. Giles, who thought this light treatment of the matter an unjust attempt 
at diminishing his glory, answered respectfully that it was not for the 
like of him to judge about that; but he rather thought it was no joke to 
the opposite party.
"Gad, that's true!" said the doctor. "Where is he? Show me the way. I'll 
look in again, as I come down, Mrs. Maylie. That's the little window that 
he got in at, eh? Well, I couldn't have believed it!"
Talking all the way, he followed Mr. Giles upstairs; and while he is going 
upstairs, the reader may be informed, that Mr. Losberne, a surgeon in the 
neighbourhood, known through a circuit of ten miles round as "the doctor," 
had grown fat, more from good-humour than from good living; and was as kind 
and hearty, and withal as eccentric an old bachelor, as will be found in 
five times that space, by any explorer alive.
The doctor was absent much longer than either he or the ladies had 
anticipated. A large flat box was fetched out of the gig; and a bedroom 
bell was rung very often; and the servants ran up and downstairs 
perpetually; from which tokens it was justly concluded that something 
important was going on above. At length he returned; and in reply to an 
anxious inquiry after his patient, looked very mysterious, and closed the 
door carefully.
"This is a very extraordinary thing, Mrs. Maylie," said the doctor, 
standing with his back to the door, as if to keep it shut.
"He is not in danger, I hope?" said the old lady.
"Why, that would not be an extraordinary thing, under the circumstances," 
replied the doctor; "though I don't think he is. Have you seen this thief?"
"No," rejoined the old lady.
"Nor heard anything about him?"
"No."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am," interposed Mr. Giles; "but I was going to tell 
you about him when Doctor Losberne came in.
The fact was, that Mr. Giles had not, at first, been able to bring his mind 
to the avowal, that he had only shot a boy. Such commendations had been 
bestowed upon his bravery, that he could not, for the life of him, help 
postponing the explanation for a few delicious minutes; during which he had 
flourished, in the very zenith of a brief reputation for undaunted courage.
"Rose wished to see the man," said Mrs. Maylie, "but I wouldn't hear of 
it."
"Humph!" rejoined the doctor. "There is nothing very alarming in his 
appearance. Have you any objection to see him in my presence?"
"If it be necessary," replied the old lady, "certainly not."
"Then I think it is necessary," said the doctor; "at all events, I am quite 
sure that you would deeply regret not having done so, if you postponed it. 
He is perfectly quiet and comfortable now. Allow me - Miss Rose, will you 
permit me? Not the slightest fear, I pledge you my honour!"



Chapter 30

Relates What Oliver's New Visitors Thought Of Him.

With many loquacious assurances that they would be agreeably surprised in 
the aspect of the criminal, the doctor drew the young lady's arm through 
one of his; and offering his disengaged hand to Mrs. Maylie, led them, with 
much ceremony and stateliness, upstairs.
"Now," said the doctor, in a whisper, as he softly turned the handle of a 
bedroom door, "let us hear what you think of him. He has not been shaved 
very recently, but he don't look at all ferocious notwithstanding. Stop, 
though! Let me first see that he is in visiting order."
Stepping before them, he looked into the room. Motioning them to advance, 
he closed the door when they had entered; and gently drew back the curtains 
of the bed. Upon it, in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had 
expected to behold, there lay a mere child, worn with pain and exhaustion 
and sunk into a deep sleep. His wounded arm, bound and splintered up, was 
crossed upon his breast; his head reclined upon the other arm, which was 
half-hidden by his long hair, as it streamed over the pillow.
The honest gentleman held the curtain in his hand, and looked on for a 
minute or so, in silence. Whilst he was watching the patient thus, the 
younger lady glided softly past, and seating herself in a chair by the 
bedside, gathered Oliver's hair from his face. As she stooped over him, her 
tears fell upon his forehead.
The boy stirred, and smiled in his sleep, as though these marks of pity and 
compassion had awakened some pleasant dream of a love and affection he had 
never known. Thus, a strain of gentle music, or the rippling of water in a 
silent place, or the odour of a flower, or the mention of a familiar word, 
will sometimes call up sudden dim remembrances of scenes that never were, 
in this life; which vanish like a breath; which some brief memory of a 
happier existence, long gone by, would seem to have awakened; which no 
voluntary exertion of the mind can ever recall.
"What can this mean?" exclaimed the elder lady. "This poor child can never 
have been the pupil of robbers!"
"Vice," sighed the surgeon, replacing the curtain, "takes up her abode in 
many temples; and who can say that a fair outside shall not enshrine her?"
"But at so early an age!" urged Rose.
"My dear young lady," rejoined the surgeon, mournfully shaking his head; 
"crime, like death, is not confined to the old and withered alone. The 
youngest and fairest are too often its chosen victims."
"But, can you - oh! can you really believe that this delicate boy has been 
the voluntary associate of the worst outcasts of society?" said Rose.
The surgeon shook his head, in a manner which intimated that he feared it 
was very possible; and observing that they might disturb the patient, led 
the way into an adjoining apartment.
"But even if he has been wicked," pursued Rose, "think how young he is; 
think that he may never have known a mother's love, or the comfort of a 
home; that ill - usage and blows, or the want of bread, may have driven him 
to herd with men who have forced him to guilt. Aunt, dear aunt, for mercy's 
sake, think of this, before you let them drag this sick child to a prison, 
which in any case must be the grave of all his chances of amendment. Oh! as 
you love me, and know that I have never felt the want of parents in your 
goodness and affection, but that I might have done so, and might have been 
equally helpless and unprotected with this poor child, have pity upon him 
before it is too late!
"My dear love," said the elder lady, as she folded the weeping girl to her 
bosom, "do you think I would harm a hair of his head?"
"Oh, no!" replied Rose eagerly.
"No, surely," said the old lady; "my days are drawing to their close; and 
may mercy be shown to me as I show it to others! What can I do to save him, 
sir?"
"Let me think, ma'am," said the doctor; "let me think."
Mr. Losberne thrust his hands into his pockets, and took several turns up 
and down the room; often stopping, and balancing himself on his toes, and 
frowning frightfully. After various exclamations of "I've got it now," and 
"no, I haven't," and as many renewals of the walking and frowning, he at 
length made a dead halt, and spoke as follows:
"I think if you give me a full and unlimited commission to bully Giles, and 
that little boy, Brittles, I can manage it. Giles is a faithful fellow and 
an old servant, I know; but you can make it up to him in a thousand ways, 
and reward him for being such a good shot besides. You don't object to 
that?"
"Unless there is some other way of preserving the child," replied Mrs. 
Maylie.
"There is no other," said the doctor. "No other, take my word for it."
"Then my aunt invests you with full power," said Rose, smiling through her 
tears; "but pray don't be harder upon the poor fellows than is 
indispensably necessary."
"You seem to think," retorted the doctor, "that everybody is disposed to be 
hard-hearted today, except yourself, Miss Rose. I only hope, for the sake 
of the rising male sex generally, that you may be found in as vulnerable 
and soft-hearted a mood by the first eligible young fellow who appeals to 
your compassion; and I wish I were a young fellow, that I might avail 
myself, on the spot, of such a favourable opportunity for doing so, as the 
present."
"You are as great a boy as poor Brittles himself," returned Rose, blushing.
"Well," said the doctor, laughing heartily, "that is no very difficult 
matter. But to return to this boy. The great point of our agreement is yet 
to come. He will wake in an hour or so, I dare say; and although I have 
told that thick-headed constable-fellow downstairs that he mustn't be moved 
or spoken to, on peril of his life, I think we may converse with him 
without danger. Now I make this stipulation- that I shall examine him in 
your presence, and that, if, from what he says, we judge, and I can show to 
the satisfaction of your cool reason, that he is a real and thorough bad 
one (which is more than possible), he shall be left to his fate, without 
any further interference on my part, at all events."
"Oh, no, aunt!" entreated Rose.
"Oh, yes, aunt!" said the doctor. "Is it a bargain?"
"He cannot be hardened in vice," said Rose; "it is impossible.
"Very good," retorted the doctor; "then so much the more reason for 
acceding to my proposition."
Finally the treaty was entered into; and the parties thereunto sat down to 
wait, with some impatience, until Oliver should awake.
The patience of the two ladies was destined to undergo a longer trial than 
Mr. Losberne had led them to expect; for hour after hour passed on, and 
still Oliver slumbered heavily. It was evening, indeed, before the kind-
hearted doctor brought them the intelligence, that he was at length 
sufficiently restored to be spoken to. The boy was very ill, he said, and 
weak from the loss of blood; but his mind was so troubled with anxiety to 
disclose something, that he deemed it better to give him the opportunity, 
than to insist upon his remaining quiet until next morning; which he should 
otherwise have done.
The conference was a long one. Oliver told them all his simple history, and 
was often compelled to stop, by pain and want of strength. It was a solemn 
thing to hear, in the darkened room, the feeble voice of the sick child 
recounting a weary catalogue of evils and calamities which hard men had 
brought upon him. Oh! if when we oppress and grind our fellow-creatures, we 
bestowed but one thought on the dark evidences of human error, which, like 
dense and heavy clouds, are rising, slowly it is true, but not less surely, 
to Heaven, to pour their after-vengeance on our heads; if we heard but one 
instant, in imagination, the deep testimony of dead men's voices, which no 
power can stifle, and no pride shut out; where would be the injury and 
injustice, the suffering misery, cruelty, and wrong, that each day's life 
brings with it!
Oliver's pillow was smoothed by gentle hands that night; and loveliness and 
virtue watched him as he slept. He felt calm and happy, and could have died 
without a murmur.
The momentous interview was no sooner concluded, and Oliver composed to 
rest again, than the doctor, after wiping his eyes, and condemning them for 
being weak all at once, betook himself downstairs to open upon Mr. Giles. 
And finding nobody about the parlours, it occurred to him, that he could 
perhaps originate the proceedings with better effect in the kitchen; so 
into the kitchen he went.
There were assembled, in that lower house of the domestic parliament, the 
women-servants, Mr. Brittles, Mr. Giles, the tinker (who had received a 
special invitation to regale himself for the remainder of the day, in 
consideration of his services), and the constable. The latter gentleman had 
a large staff, a large head, large features, and large half-boots; and he 
looked as if he had been taking a proportionate allowance of ale - as 
indeed he had.
The adventures of the previous night were still under
∑ discussion; for Mr. Giles was expatiating upon his presence of mind, when 
the doctor entered; Mr. Brittles, with a mug of ale in his hand, was 
corroborating everything, before his superior said it.
"Sit still!" said the doctor, waving his hand.
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Giles. "Missis wished some ale to be given out, 
sir; and as I felt no ways inclined for my own little room, sir, and was 
disposed for company, I am taking mine among 'em here."
Brittles headed a low murmur, by which the ladies and gentlemen generally 
were understood to express the gratification they derived from Mr. Giles's 
condescension. Mr. Giles looked round with a patronising air, as much as to 
say that so long as they behaved properly, he would never desert them.
"How is the patient tonight, sir?" asked Giles.
"So - so;" returned the doctor. "I am afraid you have got yourself into a 
scrape there, Mr. Giles."
"I hope you don't mean to say, sir," said Mr. Giles, trembling, "that he's 
going to die. If I thought it, I should never be happy again. I wouldn't 
cut a boy off - no, not even Brittles here - not for all the plate in the 
county, sir."
"That's not the point," said the doctor mysteriously. "Mr. Giles, are you a 
Protestant?"
"Yes, sir, I hope so," faltered Mr. Giles, who had turned very pale.
"And what are you, boy?" said the doctor, turning sharply upon Brittles.
"Lord bless me, sir!" replied Brittles, starting violently; "I'm - the same 
as Mr. Giles, sir."
"Then tell me this," said the doctor, "both of you - both of you! Are you 
going to take upon yourselves to swear that that boy upstairs is the boy 
that was put through the little window last night? Out with it! Come! We 
are prepared for you!"
The doctor, who was universally considered one of the best-tempered 
creatures on earth, made this demand in such a dreadful tone of anger, that 
Giles and Brittles, who were considerably muddled by ale and excitement, 
stared at each other in a state of stupefaction.
"Pay attention to the reply, constable, will you?" said the doctor, shaking 
his forefinger with great solemnity of manner, and tapping the bridge of 
his nose with it, to bespeak the exercise of that worthy's utmost 
acuteness. "Something may come of this before long."
The constable looked as wise as he could, and took up his staff of office, 
which had been reclining indolently in the chimney-corner.
"It's a simple question of identity, you will observe," said the doctor.
"That's what it is, sir," replied the constable, coughing with a great 
violence; for he had finished his ale in a hurry, and some of it had gone 
the wrong way.
"Here's a house broken into," said the doctor, "and a couple of men catch 
one moment's glimpse of a boy, in the midst of gunpowder-smoke, and in all 
the distraction of alarm and darkness. Here's a boy comes to that very same 
house, next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these 
men lay violent hands upon him - by doing which, they place his life in 
great danger- and swear he is the thief. Now, the question is, whether 
these men are justified by the fact; if not, in what situation do they 
place themselves?"
The constable nodded profoundly. He said, if that wasn't law, he would be 
glad to know what was.
"I ask you again," thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, 
able to identify that boy?"
Brittles looked doubtfully at Mr. Giles; Mr. Giles looked doubtfully at 
Brittles; the constable put his hand behind his ear, to catch the reply; 
the two women and the tinker leaned forward to listen; the doctor glanced 
keenly around; when a ring was heard at the gate, and at the same moment, 
the sound of wheels.
"It's the runners!" cried Brittles, to all appearance much relieved.
"The what?" exclaimed the doctor, aghast in his turn.
"The Bow Street officers, sir," replied Brittles, taking up a candle; "me 
and Mr. Giles sent for 'em this morning."
"What?" cried the doctor.
"Yes," replied Brittles; "I sent a message up by the coachman, and I only 
wonder they weren't here before, sir."
"You did, did you? Then confound your slow coaches down here; that's all," 
said the doctor, walking away.



Chapter 31

Involves A Critical Position.

"Who's that?" inquired Brittles, opening the door a little way, with the 
chain up, and peeping out, shading the candle with his hand.
"Open the door," replied a man outside; "it's the officers from Bow Street, 
as was sent to, today."
Much comforted by this assurance, Brittles opened the door to its full 
width, and confronted a portly man in a greatcoat; who walked in, without 
saying anything more, and wiped his shoes on the mat, as coolly as if he 
lived there.
"Just send somebody out to relieve my mate, will you, young man?" said the 
officer; "he's in the gig, a-minding the prad. Have you got a coach-'us 
here, that you could put it up in, for five or ten minutes?"
Brittles replying in the affirmative, and pointing out the building, the 
portly man stepped back to the garden gate, and helped his companion to put 
up the gig, while Brittles lighted them, in a state of great admiration. 
This done, they returned to the house; and, being shown into a parlour, 
took off their greatcoats and hats, and showed like what they were.
The man who had knocked at the door was a stout personage of middle height, 
aged about fifty, with shiny black hair, cropped pretty close; half-
whiskers, a round face, and sharp eyes. The other was a red-headed, bony 
man, in top-boots; with a rather ill - favoured countenance, and a turned-
up sinister-looking nose.
"Tell your governor that Blathers and Duff is here, will you?" said the 
stouter man, smoothing down his hair, and laying a pair of handcuffs on the 
table. "Oh! Good-evening, master. Can I have a word or two with you in 
private, if you please?"
This was addressed to Mr. Losberne, who now made his appearance; that 
gentleman, motioning Brittles to retire, brought in the two ladies, and 
shut the door.
"This is the lady of the house," said Mr. Losberne, motioning towards Mrs. 
Maylie.
Mr. Blathers made a bow. Being desired to sit down, he put his hat on the 
floor, and taking a chair, motioned Duff to do the same. The latter 
gentleman, who did not appear quite so much accustomed to good society, or 
quite so much at his ease in it - one of the two - seated himself, after 
undergoing several muscular affections of the limbs, and forced the head of 
his stick into his mouth, with some embarrassment.
"Now, with regard to this here robbery, master," said Blathers. "What are 
the circumstances?"
Mr. Losberne, who appeared desirous of gaining time, recounted them at 
great length, and with much circumlocution. Messrs. Blathers and Duff 
looked very knowing meanwhile, and occasionally exchanged a nod.
"I can't say, for certain, till I see the work, of course," said Blathers; 
"but my opinion at once is - I don't mind committing myself to that extent- 
that this wasn't done by a yokel; eh, Duff?"
"Certainly not," replied Duff.
"And, translating the word yokel for the benefit of the ladies, I apprehend 
your meaning to be, that this attempt was not made by a countryman?" said 
Mr. Losberne, with a smile.
"That's it, master," replied Blathers. "This is all about the robbery, is 
it?"
"All," replied the doctor.
"Now, what is this, about this here boy that the servants are a-talking 
on?" said Blathers.
"Nothing at all," replied the doctor. "One of the frightened servants chose 
to take it into his head, that he had something to do with this attempt to 
break into the house; but it's nonsense - sheer absurdity."
"Very easy disposed of, if it is," remarked Duff.
"What he says is quite correct," observed Blathers, nodding his head in a 
confirmatory way, and playing carelessly with the handcuffs, as if they 
were a pair of castanets. "Who is the boy? What account does he give of 
himself? Where did he come from? He didn't drop out of the clouds, did he, 
master?"
"Of course not," replied the doctor, with a nervous glance at the two 
ladies. "I know his whole history; but we can talk about that presently. 
You would like, first, to see the place where the thieves made their 
attempt, I suppose!"
"Certainly," rejoined Mr. Blathers. "We had better inspect the premises 
first, and examine the servants afterwards. That's the usual way of doing 
business."
Lights were then procured; and Messrs. Blathers and Duff, attended by the 
native constable, Brittles, Giles, and everybody else in short, went into 
the little room at the end of the passage and looked out at the window; and 
afterwards went round by way of the lawn, and looked in at the window; and 
after that, had a candle handed out to inspect the shutter with; and after 
that, a lantern to trace the footsteps with; and after that, a pitchfork to 
poke the bushes with. This done, amidst the breathless interest of all 
beholders they came in again; and Mr. Giles and Brittles were put through a 
melodramatic representation of their share in the previous night's 
adventures; which they performed some six times over, contradicting each 
other, in not more than one important respect, the first time, and in not 
more than a dozen the last. This consummation being arrived at, Blathers 
and Duff cleared the room, and held a long council together, compared with 
which, for secrecy and solemnity, a consultation of great doctors on the 
knottiest point in medicine, would be mere child's play.
Meanwhile, the doctor walked up and down the next room in a very uneasy 
state; and Mrs. Maylie and Rose looked on, with anxious faces.
"Upon my word," he said, making a halt, after a great number of very rapid 
turns, "I hardly know what to do."
"Surely," said Rose, "the poor child's story, faithfully repeated to these 
men, will be sufficient to exonerate him."
"I doubt it, my dear young lady," said the doctor, shaking his head. "I 
don't think it would exonerate him, either with them, or with legal 
functionaries of a higher grade. What is he, after all, they would say? A 
runaway. Judged by mere worldly considerations and probabilities, his story 
is a very doubtful one."
"You believe it, surely?" interrupted Rose.
"I believe it, strange as it is; and perhaps I may be an old fool for doing 
so," rejoined the doctor; "but I don't think it is exactly the tale for a 
practised police-officer, nevertheless."
"Why not?" demanded Rose.
"Because, my pretty cross-examiner," replied the doctor, "because, viewed 
with their eyes, there are many ugly points about it; he can only prove the 
parts that look ill, and none of those that look well. Confound the 
fellows, they will have the why and the wherefore, and will take nothing 
for granted. On his own showing, you see, he has been the companion of 
thieves for some time past; he had been carried to a police-office, on a 
charge of picking a gentleman's pocket; he has been taken away, forcibly, 
from that gentleman's house, to a place which he cannot describe or point 
out, and of the situation Of which he has not the remotest idea. He is 
brought down to Chertsey, by men who seem to have taken a violent fancy to 
him, whether he will or no; and is put through a window to rob a house; and 
then, just at the very moment when he is going to alarm the inmates, and so 
do the very thing that would set him all to rights, there rushes into the 
way, a blundering dog of a half-bred butler, and shoots him! As if on 
purpose to prevent his doing any good for himself! Don't you see all this?"
"I see it, of course," replied Rose, smiling at the doctor's impetuosity; 
"but still I do not see anything in it, to criminate the poor child."
"No," replied the doctor; "of course not! Bless the bright eyes of your 
sex! They never see, whether for good or bad, more than one side of any 
question; and that is, always, the one which first presents itself to 
them."
Having given vent to this result of experience, the doctor put his hands 
into his pockets, and walked up and down the room with even greater 
rapidity than before.
"The more I think of it," said the doctor, "the more I see that it will 
occasion endless trouble and difficulty if we put these men in possession 
of the boy's real story. I am certain it will not be believed; and even if 
they can do nothing to him in the end, still the dragging it forward, and 
giving publicity to all the doubts that will be cast upon it, must 
interfere, materially, with your benevolent plan of rescuing him from 
misery."
"Oh! what is to be done?" cried Rose. "Dear, dear! why did they send for 
these people?"
"Why, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Maylie. "I would not have had them here, for 
the world."
"All I know is," said Mr. Losberne, at last, sitting down with a kind of 
desperate calmness, "that we must try and carry it off with a bold face. 
The object is a good one, and that must be our excuse. The boy has strong 
symptoms of fever upon him, and is in no condition to be talked to any 
more; that's one comfort. We must make the best of it; and if bad be the 
best, it is no fault of ours. Come in!"
"Well, master," said Blathers, entering the room, followed by his 
colleague, and making the door fast, before he said any more. "This warn't 
a put-up thing."
"And what the devil's a put-up thing?" demanded the doctor impatiently.
"We call it a put-up robbery, ladies," said Blathers, turning to them, as 
if he pitied their ignorance, but had a contempt for the doctor's, "when 
the servants is in it."
"Nobody suspected them, in this case," said Mrs. Maylie.
"Wery likely not, ma'am," replied Blathers; "but they might have been in 
it, for all that."
"More likely on that wery account," said Duff.
"We find it was a town hand," said Blathers, continuing his report; "for 
the style of work is first-rate."
"Wery pretty indeed, it is," remarked Duff, in an undertone.
"There was two of 'em in it," continued Blathers; "and they had a boy with 
'em; that's plain from the size of the window. That's all to be said at 
present. We'll see this lad that you've got upstairs at once, if you 
please."
"Perhaps they will take something to drink first, Mrs. Maylie?" said the 
doctor, his face brightening, as if some new thought had occurred to him.
"Oh! to be sure!" exclaimed Rose eagerly. "You shall have it immediately, 
if you will."
"Why, thank you, miss!" said Blathers, drawing his coat-sleeve across his 
mouth; "it's dry work, this sort of duty. Anythink that's handy, miss; 
don't put yourself out of the way, on our accounts."
"What shall it be?" asked the doctor, following the young lady to the 
sideboard.
"A little drop of spirits, master, if it's all the same," replied Blathers. 
"It's a cold ride from London, ma'am; and I always find that spirits comes 
home warmer to the feelings."
This interesting communication was addressed to Mrs. Maylie, who received 
it very graciously. While it was being conveyed to her, the doctor slipped 
out of the room.
"Ah!" said Mr. Blathers, not holding his wineglass by the stem, but 
grasping the bottom between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand, and 
placing it in front of his chest; "I have seen a good many pieces of 
business like this, in my time, ladies."
"That crack down in the back lane at Edmonton, Blathers," said Mr. Duff, 
assisting his colleague's memory.
"That was something in this way, warn't it?" rejoined Mr. Blathers; "that 
was done by Conkey Chickweed, that was."
"You always gave that to him," replied Duff. "It was the Family Pet, I tell 
you. Conkey hadn't any more to do with it than I had."
"Get out!" retorted Mr. Blathers; "I know better. Do you mind that time 
when Conkey was robbed of his money, though? What a start that was! Better 
than any novel I ever see!"
"What was that?" inquired Rose, anxious to encourage any symptoms of good-
humour in the unwelcome visitors.
"It was a robbery, miss, that hardly anybody would have been down upon," 
said Blathers. "This here Conkey Chickweed -"
"Conkey means Nosey, ma'am," interposed Duff.
"Of course the lady knows that, don't she?" demanded Mr. Blathers. "Always 
interrupting, you are, partner! This here Conkey Chickweed, miss, kept a 
public-house over Battlebridge way, and he had a cellar, where a good many 
young lords went to see cock-fighting, and badger-drawing, and that; and a 
wery intellectual manner the sports was conducted in, for I've seen 'em 
often. He warn't one of the family at that time; and one night he was 
robbed of three hundred and twenty-seven guineas in a canvas bag, that was 
stole out of his bedroom in the dead of night, by a tall man with a black 
patch over his eye, who had concealed himself under the bed, and after 
committing the robbery, jumped slap out of window, which was only a storey 
high. He was wery quick about it. But Conkey was quick, too; for he was 
woke by the noise, and darting out of bed, he fired a blunderbuss arter 
him, and roused the neighbourhood. They set up a hue-and-cry, directly, and 
when they came to look about 'em, found that Conkey had hit the robber; for 
there was traces of blood, all the way to some palings a good distance off; 
and there they lost 'em. However, he had made off with the blunt; and, 
consequently, the name of Mr. Chickweed, licensed witler, appeared in the 
Gazette among the other bankrupts; and all manner of benefits and 
subscriptions, and I don't know what all, was got up for the poor man, who 
was in a wery low state of mind about his loss, and went up and down the 
streets, for three or four days, a-pulling his hair off in such a desperate 
manner that many people was afraid he might be going to make away with 
himself. One day he come up to the office, all in a hurry and had a private 
interview with the magistrate, who, after a deal of talk, rings the bell, 
and orders Jem Spyers in (Jem was a active officer), and tells him to go 
and assist Mr. Chickweed in apprehending the man as robbed his house. ' I 
see him, Spyers,' said Chickweed, ' pass my house yesterday morning.' ' Why 
didn't you up and collar him! ' says Spyers. ' I was so struck all of a 
heap, that you might have fractured my skull with a toothpick,' says the 
poor man; ' but we're sure to have him; for between ten and eleven o'clock 
at night he passed again.' Spyers no sooner heard this, than he put some 
clean linen and a comb, in his pocket, in case he should have to stop a day 
or two; and away he goes, and sets himself down, at one of the public-house 
windows behind the little red curtain with his hat on, all ready to bolt 
out, at a moment's notice. He was smoking his pipe here, late at night, 
when all of a sudden Chickweed roars out, ' Here he is! Stop thief! Murder! 
' Jem Spyers dashes out; and there he sees Chickweed, a-tearing down the 
street full cry. Away goes Spyers; on goes Chickweed; round turns the 
people; everybody roars out, ' Thieves! ' and Chickweed himself keeps on 
shouting, all the time, like mad. Spyers loses sight of him a minute as he 
turns a corner; shoots round; sees a little crowd; dives in; ' Which is the 
man? ' 'D- me! ' says Chickweed, ' I've lost him again! ' It was a 
remarkable occurrence, but he warn't to be seen nowhere, so they went back 
to the public-house. Next morning Spyers took his old place, and looked 
out, from behind the curtain, for a tall man with a black patch over his 
eyes, till his own two eyes ached again. At last, he couldn't help shutting 
'em, to ease 'em a minute; and the very moment he did so, he heard 
Chickweed a-roaring out, ' Here he is! ' Off he starts once more, with 
Chickweed half-way down the street ahead of him; and after twice as long a 
run as the yesterday's one, the man's lost again! This was done, once or 
twice more, till one-half the neighbours gave out that Mr. Chickweed had 
been robbed by the devil, who was playing tricks with him arterwards; and 
the other half, that poor Mr. Chickweed had gone mad with grief."
"What did Jem Spyers say?" inquired the doctor, who had returned to the 
room shortly after the commencement of the story.
"Jem Spyers," resumed the officer, "for a long time said nothing at all, 
and listened to everything without seeming to, which showed he understood 
his business. But one morning, he walked into the bar, and taking out his 
snuff-box, says, ' Chickweed, I've found out who done this here robbery.' ' 
Have you? ' said Chickweed. ' Oh, my dear Spyers, only let me have 
wengeance, and I shall die contented! Oh, my dear Spyers, where is the 
villain? ' ' Come! ' said Spyers, offering him a pinch of snuff, 'none of 
that gammon! You did it yourself.' So he had; and a good bit of money he 
had made by it, too; and nobody would never have found it out, if he hadn't 
been so precious anxious to keep up appearances, that's more!" said Mr. 
Blathers, putting down his wine-glass, and clinking the handcuffs together.
"Very curious, indeed," observed the doctor. "Now, if you please, you can 
walk upstairs."
"If you please, sir," returned Blathers. Closely following Mr. Losberne, 
the two officers ascended to Oliver's bedroom; Mr. Giles preceding the 
party, with a lighted candle.
Oliver had been dozing; but looked worse, and was more feverish than he had 
appeared yet. Being assisted by the doctor, he managed to sit up in bed for 
a minute or so; and looked at the strangers without at all understanding 
what was going forward - in fact, without seeming to recollect where he 
was, or what had been passing.
"This," said Mr. Losberne, speaking softly, but with great vehemence 
notwithstanding, "this is the lad, who, being accidentally wounded by a 
spring-gun in some boyish trespass on Mr. What-d'ye-call-him's grounds, at 
the back here, comes to the house for assistance this morning, and is 
immediately laid hold of and maltreated, by that ingenious gentleman with 
the candle in his hand; who had placed his life in considerable danger, as 
I can professionally certify."
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus recommended 
to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them towards Oliver, and 
from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most ludicrous mixture of fear and 
perplexity.
"You don't mean to deny that, I suppose?" said the doctor, laying Oliver 
gently down again.
"I was all done for the - for the best, sir," answered Giles. "I am sure I 
thought it was the boy, or I wouldn't have meddled with him. I am not of an 
inhuman disposition, sir."
"Thought it was what boy?" inquired the senior officer.
"The housebreaker's boy, sir!" replied Giles. "They - they certainly had a 
boy."
"Well? Do you think so now?" inquired Blathers.
"Think what now?" replied Giles, looking vacantly at his questioner.
"Think it's the same boy, stupid-head?" rejoined Blathers impatiently.
"I don't know; I really don't know," said Giles, with a rueful countenance. 
"I couldn't swear to him."
"What do you think?" asked Mr. Blathers.
"I don't know what to think," replied poor Giles. "I don't think it is the 
boy; indeed, I'm almost certain that it isn't You know it can't be."
"Has this man been a-drinking, sir?" inquired Blathers, turning to the 
doctor.
"What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!" said Duff, addressing Mr. 
Giles, with supreme contempt.
Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient's pulse during this short 
dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and remarked, that 
if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they would perhaps like to 
step into the next room, and have Brittles before them.
Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring apartment, 
where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself and his respected 
superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh contradictions and 
impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular light on anything, but 
the fact of his own strong mystification; except, indeed, his declarations 
that he shouldn't know the real boy, if he were put before him that 
instant; that he had only taken Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said 
he was; and that Mr. Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the 
kitchen, that he began to be very much afraid he had been a little too 
hasty.
Among other ingenious surmises, the question was then raised, whether Mr. 
Giles had really hit anybody; and upon examination of the fellow-pistol to 
that which he had fired, it turned out to have no more destructive loading 
than gunpowder and brown paper - a discovery which made a considerable 
impression on everybody but the doctor, who had drawn the ball about ten 
minutes before. Upon no one, however, did it make a greater impression than 
on Mr. Giles himself; who, after labouring, for some hours, under the fear 
of having mortally wounded a fellow-creature, eagerly caught at this new 
idea, and favoured it to the utmost. Finally, the officers, without 
troubling themselves very much about Oliver, left the Chertsey constable in 
the house, and took up their rest for that night in the town; promising to 
return next morning.
With the next morning there came a rumour, that two men and a boy were in 
the cage at Kingston, who had been apprehended overnight under suspicious 
circumstances; and to Kingston Messrs. Blathers and Duff journeyed 
accordingly. The suspicious circumstances, however, resolving themselves, 
on investigation, into the one fact, that they had been discovered sleeping 
under a haystack; which, although a great crime, is only punishable by 
imprisonment, and is, in the merciful eye of the English law, and its 
comprehensive love of all the king's subjects, held to be no satisfactory 
proof, in the absence of all other evidence, that the sleeper, or sleepers, 
have committed burglary accompanied with violence, and have therefore 
rendered themselves liable to the punishment of death; Messrs. Blathers and 
Duff came back again, as wise as they went.
In short, after some more examination, and a great deal more conversation, 
a neighbouring magistrate was readily induced to take the joint bail of 
Mrs. Maylie and Mr. Losberne for Oliver's appearance if he should ever be 
called upon; and Blathers and Duff, being rewarded with a couple of 
guineas, returned to town with divided opinions on the subject of their 
expedition; the latter gentleman on a mature consideration of all the 
circumstances, inclining to the belief that the burglarious attempt had 
originated with the Family Pet; and the former being equally disposed to 
concede the full merit of it to the great Mr. Conkey Chickweed.
. Meanwhile, Oliver gradually throve and prospered under the united care of 
Mrs. Maylie, Rose, and the kind-hearted Mr. Losberne. If fervent prayers, 
gushing from hearts overcharged with gratitude, be heard in Heaven- and if 
they be not, what prayers are? - the blessings which the orphan child 
called down upon them, sank into their souls, diffusing peace and happiness



Chapter 32

Of The Happy Life Oliver Began To Lead With His Kind Friends.

Oliver's ailings were neither slight nor few. In addition to the pain and 
delay attendant on a broken limb, his exposure to the wet and cold had 
brought on fever and ague, which hung about him for many weeks, and reduced 
him sadly. But, at length, he began, by slow degrees, to get better, and to 
be able to say sometimes, in a few tearful words, how deeply he felt the 
goodness of the two sweet ladies, and how ardently he hoped that when he 
grew strong and well again, he could do something to show his gratitude; 
only something which would let them see the love and duty with which his 
breast was full; something, however slight, which would prove to them that 
their gentle kindness had not been cast away; but that the poor boy whom 
their charity had rescued from misery, or death, was eager to serve them 
with his whole heart and soul.
"Poor fellow!" said Rose, when Oliver had been one day feebly endeavouring 
to utter the words of thankfulness that rose to his pale lips; "you shall 
have many opportunities of serving us, if you will. We are going into the 
country, and my aunt intends that you shall accompany us. The quiet place, 
the pure air, and all the pleasures and beauties of spring, will restore 
you in a few days. We will employ you in a hundred ways, when you can bear 
the trouble."
"The trouble!" cried Oliver. "Oh! dear lady, if I could but work for you; 
if I could only give you pleasure by watering your flowers, or watching 
your birds, or running up and down the whole day long, to make you happy, 
what would I give to do it!"
"You shall give nothing at all," said Miss Maylie, smiling; "for, as I told 
you before, we shall employ you in a hundred ways; and if you only take 
half the trouble to please us, that you promise now, you will make me very 
happy indeed."
"Happy, ma'am!" cried Oliver; "how kind of you to say so!"
"You will make me happier than I can tell you," replied the young lady. "To 
think that my dear good aunt should have been the means of rescuing any one 
from such sad misery as you have described to us, would be an unspeakable 
pleasure to me; but to know that the object of her goodness and compassion 
was sincerely grateful and attached, in consequence, would delight me more 
than you can well imagine. Do you understand me?" she inquired, watching 
Oliver's thoughtful face.
"Oh, yes, ma'am, yes!" replied Oliver eagerly; "but I was thinking that I 
am ungrateful now."
"To whom?" inquired the young lady.
"To the kind gentleman, and the dear old nurse, who took so much care of me 
before," rejoined Oliver. "If they knew how happy I am, they would be 
pleased, I am sure."
"I am sure they would," rejoined Oliver's benefactress; "and Mr. Losberne 
has already been kind enough to promise that when you are well enough to 
bear the journey, he will carry you to see them."
"Has he, ma'am?" cried Oliver, his face brightening with pleasure. "I don't 
know what I shall do for joy when I see their kind faces once again!"
In a short time Oliver was sufficiently recovered to undergo the fatigue of 
this expedition. One morning he and Mr. Losberne set out, accordingly, in a 
little carriage which belonged to Mrs. Maylie. When they came to Chertsey 
Bridge, Oliver turned very pale, and uttered a loud exclamation.
"What's the matter with the boy?" cried the doctor, as usual, all in a 
bustle. "Do you see anything - hear anything - feel anything - eh?"
"That, sir," cried Oliver, pointing out of the carriage window. "That 
house!"
"Yes; well, what of it? Stop, coachman. Pull up here," cried the doctor. 
"What of the house, my man; eh?"
"The thieves - the house they took me to!" whispered Oliver.
"The devil it is!" cried the doctor. "Hallo, there! let me out!"
But, before the coachman could dismount from his box, he had tumbled out of 
the coach, by some means or other; and, running down to the deserted 
tenement, began kicking at the door like a madman.
"Hallo!" said a little, ugly, humpbacked man, opening the door so suddenly, 
that the doctor, from the very impetus of his last kick, nearly fell into 
the passage. "What's the matter here?"
"Matter!" exclaimed the other, collaring him, without a moment's 
reflection. "A good deal. Robbery is the matter."
"There'll be murder the matter, too," replied the humpbacked man, coolly, 
"if you don't take your hands off. Do you hear me?"
"I hear you," said the doctor, giving his captive a hearty shake. "Where's -
 confound the fellow, what's his rascally name - Sikes; that's it. Where's 
Sikes, you thief?"
The humpbacked man stared, as if in excess of amazement and indignation; 
then, twisting himself, dextrously, from the doctor's grasp, growled forth 
a volley of horrid oaths, and retired into the house. Before he could shut 
the door, however, the doctor had passed into the parlour, without a word 
of parley. He looked anxiously round; not an article of furniture, not a 
vestige of anything, animate or inanimate; not even the position of the 
cupboards, answered Oliver's description?
"Now!" said the humpbacked man, who had watched him keenly, "what do you 
mean by coming into my house, in this violent way? Do you want to rob me, 
or to murder me? Which is it?"
"Did you ever know a man come out to do either, in a chariot and pair, you 
ridiculous old vampire?" said the irritable doctor.
"What do you want, then?" demanded the hunchback. "Will you take yourself 
off, before I do you a mischief? Curse you!"
"As soon as I think proper," said Mr. Losberne, looking into the other 
parlour; which, like the first, bore no resemblance whatever to Oliver's 
account of it. "I shall find you out, some day, my friend."
"Will you?" sneered the ill - favoured cripple. "If you ever want me, I'm 
here. I haven't lived here mad and all alone, for five-and-twenty years, to 
be scared by you. You shall pay for this; you shall pay for this." And so 
saying, the misshapen little demon set up a yell, and danced upon the 
ground, as if wild with rage.
"Stupid enough, this," muttered the doctor to himself; "the boy must have 
made a mistake. Here! Put that in your pocket, and shut yourself up again." 
With these words he flung the hunchback a piece of money, and returned to 
the carriage.
The man followed to the chariot door, uttering the wildest imprecations and 
curses all the way; but as Mr. Losberne turned to speak to the driver, he 
looked into the carriage, and eyed Oliver for an instant with a glance so 
sharp and fierce, and at the same time so furious and vindictive, that, 
waking or sleeping, he could not forget it for months afterwards. He 
continued to utter the most fearful imprecations, until the driver had 
resumed his seat; and when they were once more on their way, they could see 
him some distance behind, beating his feet upon the ground, and tearing his 
hair, in transports of real or pretended rage.
"I am an ass!" said the doctor, after a long silence. "Did you know that 
before, Oliver?"
"No, sir."
"Then don't forget it another time."
"An ass," said the doctor again, after a further silence of some minutes. 
"Even if it had been the right place, and the right fellows had been there, 
what could I have done, single-handed? And if I had had assistance, I see 
no good that I should have done, except leading to my own exposure, and an 
unavoidable statement of the manner in which I have hushed up this 
business. That would have served me right, though. I am always involving 
myself in some scrape or other, by acting on impulse. It might have done me 
good."
Now, the fact was that the excellent doctor had never acted upon anything 
but impulse all through his life, and it was no bad compliment to the 
nature of the impulses which governed him, that so far from being involved 
in any peculiar troubles or misfortunes, he had the warmest respect and 
esteem of all who knew him. If the truth must be told, he was a little out 
of temper, for a minute or two, at being disappointed in procuring 
corroborative evidence of Oliver's story, on the very first occasion on 
which he had a chance of obtaining any. He soon came round again, however; 
and finding that Oliver's replies to his questions were still as 
straightforward and consistent, and still delivered with as much apparent 
sincerity and truth, as they had ever been. he made up his mind to attach 
full credence to them, from that time forth.
As Oliver knew the name of the street in which Mr. Brownlow resided, they 
were enabled to drive straight thither. When the coach turned into it, his 
heart beat so violently, that he could scarcely draw his breath.
"Now, my boy, which house is it?" inquired Mr. Losberne.
"That! That!" replied Oliver, pointing eagerly out of the window. "The 
white house. Oh! make haste! Pray make haste! I feel as if I should die; it 
makes me tremble so."
"Come, come!" said the good doctor, patting him on the shoulder. "You will 
see them directly, and they will be overjoyed to find you safe and well."
"Oh! I hope so!" cried Oliver. "They were so good to me; so very, very good 
to me."
The coach rolled on. It stopped. No; that was the wrong house; the next 
door. It went on a few paces, and stopped again. Oliver looked up at the 
windows, with tears of happy expectation coursing down his face.
Alas! the white house was empty and there was a bill in the window. "To 
Let."
"Knock at the next door," cried Mr. Losberne, taking Oliver's arm in his. 
"What has become of Mr. Brownlow, who used to live in the adjoining house, 
do you know?"
The servant did not know; but would go and inquire. She presently returned, 
and said, that Mr. Brownlow had sold off his goods, and gone to the West 
Indies, six weeks before. Oliver clasped his hands, and sank feebly 
backward.
"Has his housekeeper gone, too?" inquired Mr. Losberne, after a moment's 
pause.
"Yes, sir," replied the servant. "The old gentleman, the housekeeper, and a 
gentleman who was a friend of Mr. Brownlow's, all went together."
"Then turn towards home again," said Mr. Losberne to the driver; "and don't 
stop to bait the horses, till you get out of this confounded London!"
"The book-stall keeper, sir?" said Oliver. "I know the way there. See him, 
pray, sir! Do see him!"
"My poor boy, this is disappointment enough for one day," said the doctor. 
"Quite enough for both of us. If we go to the book-stall keeper's, we shall 
certainly find that he is dead, or has set his house on fire, or run away. 
No; home again, straight!" And in obedience to the doctor's impulse, home 
they went.
This bitter disappointment caused Oliver much sorrow and grief, even in the 
midst of his happiness; for he had pleased himself, many times during his 
illness, with thinking of all that Mr. Brownlow and Mrs. Bedwin would say 
to him; and what delight it would be to tell them how many long days and 
nights he had passed in reflecting on what they had done for him, and in 
bewailing his cruel separation from them. The hope of eventually clearing 
himself with them, too, and explaining how he had been forced away, had 
buoyed him up, and sustained him, under many of his recent trials; and now, 
the idea that they should have gone so far, and carried with them the 
belief that he was an impostor and robber - a belief which might remain 
uncontradicted to his dying day - was almost more than he could bear.
The circumstance occasioned no alteration, however, in the behaviour of his 
benefactors. After another fortnight, when the fine warm weather had fairly 
begun, and every tree and flower was putting forth its young leaves and 
rich blossoms, they made preparations for quitting the house at Chertsey, 
for some months. Sending the plate, which had so excited Fagin's cupidity, 
to the banker's, and leaving Giles and another servant in care of the 
house, they departed to a cottage at some distance in the country, and took 
Oliver with them.
Who can describe the pleasure and delight, the peace of mind and soft 
tranquillity, the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and among the green 
hills and rich woods, of an inland village! Who can tell how scenes of 
peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and 
noisy places, and carry their own freshness deep into their jaded hearts! 
Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil, and 
who had never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second 
nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed 
the narrow boundaries of their daily walks; even they, with the hand of 
death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of 
Nature's face; and, carried far from the scenes of their old pains and 
pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being. Crawling 
forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such 
memories wakened up within them by the sight of sky, and hill, and plain, 
and glistening water, that a foretaste of Heaven itself has soothed their 
quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs, as peacefully as the 
sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but a few 
hours before, faded from their dim and feeble light! The memories which 
peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts 
and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands 
for the graves of those we loved; may purify our thoughts, and bear down 
before it old enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, there lingers, in 
the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having 
held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time, which 
calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and 
worldliness beneath it.
It was a lovely spot to which they repaired. Oliver, whose days had been 
spent among squalid crowds, and in the midst of noise and brawling, seemed 
to enter on a new existence there. The rose and honeysuckle clung to the 
cottage walls; the ivy crept round the trunks of the trees; and the garden 
flowers perfumed the air with delicious odours. Hard by, was a little 
churchyard; not crowded with tall, unsightly gravestones, but full of 
humble mounds, covered with fresh turf and moss; beneath which, the old 
people of the village lay at rest. Oliver often wandered here; and, 
thinking of the wretched grave in which his mother lay, would sometimes sit 
hum down and sob unseen; but, when he raised his eyes to the deep sky 
overhead, he would cease to think of her as lying in the ground, and would 
weep for her, sadly, but without pain.
It was a happy time. The days were peaceful and serene; the nights brought 
with them neither fear nor care; no languishing in a wretched prison, or 
associating with wretched men; nothing but pleasant and happy thoughts. 
Every morning he went to a white-headed old gentleman, who lived near the 
little church; who taught him to read better, and to write, and who spoke 
so kindly, and took such pains, that Oliver could never try enough to 
please him. Then, he would walk with Mrs. Maylie and Rose, and hear them 
talk of books; or perhaps sit near them, in some shady place, and listen 
whilst the young lady read; which he could have done, until it grew too 
dark to see the letters. He had his own lesson for the next day to prepare; 
and at this, he would work hard, in a little room which looked into the 
garden, till evening came slowly on, when the ladies would walk out again, 
and he with them, listening with such pleasure to all they said; and so 
happy if they wanted a flower that he could climb to reach, or had 
forgotten anything he could run to fetch, that he could never be quick 
enough about it. When it became quite dark, and they returned home, the 
young lady would sit down to a piano, and play some pleasant air, or sing, 
in a low and gentle voice, some old song which it pleased her aunt to hear. 
There would be no candles lighted at such times as these; and Oliver would 
sit by one of the windows, listening to the sweet music, in a perfect 
rapture.
And when Sunday came, how differently the day was spent, from any way in 
which he had ever spent it yet! and how happily too; like all the other 
days in that most happy time! There was the little church, in the morning, 
with the green leaves fluttering at the windows, the birds singing without, 
and the sweet-smelling air stealing in at the low porch, and filling the 
homely building with its fragrance. The poor people were so neat and clean 
and knelt so reverently in prayer, that it seemed a pleasure, not a tedious 
duty, their assembling there together; and though the singing might be 
rude, it was real, and sounded more musical (to Oliver's ears at least) 
than any he had ever heard in church before. Then, there were the walks as 
usual, and many calls at the clean houses of the labouring men; and at 
night, Oliver read a chapter or two from the Bible, which he had been 
studying all the week, and in the performance of which duty he felt more 
proud and pleased, than if he had been the clergyman himself.
In the morning, Oliver would be afoot by six o'clock, roaming the fields, 
and plundering the hedges, far and wide, for nosegays of wild flowers, with 
which he would return laden, home; and which it took great care and 
consideration to arrange, to the best advantage, for the embellishment of 
the breakfast-table. There was fresh groundsel, too, for Miss Maylie's 
birds, with which Oliver, who had been studying the subject under the able 
tuition of the village clerk, would decorate the cages, in the most 
approved taste. When the birds were made all spruce and smart for the day, 
there was usually some little commission of charity to execute in the 
village; or, failing that, there was rare cricket-playing, sometimes, on 
the green; or, failing that, there was always something to do in the 
garden, or about the plants, to which Oliver (who had studied this science 
also, under the same master, who was a gardener by trade) applied himself 
with hearty goodwill, until Miss Rose made her appearance, when there were 
a thousand commendations to be bestowed on all he had done.
So three months glided away; three months which, in the life of the most 
blessed and favoured of mortals, might have been unmingled happiness, and 
which, in Oliver's, were true felicity. With the purest and most amiable 
generosity on one side; and the truest, warmest, soul - felt gratitude on 
the other; it is no wonder that, by the end of that short time, Oliver 
Twist had become completely domesticated with the old lady and her niece, 
and that the fervent attachment of his young and sensitive heart, was 
repaid by their pride in, and attachment to, himself.



Chapter 33

Wherein The Happiness Of Oliver And His Friends, Experiences A Sudden 
Check.

Spring flew swiftly by, and summer came. If the village had been beautiful 
at first it was now in the full glow and luxuriance of its richness. The 
great trees, which had looked shrunken and bare in the earlier months, had 
now burst into strong life and health; and stretching forth their green 
arms over the thirsty ground, converted open and naked spots into choice 
nooks, where was a deep and pleasant shade from which to look upon the wide 
prospect, steeped in sunshine, which lay stretched beyond. The earth had 
donned her mantle of brightest green, and shed her richest perfumes abroad. 
It was the prime and vigour of the year; all things were glad and 
flourishing.
Still, the same quiet life went on at the little cottage, and the same 
cheerful serenity prevailed among its inmates. Oliver had long since grown 
stout and healthy; but health or sickness made no difference in his warm 
feelings to those about him, though they do in the feelings of a great many 
people. He was still the same gentle, attached, affectionate creature that 
he had been when pain and suffering had wasted his strength, and when he 
was dependent for every slight attention and comfort on those who tended 
him.
One beautiful night, they had taken a longer walk than was customary with 
them; for the day had been unusually warm, and there was a brilliant moon, 
and a light wind had sprung up, which was unusually refreshing. Rose had 
been in high spirits, too, and they had walked on, in merry conversation, 
until they had far exceeded their ordinary bounds. Mrs. Maylie being 
fatigued, they returned more slowly home. The young lady merely throwing 
off her simple bonnet, sat down to the piano as usual. After running 
abstractedly over the keys for a few minutes, she fell into a low and very 
solemn air; and, as she played it, they heard a sound as if she were 
weeping.
"Rose, my dear!" said the elder lady.
Rose made no reply, but played a little quicker, as though the words had 
roused her from some painful thoughts.
"Rose, my love!" cried Mrs. Maylie, rising hastily, and bending over her. 
"What is this? In tears! My dear child, what distresses you?"
"Nothing, aunt; nothing," replied the young lady. "I don't know what it is; 
I can't describe it; but I feel -"
"Not ill, my love?" interposed Mrs. Maylie.
"No, no! Oh, not ill!" replied Rose, shuddering as though some deadly 
chillness were passing over her, while she spoke; "I shall be better 
presently. Close the window, pray!"
Oliver hastened to comply with her request. The young lady, making an 
effort to recover her cheerfulness, strove to play some livelier tune; but 
her fingers dropped powerless on the keys. Covering her face with her 
hands, she sank upon a sofa, and gave vent to the tears which she was now 
unable to repress.
"My child!" said the elderly lady, folding her arms about her. "I never saw 
you so before."
"I would not alarm you if I could avoid it," rejoined Rose; "but indeed I 
have tried very hard, and cannot help this. I fear I am ill, aunt."
She was, indeed; for, when candles were brought, they saw that in the very 
short time which had elapsed since their return home, the hue of her 
countenance had changed to a marble whiteness. Its expression had lost 
nothing of its beauty; but it was changed; and there was an anxious, 
haggard look about the gentle face, which it had never worn before. Another 
minute, and it was suffused with a crimson flush; and a heavy wildness came 
over the soft blue eye. Again this disappeared, like the shadow thrown by a 
passing cloud; and she was once more deadly pale.
Oliver, who watched the old lady anxiously, observed that she was alarmed 
by these appearances; and so in truth, was he; but, seeing that she 
affected to make light of them, he endeavoured to do the same, and they so 
far succeeded, that when Rose was persuaded by her aunt to retire for the 
night, she was in better spirits, and appeared even in better health, 
assuring them that she felt certain she should rise in the morning, quite 
well. "I hope," said Oliver, when Mrs. Maylie returned, "that nothing is 
the matter? She don't look well tonight, but -"
The old lady motioned to him not to speak; and, sitting herself down in a 
dark corner of the room, remained silent for some time. At length, she 
said, in a trembling voice:
"I hope not, Oliver. I have been very happy with her for some years - too 
happy, perhaps. It may be time that I should meet with some misfortune; but 
I hope it is not this."
"What?" inquired Oliver.
"The heavy blow," said the old lady, "of losing the dear girl who has so 
long been my comfort and happiness."
"Oh! God forbid!" exclaimed Oliver hastily.
"Amen to that, my child!" said the old lady, wringing her hands.
"Surely there is no danger of anything so dreadful?" said Oliver. "Two 
hours ago, she was quite well."
"She is very ill now," rejoined Mrs. Maylie; "and will be worse, I am sure. 
My dear, dear Rose! Oh, what should I do without her!"
She gave way to such great grief, that Oliver, suppressing his own emotion, 
ventured to remonstrate with her; and to beg, earnestly, that, for the sake 
of the dear young lady herself, she would be more calm.
"And consider, ma'am," said Oliver, as the tears forced themselves into his 
eyes, despite of his efforts to the contrary. "Oh! consider how young and 
good she is, and what pleasure and comfort she gives to all about her. I am 
sure - certain - quite certain - that, for your sake, who are so good 
yourself; and for her own; and for the sake of all she makes so happy; she 
will not die. Heaven will never let her die so young."
"Hush!" said Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand on Oliver's head. "You think like 
a child, poor boy. But you teach me my duty, notwithstanding. I had 
forgotten it for a moment, Oliver, but I hope I may be pardoned, for I am 
old, and have seen enough of illness and death to know the agony of 
separation from the objects of our love. I have seen enough, too, to know 
that it is not always the youngest and best who are spared to those that 
love them; but this should give us comfort in our sorrow; for Heaven is 
just; and such things teach us, impressively, that there is a brighter 
world than this; and that the passage to it is speedy. God's will be done! 
I love her; and He knows how well!"
Oliver was surprised to see that as Mrs. Maylie said these words, she 
checked her lamentations as though by one effort; and drawing herself up as 
she spoke, became composed and firm. He was still more astonished to find 
that this firmness lasted; and that, under all the care and watching which 
ensued, Mrs. Maylie was ever ready and collected; performing all the duties 
which devolved upon her, steadily, and, to all external appearance, even 
cheerfully. But he was young, and did not know what strong minds are 
capable of, under trying circumstances. How should he, when their 
possessors so seldom know themselves?
An anxious night ensued. When morning came, Mrs. Maylie's predictions were 
but too well verified. Rose was in the first stage of a high and dangerous 
fever.
"We must be active, Oliver, and not give way to useless grief," said Mrs. 
Maylie, laying her finger on her lip, as she looked steadily into his face; 
"this letter must be sent, with all possible expedition, to Mr. Losberne. 
It must be carried to the market-town, which is not more than four miles 
off, by the footpath across the fields, and thence despatched, by an 
express on horseback, straight to Chertsey. The people at the inn will 
undertake to do this; and I can trust to you to see it done, I know."
Oliver could make no reply, but looked with anxiety to be gone at once.
"Here is another letter," said Mrs. Maylie, pausing to reflect; "but 
whether to send it now, or wait until I see how Rose goes on, I scarcely 
know. I would not forward it, unless I feared the worst."
"Is it for Chertsey, too, ma'am?" inquired Oliver, impatient to execute his 
commission, and holding out his trembling hand for the letter.
"No," replied the old lady, giving it to him mechanically. Oliver glanced 
at it, and saw that it was directed to Harry Maylie, Esquire, at some great 
lord's house in the country; where, he could not make out.
"Shall it go, ma'am?" asked Oliver, looking up impatiently.
"I think not," replied Mrs. Maylie, taking it back. "I will wait until 
tomorrow."
With these words, she gave Oliver her purse, and he started off, without 
more delay, at the greatest speed he could muster.
Swiftly he ran across the fields, and down the little lanes which sometimes 
divided them; now almost hidden by the high corn on either side, and now 
emerging on an open field, where the mowers and haymakers were busy at 
their work; nor did he stop once, save now and then, for a few seconds, to 
recover breath, until he came, in a great heat, and covered with dust, on 
the little market-place of the market-town.
Here he paused, and looked about for the inn. There were a white bank, and 
a red brewery, and a yellow town-hall; and in one corner there was a large 
house, with all the wood about it painted green, before which was the sign 
of the George. To this he hastened, as soon as it caught his eye.
He spoke to a postboy, who was dozing under the gateway; and - who, after 
hearing what he wanted, referred him to the hostler; who, after hearing all 
he had to say again, referred him to the landlord; who was a tall gentleman 
in a blue neckcloth, a white hat, drab breeches, and boots with tops to 
match, leaning against a pump by the stable door, picking his teeth with a 
silver toothpick.
This gentleman walked with much deliberation into the bar to make out the 
bill, which took a long time making out; and after it was ready, and paid, 
a horse had to be saddled, and a man to be dressed, which took up ten good 
minutes more. Meanwhile Oliver was in such a desperate state of impatience 
and anxiety, that he felt as if he could have jumped upon the horse 
himself, and galloped away, full tear, to the next stage. At length, all 
was ready; and the little parcel having been handed up, with many 
injunctions and entreaties for its speedy delivery, the man set spurs to 
his horse, and rattling over the uneven paving of the market-place, was out 
of the town, and galloping along the turnpike-road, in a couple of minutes.
As it was something to feel certain that assistance was sent for, and that 
no time had been lost, Oliver hurried up the inn-yard, with a somewhat 
lighter heart. He was turning out of the gateway when he accidentally 
stumbled against a tall man wrapped in a cloak, who was at that moment 
coming out of the inn door.
"Hah!" cried the man, fixing his eyes on Oliver, and suddenly recoiling. 
"What the devil's this?".
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Oliver; "I was in a great hurry to get home, 
and didn't see you were coming."
"Death!" muttered the man to himself, glaring at the boy with his large 
dark eyes. "Who would have thought it? Grind him to ashes! He'd start up 
from a stone coffin, to come in my way!"
"I am sorry," stammered Oliver, confused by the strange man's wild look. "I 
hope I have not hurt you!"
"Rot you!" murmured the man, in a horrible passion, between his clenched 
teeth; "if I had only the courage to say the word, I might have been free 
of you in a night. Curses on your head, and black death on your heart, you 
imp! What are you doing here?"
The man shook his fist, as he uttered these words incoherently. He advanced 
towards Oliver, as if with the intention of aiming a blow at him, but fell 
violently on the ground, writhing and foaming in a fit.
Oliver gazed, for a moment, at the struggle of the madman (for such he 
supposed him to be); and then darted into the house for help. Having seen 
him safely carried into the hotel, he turned his face homewards, running as 
fast as he could, to make up for lost time, and recalling with a great deal 
of astonishment and some fear, the extraordinary behaviour of the person 
from whom he had just parted.
The circumstance did not dwell in his recollection long, however: for when 
he reached the cottage, there was enough to occupy his mind, and to drive 
all considerations of self-complacency from his memory.
Rose Maylie had rapidly grown worse; before midnight she was delirious. A 
medical practitioner, who resided on the spot, was in constant attendance 
upon her; and after first seeing the patient, he had taken Mrs. Maylie 
aside, and pronounced her disorder to be one of a most alarming nature. "In 
fact," he said, "it would be little short of a miracle, if she recovered."
How often did Oliver start from his bed that night, and stealing out, with 
noiseless footsteps, to the staircase, listen for the slightest sound from 
the sick chamber! How often did a tremble shake his frame, and cold drops 
of terror start upon his brow, when a sudden tramping of feet caused him to 
fear that something too dreadful to think of, had even then occurred! And 
what had been the fervency of all the prayers he had ever uttered, compared 
with those he poured forth, now, in the agony and passion of his 
supplication for the life and health of the gentle creature, who was 
tottering on the deep grave's verge!
Oh! the suspense, the fearful, acute suspense, of standing idly by while 
the life of one we dearly love, is trembling in the balance! Oh! the 
racking thoughts that crowd upon the mind, and make the heart beat 
violently and, the breath come thick, by the force of the images they 
conjure up before it; the desperate anxiety to be doing something to 
relieve the pain, or lessen the danger, which we have no power to 
alleviate; the sinking of soul and spirit, which the sad remembrance of our 
helplessness produces; what tortures can equal these; what reflections or 
endeavours can, in the full tide and fever of the time, allay them!
Morning came; and the little cottage was lonely and still. People spoke in 
whispers; anxious faces appeared at the gate, from time to time; women and 
children went away in tears. All the livelong day, and for hours after it 
had grown dark, Oliver paced softly up and down the garden, raising his 
eyes every instant to the sick chamber, and shuddering to see the darkened 
window, looking as if death lay stretched inside. Late at night, Mr. 
Losberne arrived. "It is hard," said the good doctor, turning away as he 
spoke; "so young; so much beloved; but there is very little hope."
Another morning. The sun shone brightly - as brightly as if it looked upon 
no misery or care; and, with every leaf and flower in full bloom about her, 
with life, and - health, and sounds and sights of joys surrounding her on 
every side, the fair young creature lay, wasting fast. Oliver crept away to 
the old churchyard, and sitting down on one of the green mounds, wept and 
prayed for her, in silence.
There was such peace and beauty in the scene; so much of brightness and 
mirth in the sunny landscape; such blithsome music in the songs of the 
summer birds; such freedom in the rapid flight of the rook, careering 
overhead; so much of life and joyousness, in all; that, when the boy raised 
his aching eyes, and looked about, the thought instinctively occurred to 
him, that this was not a time for death; that Rose could surely never die 
when humbler things were all so glad and gay; that graves were for cold and 
cheerless winter, not for sunlight and fragrance. He almost thought that 
shrouds were for the old and shrunken; and that they never wrapped the 
young and graceful form in their ghastly folds.
A knell from the church bell broke harshly on these youthful thoughts. 
Another! Again! It was tolling for the funeral service. A group of humble 
mourners entered the gate, wearing white favours; for the corpse was young. 
They stood uncovered by a grave; and there was a mother - a mother once - 
among the weeping train. But the sun shone brightly, and the birds sang on.
Oliver turned homeward, thinking on the many kindnesses he had received 
from the young lady, and wishing that the time could come over again, that 
he might never cease showing her how grateful and attached he was. He had 
no cause for self-reproach on the score of neglect, or want of thought, for 
he had been devoted to her service; and yet a hundred little occasions rose 
up before him, on which he fancied he might have been more zealous, and 
more earnest, and wished he had been. We need be careful how we deal with 
those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, 
thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done - of so many things 
forgotten, and so many more which might have been repaired! There is no 
remorse so deep as that which is unavailing; if we would be spared its 
tortures, let us remember this, in time.
When he reached home, Mrs. Maylie was sitting in the little parlour. 
Oliver's heart sank at sight of her; for she had never left the bedside of 
her niece; and he trembled to think what change could have driven her away. 
He learned that she had fallen into a deep sleep, from which she would 
waken, either to recovery and life, or to bid them farewell, and die.
They sat, listening, and afraid to speak, for hours. The untasted meal was 
removed; and with looks which showed that their thoughts were elsewhere, 
they watched the sun as he sank lower and lower, and, at length, cast over 
sky and earth those brilliant hues which herald his departure. Their quick 
ears caught the sound of an approaching footstep. They both involuntarily 
darted to the door, as Mr. Losberne entered.
"What of Rose?" cried the old lady. "Tell me at once! I can bear it; 
anything but suspense! Oh, tell me! in the name of Heaven!"
"You must compose yourself," said the doctor, supporting her. "Be calm, my 
dear ma'am, pray."
"Let me go, in God's name!" My dear child! She is dead! She is dying!"
"No!" cried the doctor passionately. "As He is good and merciful, she will 
live to bless us all, for years to come."
The lady fell upon her knees, and tried to fold her hands together; but the 
energy which had supported her so long, fled up to Heaven with her first 
thanksgiving; and she sank into the friendly arms which were extended to 
receive her.



Chapter 34

Contains Some Introductory Particulars Relative To A Young Gentleman Who 
Now Arrives Upon The Scene; And A New Adventure Which Happened To Oliver.

It was almost too much happiness to bear. Oliver felt stunned and stupefied 
by the unexpected intelligence; he could not weep, or speak, or rest. He 
had scarcely the power of understanding anything that had passed, until, 
after a long ramble in the quiet evening air, a burst of tears came to his 
relief, and he seemed to awaken all at once, to a full sense of the joyful 
change that had occurred, and the almost insupportable load of anguish 
which had been taken from his breast.
The night was fast closing in, when he returned homeward, laden with 
flowers which he had culled, with peculiar care, for the adornment of the 
sick chamber. As he walked briskly along the road he heard behind him, the 
noise of some vehicle, approaching at a furious pace. Looking round, he saw 
that it was a post-chaise, driven at great speed; and as the horses were 
galloping, and the road was narrow, he stood leaning against a gate until 
it should have passed him.
As it dashed on, Oliver caught a glimpse of a man, in a white night-cap, 
whose face seemed familiar to him, although his view was so brief that he 
could not identify the person. In another second or two, the night-cap was 
thrust out of the chaise window, and a stentorian voice bellowed to the 
driver to stop; which he did, as soon as he could pull up his horses. Then, 
the night-cap once again appeared, and the same voice called Oliver by his 
name.
"Here!" cried the voice. "Oliver, what's the news? Miss Rose! Master O-li-
ver!"
"Is it you, Giles?" cried Oliver, running up to the chaise door.
Giles popped out his night-cap again, preparatory to making some reply, 
when he was suddenly pulled back by a young gentleman who occupied the 
other corner of the chaise, and who eagerly demanded what was the news. 
"In a word!" cried the gentleman, "better or worse?"
"Better - much better!" replied Oliver hastily.
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed the gentleman. "You are sure?"
"Quite, sir," replied Oliver. "The change took place - only a few hours 
ago; and Mr. Losberne says that all danger is at an end."
The gentleman did not say another word, but, opening the chaise door, 
leaped out, and taking Oliver hurriedly by the arm, led him aside.
"You are quite certain? There is no possibility of any mistake on your 
part, my boy, is there?" demanded the gentleman in a tremulous voice. "Do 
not deceive me, by awakening hopes that are not to be fulfilled."
"I would not for the world, sir," replied Oliver. "Indeed you may believe 
me. Mr. Losberne's words were, that she would live to bless us all for many 
years to come. I heard him say so."
The tears stood in Oliver's eyes as he recalled the scene which was the 
beginning of so much happiness; and the gentleman turned his face away, and 
remained silent, for some minutes. Oliver thought he heard him sob, more 
than once; but he feared to interrupt him by any fresh remark - for he 
could well guess what his feelings were - and so stood apart, feigning to 
be occupied with his nosegay.
All this time, Mr. Giles, with the white night-cap on, had been sitting on 
the steps of the chaise, supporting an elbow on each knee, and wiping his 
eyes with a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief dotted with white spots. That 
the honest fellow had not been feigning emotion, was abundantly 
demonstrated by the very red eyes with which he regarded the young 
gentleman, when he turned round and addressed him.
"I think you had better go on to my mother's in the chaise, Giles," said 
he. "I would rather walk slowly on, so as to gain a little time before I 
see her. You can say I am coming."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Harry," said Giles, giving a final polish to his 
ruffled countenance with the handkerchief; "but if you would leave the 
postboy to say that, I should be very much obliged to you. It wouldn't be 
proper for the maids to see me in this state, sir; I should never have any 
more authority with them if they did."
"Well," rejoined Harry Maylie, smiling, "you can do as you like. Let him go 
on with the luggage, if you wish it, and do you follow with us. Only first 
exchange that night-cap for some more appropriate covering, or we shall be 
taken for madmen."
Mr. Giles, reminded of his unbecoming costume, snatched off and pocketed 
his night-cap; and substituted a hat, of grave and sober shape, which he 
took out of the chaise. This done, the postboy drove off; Giles, Mr. 
Maylie, and Oliver, followed at their leisure.
As they walked along, Oliver glanced from time to time with much interest 
and curiosity at the newcomer. He seemed about five-and-twenty years of 
age, and was of the middle height; his countenance was frank and handsome; 
and his demeanour easy and prepossessing. Notwithstanding the difference 
between youth and age, he bore so strong a likeness to the old lady, that 
Oliver would have had no great difficulty in imagining their relationship, 
if he had not already spoken of her as his mother.
Mrs. Maylie was anxiously waiting to receive her son when he reached the 
cottage. The meeting did not take place without great emotion on both 
sides.
"Mother!" whispered the young man; "why did you not write before?"
"I did," replied Mrs. Maylie; "but, on reflection, I determined to keep 
back the letter until I had heard Mr. Losberne's opinion."
"But why," said the young man - "why run the chance of that occurring which 
so nearly happened? If Rose had - I cannot utter that word now - if this 
illness had terminated differently, how could you ever have forgiven 
yourself! How could I ever have known happiness again!"
"If that had been the case, Harry," said Mrs. Maylie, "I fear your 
happiness would have been effectually blighted, and that your arrival here, 
a day sooner, or a day later, would have been of very, very little import."
"And who can wonder if it be so, mother?" rejoined the young man; "or why 
should I say if? - It is - it is - You know it, mother - you must know it!"
"I know that she deserves the best and purest love the heart of man can 
offer," said Mrs. Maylie; "I know that the devotion and affection of her 
nature require no ordinary return, but one that shall be deep and lasting. 
If I did not feel this, and know, besides, that a changed behaviour in one 
she loved would break her heart, I should not feel my task so difficult of 
performance, or have to encounter so many struggles in my own bosom, when I 
take what seems to me to be the strict line of duty."
"This is unkind, mother," said Harry. "Do you still suppose that I am a boy 
ignorant of my own mind, and mistaking the impulses of my own soul?"
"I think, my dear son," returned Mrs. Maylie, laying her hand upon his 
shoulder, "that youth has many generous impulses which do not last; and 
that among them are some, which, being gratified, become only the more 
fleeting. Above all, I think," said the lady, fixing her eyes on her son's 
face, "that if an enthusiastic, ardent, and ambitious man marry a wife on 
whose name there is a stain, which, though it originate in no fault of 
hers, may be visited by cold and sordid people upon her, and upon his 
children also, and, in exact proportion to his success in the world, be 
cast in his teeth, and made the subject of sneers against him, he may, no 
matter how generous and good his nature, one day repent of the connection 
he formed in early life. And she may have the pain of knowing that he does 
so."
"Mother," said the young man impatiently," he would be a selfish brute, 
unworthy alike of the name of man and of the woman you describe, who acted 
thus."
"You think so now, Harry," replied his mother.
"And ever will!" said the young man. "The mental agony I have suffered, 
during the last two days, wrings from me the avowal to you of a passion 
which, as you well know, is not one of yesterday, nor one I have lightly 
formed. On Rose, sweet, gentle girl! my heart is set, as firmly as ever 
heart of man was set on woman. I have no thought, no view, no hope in life, 
beyond her; and if you oppose me in this great stake, you take my peace and 
happiness in your hands, and cast them to the wind. Mother, think better of 
this, and of me, and do not disregard the happiness of which you seem to 
think so little."
"Harry," said Mrs. Maylie, "it is because I think so much of warm and 
sensitive hearts, that I would spare them from being wounded. But we have 
said enough, and more than enough, on this matter, just now."
"Let it rest with Rose, then," interposed Harry. "You will not press these 
overstrained opinions of yours, so far, as to throw any obstacle in my 
way?"
"I will not," rejoined Mrs. Maylie; "but I would have you consider -"
"I have considered!" was the impatient reply; "mother, I have considered, 
years and years. I have considered, ever since I have been capable of 
serious reflection. My feelings remain unchanged, as they ever will; and 
why should I suffer the pain of a delay in giving them vent, which can be 
productive of no earthly good? No! Before I leave this place, Rose shall 
hear me."
"She shall," said Mrs. Maylie.
"There is something in your manner, which would almost imply that she will 
hear me coldly, mother," said the young man.
"Not coldly," rejoined the old lady; "far from it."
"How then?" urged the young man. "She has formed no other attachment?"
"No, indeed," replied his mother; "you have, or I mistake, too strong a 
hold on her affections already. What I would say," resumed the old lady, 
stopping her son as he was about to speak, "is this. Before you stake your 
all on this chance; before you suffer yourself to be carried to the highest 
point of hope; reflect for a few moments, my dear child, on Rose's history, 
and consider what effect the knowledge of her doubtful birth may have on 
her decision - devoted as she is to us, with all the intensity of her noble 
mind, and with that perfect sacrifice of self which, in all matters, great 
or trifling, has always been her characteristic."
"What do you mean?"
"That I leave you to discover," replied Mrs. Maylie. "I must go back to 
her. God bless you!"
"I shall see you again tonight?" said the young ma eagerly.
"By and by," replied the lady; "when I leave Rose."
"You will tell her I am here?" said Harry.
"Of course," replied Mrs. Maylie.
"And say how anxious I have been, and how much I have suffered, and how I 
long to see her. You will not refuse to do this, mother?"
"No," said the old lady; "I will tell her all." And pressing her son's hand 
affectionately, she hastened from the room.
Mr. Losberne and Oliver had remained at another end of the apartment while 
this hurried conversation was proceeding. The former now held out his hand 
to Harry Maylie; and hearty salutations were exchanged between them. The 
doctor then communicated, in reply to multifarious questions from his young 
friend, a precise account of his patient's situation; which was quite as 
consolatory and full of promise, as Oliver's statement had encouraged him 
to hope; and to the whole of which, Mr. Giles, who affected to be busy 
about the luggage, listened with greedy ears.
"Have you shot anything particular, lately, Giles?" inquired the doctor, 
when he had concluded.
"Nothing particular, sir," replied Mr. Giles, colouring up to the eyes.
"Nor catching any thieves, nor identifying any housebreakers?" said the 
doctor.
"None at all, sir," replied Mr. Giles, with much gravity.
"Well," said the doctor, "I am sorry to hear it, because you do that sort 
of thing admirably. Pray, how is Brittles?"
"The boy is very well, sir," said Mr. Giles, recovering his usual tone of 
patronage; "and sends his respectful duty, sir."
"That's well," said the doctor. "Seeing you here, reminds me, Mr. Giles, 
that on the day before that on which I was called away so hurriedly, I 
executed, at the request of your good mistress, a small commission in your 
favour. Just step into this corner a moment, will you?"
Mr. Giles walked into the corner with much importance, and some wonder, and 
was honoured with a short whispering conference with the doctor, on the 
termination of which, he made a great many bows, and retired with steps of 
unusual stateliness. The subject matter of this conference was not 
disclosed in the parlour, but the kitchen was speedily enlightened 
concerning it; for Mr. Giles walked straight thither, and having called for 
a mug of ale, announced, with an air of majesty, which was highly 
effective, that it had pleased his mistress, in consideration of his 
gallant behaviour on the occasion of the attempted robbery to deposit, in 
the local savings-bank, the sum of five-and-twenty pounds, for his sole use 
and benefit. At this, the two women-servants lifted up their hands and 
eyes, and supposed that Mr. Giles would begin to be quite proud now; 
whereunto Mr. Giles, pulling out his shirt frill, replied, "No, no"; and 
that if they observed that he was at all haughty to his inferiors, he would 
thank them to tell him so. And then he made a great many other remarks, no 
less illustrative of his humility, which were received with equal favour 
and applause, and were, withal, as original and as much to the purpose, as 
the remarks of great men commonly are.
Above stairs, the remainder of the evening passed cheerfully away; for the 
doctor was in high spirits; and however fatigued or thoughtful Harry Maylie 
might have been at first, he was not proof against the worthy gentleman's 
good-humour, which displayed itself in a great variety of sallies and 
professional recollections, and an abundance of small jokes, which struck 
Oliver as being the drollest things he had ever heard, and caused him to 
laugh proportionately; to the evident satisfaction of the doctor, who 
laughed immoderately at himself, and made Harry laugh almost as heartily, 
by the very force of sympathy. So, they were as pleasant a party as, under 
the circumstances, they could well have been; and it was late before they 
retired, with light and thankful hearts, to take that rest of which, after 
the doubt and suspense they had recently undergone, they stood much in 
need.
Oliver rose next morning, in better heart, and went about his usual early 
occupations, with more hope and pleasure than he had known for many days. 
The birds were once more hung out, to sing, in their old places; and the 
sweetest wild flowers that could be found, were once more gathered to 
gladden Rose with their beauty. The melancholy which had seemed to the sad 
eyes of the anxious boy to hang, for days past, over every object, 
beautiful as all were, was dispelled by magic. The dew seemed to sparkle 
more brightly on the green leaves; the air to rustle among them with a 
sweeter music; and the sky itself to look more blue and bright. Such is the 
influence which the condition of our own thoughts exercises, even over the 
appearance of external objects. Men who look on nature, and their fellow-
men, and cry that all is dark and gloomy, are in the right; but the sombre 
colours are reflections from their own jaundiced eyes and hearts. The real 
hues are delicate, and need a clearer vision.
It is worthy of remark, and Oliver did not fail to note it at the time, 
that his morning expeditions were no longer made alone. Harry Maylie, after 
the very first morning when he met Oliver coming laden home, was seized 
with such a passion for flowers, and displayed such a taste in their 
arrangement, as left his young companion far behind. If Oliver were 
behindhand in these respects, however, he knew where the best were to be 
found; and morning after morning they scoured the country together, and 
brought home the fairest that blossomed. The window of the young lady's 
chamber was opened now; for she loved to feel the rich summer air stream 
in, and revive her with its freshness; but there always stood in water, 
just inside the lattice, one particular little bunch, which was made up 
with great care, every morning. Oliver could not help noticing that the 
withered flowers were never thrown away, although the little vase was 
regularly replenished; nor, could he help observing, that whenever the 
doctor came into the garden, he invariably cast his eyes up to that 
particular corner, and nodded his head most expressively, as he set forth 
on his morning's walk. Pending these observations, the days were flying by; 
and Rose was rapidly recovering.
Nor did Oliver's time hang heavy on his hands, although the young lady had 
not yet left her chamber, and there were no evening walks, save now and 
then, for a short distance, with Mrs. Maylie. He applied himself, with 
redoubled assiduity, to the instructions of the white-headed old gentleman, 
and laboured so hard that his quick progress surprised even himself. It was 
while he was engaged in this pursuit, that he was greatly startled and 
distressed by a most unexpected occurrence.
The little room in which he was accustomed to sit, when busy at his books, 
was on the ground-floor, at the back of the house. It was quite a cottage 
room, with a lattice window, around which were clusters of jessamine and 
honeysuckle that crept over the casement, and filled the place with their 
delicious perfume. It looked into a garden, whence a wicket gate opened 
into a small paddock; all beyond, was fine meadowland and wood. There was 
no other dwelling near, in that direction; and the prospect it commanded 
was very extensive. One beautiful evening, when the first shades of 
twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at this 
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, it is no disparagement to the authors, whoever they may have 
been, to say that gradually and 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, and enable it to ramble at its pleasure. So far as an 
overpowering heaviness, a prostration of strength, and an utter inability 
to control our thoughts of power of motion, can be called sleep, this is 
it, and yet, we have a consciousness of all that is going on about us, and, 
if we dream at such a time, words which are really spoken, or sounds which 
really exist at the moment, accommodate themselves with surprising 
readiness to our visions, until reality and imagination become so strangely 
blended that it is afterwards almost a matter of impossibility to separate 
the two. Nor is this, the most striking phenomenon, incidental to such a 
state. It is an undoubted fact, that although our senses of touch and sight 
be for the time dead, yet our sleeping thoughts, and the visionary scenes 
that pass before us, will be influenced and materially influenced, by the 
mere silent presence of some external object; which may not have been near 
us when we closed our eyes, and of whose vicinity we have had no waking 
consciousness.
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 
amongst them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out. 
If you buried him fifty feet deep, and took me across his grave, I fancy I 
should know, if there wasn't a mark above it, that he lay buried there!"
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 choice, 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, white with rage or fear, 
or both, were the scowling features of the very man who had accosted him in 
the inn-yard.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes; and they were 
gone. But they had recognised him, and he them; and their look was as 
firmly impressed upon his memory, as if it had been deeply carved in stone, 
and set before him from his birth. He stood transfixed for a moment; then, 
leaping from the window into the garden, called loudly for help.



Chapter 35

Containing The Unsatisfactory Result Of Oliver's Adventure; And A 
Conversation Of Some Importance Between Harry Maylie And Rose.

When the inmates of the house, attracted by Oliver's cries, hurried to the 
spot from which they proceeded, they found him, pale and agitated, pointing 
in the direction of the meadows behind the house, and scarcely able to 
articulate the words, "The Jew! the Jew!"
Mr. Giles was at a loss to comprehend what this outcry meant; but Harry 
Maylie, whose perceptions were something quicker, and who had heard 
Oliver's history from his mother, understood it at once.
"What direction did he take?" he asked, catching up a heavy stick which was 
standing in a corner.
"That," replied Oliver, pointing out the course the man had taken; "I 
missed them in an instant."
"Then, they are in the ditch!" said Harry. "Follow! And keep as near me as 
you can." So saying, he sprang over the hedge, and darted off with a speed 
which rendered it matter of exceeding difficulty for the others to keep 
near him.
Giles followed as well as he could; and Oliver followed too; and in the 
course of a minute or two, Mr. Losberne, who had been out walking, and just 
then returned, tumbled over the hedge after them, and picking himself up 
with more agility than he could have been supposed to possess, struck into 
the same course at no contemptible speed, shouting all the while, most 
prodigiously, to know what was the matter.
On they all went; nor stopped they once to breathe, until the leader, 
striking off into an angle of the field indicated by Oliver, began to 
search, narrowly, the ditch and hedge adjoining; which afforded time for 
the remainder of the party to come up; and for Oliver to communicate to Mr. 
Losberne the circumstances that had led to so vigorous a pursuit.
The search was all in vain. There were not even the traces of recent 
footsteps to be seen. They stood now on the summit of a little hill, 
commanding the open fields in every direction for three or four miles. 
There was the village in the hollow on the left; but, in order to gain 
that, after pursuing the track Oliver had pointed out, the men must have 
made a circuit of open ground, which it was impossible they could have 
accomplished in so short a time. A thick wood skirted the meadowland in 
another direction; but they could not have gained that covert for the same 
reason.
"It must have been a dream, Oliver," said Harry Maylie.
"Oh, no, indeed, sir," replied Oliver, shuddering at the very recollection 
of the old wretch's countenance; "I saw him too plainly for that. I saw 
them both, as plainly as I see you now."
"Who was the other?" inquired Harry and Mr. Losberne, together.
"The very same man I told you of, who came so suddenly upon me at the inn," 
said Oliver. "We had our eyes fixed full upon each other; and I could swear 
to him."
"They took this way?" demanded Harry; "are you sure?"
"As I am that the men were at the window," replied Oliver, pointing down, 
as he spoke, to the hedge which divided the cottage garden from the meadow. 
"The tall man leaped over, just there; and the Jew, running a few paces to 
the right, crept through that gap."
The two gentlemen watched Oliver's earnest face, as he spoke, and looking 
from him to each other, seemed to feel satisfied of the accuracy of what he 
said. Still, in no direction were there any appearances of the trampling of 
men in hurried flight. The grass was long; but it was trodden down nowhere, 
save where their own feet had crushed it. The sides and brinks of the 
dishes were of damp clay; but in no one place could they discern the print 
of men's shoes, or the slightest mark which would indicate that any feet 
had pressed the ground for hours before.
"This is strange!" said Harry.
"Strange?" echoed the doctor. "Blathers and Duff, themselves, could make 
nothing of it."
Notwithstanding the evidently useless nature of their search, they did not 
desist until the coming on of night rendered its further prosecution 
hopeless; and even then, they gave it up with reluctance. Giles was 
despatched to the different ale-houses in the village, furnished with the 
best description Oliver could give of the appearance and dress of the 
strangers. Of these, the Jew was, at all events, sufficiently remarkable to 
be remembered, supposing he had been seen drinking, or loitering about; but 
Giles returned without any intelligence, calculated to dispel or lessen the 
mystery.
On the next day, fresh search was made, and the inquiries renewed; but with 
no better success. On the day following, Oliver and Mr. Maylie repaired to 
the market-town, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of the men 
there; but this effort was equally fruitless. After a few days, the affair 
began to be forgotten, as most affairs are, when wonder, having no fresh 
food to support it, dies away of itself.
Meanwhile, Rose was rapidly recovering. She had left her room; was able to 
go out; and mixing once more with the family, carried joy into the hearts 
of all.
But, although this happy change had a visible effect on the little circle, 
and although cheerful voices and merry laughter were once more heard in the 
cottage, there was at times, an unwonted restraint upon some there, even 
upon Rose herself, which Oliver could not fail to remark. Mr. Maylie and 
her son were often closeted together for a long time; and more than once 
Rose appeared with traces of tears upon her face. After Mr. Losberne had 
fixed a day for his departure to Chertsey, these symptoms increased; and it 
became evident that something was in progress which affected the peace of 
the young lady, and of somebody else besides.
At length, one morning, when Rose was alone in the breakfast-parlour, Harry 
Maylie entered; and, with some hesitation, begged permission to speak with 
her for a few moments.
"A few - a very few - will suffice, Rose," said the young man, drawing his 
chair towards her. "What I shall have to say, has already presented itself 
to your mind; the most cherished hopes of my heart are not unknown to you, 
though from my lips you have not yet heard them stated."
Rose had been very pale from the moment of his entrance; but that might 
have been the effect of her recent illness. She merely bowed; and bending 
over some plants that stood near, waited in silence for him to proceed. 
ought to have left here, before," said Harry.
"You should, indeed," replied Rose. "Forgive me for saying so, but I wish 
you had."
"I was brought here, by the most dreadful and agonising of all 
apprehensions," said the young man: "the fear of losing the one dear being 
on whom my every wish and hope are fixed. You had been dying, trembling 
between earth and heaven. We know that when the young, the beautiful, and 
good, are visited with sickness, their pure spirits insensibly turn towards 
their bright home of lasting rest; we know, Heaven help us, that the best 
and fairest of our kind, too often fade in blooming."
There were tears in the eyes of the gentle girl, as these words were 
spoken; and when one fell upon the flower over which she bent, and 
glistened brightly in its cup, making it more beautiful, it seemed as 
though the out-pouring of her fresh young heart, claimed kindred naturally, 
with the loveliest things in nature.
"A creature," continued the young man passionately, "a creature as fair and 
innocent of guile as one of God's own angels, fluttered between life and 
death. Oh, who could hope, when the distant world to which she was akin, 
half-opened to her view, that she would return to the sorrow and calamity 
of this, Rose, Rose, to know that you were passing away like some soft 
shadow, which a light from above casts upon the earth; to have no hope that 
you would be spared to those who linger here; hardly to know a reason why 
you should be; to feel that you belonged to that bright sphere whither so 
many of the fairest and the best have winged their early flight; and yet to 
pray, amid all these consolations, that you might be restored to those who 
loved you - these were distractions almost too great to bear. They were 
mine, by day and night; and with them, came such a rushing torrent of 
fears, and apprehensions, and selfish regrets, lest you should die, and 
never know how devotedly I loved you, as almost bore down sense and reason 
in its course. You recovered. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, some 
drop of health came back, and mingling with the spent and feeble stream of 
life which circulated languidly within you, swelled it again to a high and 
rushing tide. I have watched you change almost from death to life, with 
eyes that turned blind with their eagerness and deep affection. Do not tell 
me that you wish I had lost this; for it has softened my heart to all 
mankind."
"I did not mean that," said Rose, weeping; "I only wish you had left here, 
that you might have turned to high and noble pursuits again; to pursuits 
well worthy of you."
"There is no pursuit more worthy of me, more worthy of the highest nature 
that exists, than the struggle to win such a heart as yours," said the 
young man, taking her hand. "Rose, my own dear Rose! For years - for years -
 I have loved you; hoping to win my way to fame, and then come proudly home 
and tell you it had been pursued only for you to share; thinking, in my day-
dreams, how I would remind you, in that happy moment, of the many silent 
tokens I had given of a boy's attachment, and claim your hand, as in 
redemption of some old, mute contract that had been sealed between us! That 
time has not arrived; but here, with no fame won, and no young vision 
realised, I offer you the heart so long your own, and stake my all upon the 
words with which you greet the offer."
"Your behaviour has ever been kind and noble," said Rose, mastering the 
emotions by which she was agitated. "As you believe that I am not 
insensible or ungrateful, so hear my answer."
"It is, that I may endeavour to deserve you; is it, dear Rose?"
"It is," replied Rose, "that you must endeavour to forget me; not as your 
old and dearly-attached companion, for that would wound me deeply; but, as 
the object of your love. Look into the world; think how many hearts you 
would be proud to gain are there. Confide some other passion to me, if you 
will; I will be the truest, warmest, and most faithful friend you have."
There was a pause, during which, Rose, who had covered her face with one 
hand, gave free vent to her tears. Harry still retained the other.
"And your reasons, Rose," he said, at length, in a low voice; "your reasons 
for this decision?"
"You have a right to know them," rejoined Rose. "You can say nothing to 
alter my decision. It is a duty that I must perform. I owe it, alike to 
others, and to myself."
"To yourself?"
"Yes, Harry. I owe it to myself, that I, a friendless, portion less girl, 
with a blight upon my name, should not give your friends reason to suspect 
that I had sordidly yielded to your first passion, and fastened myself, a 
clog, on all your hopes and projects. I owe it to you and yours, to prevent 
you from opposing, in the warmth of your generous nature, this great 
obstacle to your progress in the world."
"If your inclinations chime with your sense of duty -" Harry began.
"They do not," replied Rose, colouring deeply.
"Then you return my love?" said Harry. "Say but that, dear Rose; say but 
that; and soften the bitterness of this hard disappointment!"
"If I could have done so, without doing heavy wrong to him I loved," 
rejoined Rose, "I could have -"
"Have received this declaration very indifferently?" said Harry. "Do not 
conceal that from me, at least, Rose."
"I could," said Rose. "Stay," she added, disengaging her hand, "why should 
we prolong this painful interview? Most painful to me, and yet productive 
of lasting happiness, notwithstanding; for it will be happiness to know 
that I once held the high place in your regard which I now occupy, and 
every triumph you achieve in life will animate me with new fortitude and 
firmness. Farewell, Harry! As we have met today, we meet no more; but in 
other relations than those in which this conversation would have placed us, 
we may be long and happily entwined; and may every blessing that the 
prayers of a true and earnest heart can call down from the source of all 
truth and sincerity, cheer and prosper you!"
"Another word, Rose," said Harry. "Your reason in your own lips, let me 
hear it?"
"The prospect before you," answered Rose firmly, "is a brilliant one. All 
the honours to which great talents and powerful connections can help men in 
public life, are in store for you. But those connections are proud; and I 
will neither mingle with such as may hold in scorn the mother who gave me 
life, nor bring disgrace or failure on the son of her who had so well 
supplied that mother's place. In a word," said the young lady, turning 
away, as her temporary firmness forsook her, "there is a stain upon my 
name, which the world visits on innocent heads. I will carry it into no 
blood but my own; and the reproach shall rest alone on me."
"One word more, Rose. Dearest Rose! one more!" cried Harry, throwing 
himself before her. "If I had been less - less fortunate, the world would 
call it - if some obscure and peaceful life had been my destiny - if I had 
been poor, sick, helpless - would you have turned from me then? Or has my 
probable advancement to riches and honour, given this scruple birth?"
"Do you press me to reply," answered Rose. "The question does not arise, 
and never will. It is unfair, almost unkind, to urge it."
"If your answer be what I almost dare to hope it is," retorted Harry, "it 
will shed a gleam of happiness upon my lonely way, and light the path 
before me. It is not an idle thing to do so much, by the utterance of a few 
brief words, for one who loves you beyond all else. Oh, Rose! in the name 
of my ardent and enduring attachment; in the name of all I have suffered 
for you, and all you doom me to undergo; answer me this one question!"
"Then, if your lot had been differently cast," rejoined Rose; "if you had 
been even a little, but not so far, above me; if I could have been a help 
and comfort to you in any humble scene of peace and retirement, and not a 
blot and drawback in ambitious and distinguished crowds, I should have been 
spared this trial. I have every reason to be happy, very happy, now; but 
then, Harry, I own I should have been happier."
Busy recollections of old hopes, cherished as a girl, long ago, crowded 
into the mind of Rose, while making this avowal; but they brought tears 
with them, as old hopes will when they come back withered; and they 
relieved her.
"I cannot help this weakness, and it makes my purpose stronger," said Rose, 
extending her hand. "I must leave you now, indeed."
"I ask one promise," said Harry. "Once, and only once-more - say within a 
year, but it may be much sooner - I may speak to you again on this subject, 
for the last time?"
"Not to press me to alter my right determination," replied Rose, with a 
melancholy smile; "it will be useless."
"No," said Harry; "to hear you repeat it, if you will - finally repeat it! 
I will lay at your feet, whatever of station or fortune I may possess; and 
if you still adhere to your present resolution, will not seek, by word or 
act, to change it."
"Then let it be so," rejoined Rose; "it is but one pang the more, and by 
that time I may be enabled to bear it better."
She extended her hand again. But the young man caught her to his bosom; 
and, imprinting one kiss on her beautiful forehead, hurried from the room.



Chapter 36

Is a very short one, and may appear of no great importance in its place; 
but it should be read notwithstanding, as a sequel to the last, and a key 
to one that will follow when its time arrives.

"And so you are resolved to be my travelling companion this morning; eh?" 
said the doctor, as Harry Maylie joined him and Oliver at the breakfast-
table. "Why, you are not in the same mind or intention two half-hours 
together!"
"You will tell me a different tale one of these days," said Harry, 
colouring without any perceptible reason.
"I hope I may have good cause to do so," replied Mr. Losberne; "though I 
confess I don't think I shall. But yesterday morning you have made up your 
mind, in a great hurry, to stay here, and to accompany your mother, like a 
dutiful son, to the seaside. Before noon, you announce that you are going 
to do me the honour of accompanying me as far as I go, on your road to 
London. And at night, you urge me, with great mystery, to start before the 
ladies are stirring; the consequence of which is, that young Oliver here is 
pinned down to his breakfast when he ought to be ranging the meadows after 
botanical phenomena of all kinds. Too bad, isn't it, Oliver!"
"I should have been very sorry not to have been at home when you and Mr. 
Maylie went away, sir," rejoined Oliver.
"That's a fine fellow," said the doctor; "you shall come and see me when 
you return. But, to speak seriously, Harry, has any communication from the 
great nobs produced this sudden anxiety on your part to be gone?"
"The great nobs," replied Harry, "under which designation I presume, you 
include my most stately uncle, have not communicated with me at all, since 
I have been here; nor, at this time of the year, is it likely that anything 
would occur to render necessary my immediate attendance among them."
"Well," said the doctor, "you are a queer fellow. But of course they will 
get you into Parliament at the election before Christmas, and these sudden 
shiftings and changes are no bad preparation for political life. There's 
something in that. Good training is always desirable, whether the race be 
for place, cup, or sweepstakes."
Harry Maylie looked as if he could have followed up this short dialogue by 
one or two remarks that would have staggered the doctor not a little; but 
he contented himself with saying, "We shall see," and pursued the subject 
no further. The post-chaise drove up to the door shortly afterwards; and 
Giles coming in for the baggage, the good doctor bustled out, to see it 
packed.
"Oliver," said Harry Maylie, in a low voice, "let me speak a word with 
you."
Oliver walked into the window-recess to which Mr. Maylie beckoned him; much 
surprised at the mixture of sadness and boisterous spirits, which his whole 
behaviour displayed.
"You can write now?" said Harry, laying his hand upon his arm.
"I hope so, sir," replied Oliver.
"I shall not be at home again, perhaps for some time; I wish you would 
write to me - say once a fortnight, every alternate Monday - to the General 
Post Office in London. Will you?"
"Oh! certainly, sir; I shall be proud to do it," exclaimed Oliver, greatly 
delighted with the commission.
"I should like to know - how my mother and Miss Maylie are," said the young 
man; "and you can fill up a sheet by telling me what walks you take, and 
what you talk about, and whether she - they, I mean - seem happy and quite 
well. You understand me?"
"Oh! quite, sir, quite," replied Oliver.
"I would rather you did not mention it to them," said Harry, hurrying over 
his words; "because it might make my mother anxious to write to me oftener, 
and it is a trouble and worry to her. Let it be a secret between you and 
me; and mind you tell me everything! I depend upon you."
Oliver, quite elated and honoured by a sense of his importance, faithfully 
promised to be secret and explicit in his communications. Mr. Maylie took 
leave of him, with many assurances of his regard and protection.
The doctor was in the chaise; Giles (who, it had been arranged, should be 
left behind) held the door open in his hand; and the women-servants were in 
the garden, looking on. Harry cast one slight glance at the latticed 
window, and jumped into the carriage.
"Drive on!" he cried, "hard, fast, full gallop! Nothing short of flying 
will keep pace with me, today."
"Hallo!" cried the doctor, letting down the front glass in a great hurry, 
and shouting to the postillion; "something very short of flying will keep 
pace with me. Do you hear?"
Jingling and clattering, till distance rendered its noise inaudible, and 
its progress only perceptible to the eye, the vehicle wound its way along 
the road, almost hidden in a cloud of dust, now wholly disappearing, and 
now becoming visible again, as intervening objects, or the intricacies of 
the way, permitted. It was not until even the dusty cloud was no longer to 
be seen, that the gazers dispersed.
And there was one looker-on, who remained with eyes fixed upon the spot 
where the carriage had disappeared, long after it was many miles away; for, 
behind the white curtain which had shrouded her from view when Harry raised 
his eyes towards the window, sat Rose herself.
"He seems in high spirits and happy," she said, at length. "I feared for a 
time he might be otherwise. I was mistaken. I am very, very glad."
Tears are signs of gladness as well as grief; but those which coursed down 
Rose's face, as she sat pensively at the window, still gazing in the same 
direction, seemed to tell more of sorrow than of joy.



Chapter 37

In Which The Reader May Perceive A Contrast, Not Uncommon In Matrimonial 
Cases.

Mr. Bumble sat in the workhouse parlour, with his eyes moodily fixed on the 
cheerless grate, whence, as it was summer time, no brighter gleam 
proceeded, than the reflection of certain sickly rays of the sun, which 
were sent back from its cold and shining surface. A paper fly-cage dangled 
from the ceiling, to which he occasionally raised his eyes in gloomy 
thought; and, as the heedless insects hovered round the gaudy network, Mr. 
Bumble would heave a deep sigh, while a more gloomy shadow overspread his 
countenance. Mr. Bumble was meditating; it might be that the insects 
brought to mind some painful passage in his own past life.
Nor was Mr. Bumble's gloom the only thing calculated to awaken a pleasing 
melancholy in the bosom of a spectator. There were not wanting other 
appearances, and those closely connected with his own person, which 
announced that a great change had taken place in the position of his 
affairs. The laced coat, and the cocked hat, where were they? He still wore 
knee-breeches, and dark cotton stockings on his nether limbs; but they were 
not the breeches. The coat was wide-skirted; and in that respect like the 
coat, but, oh, how different! The mighty cocked hat was replaced by a 
modest round one. Mr. Bumble was no longer a beadle.
There are some promotions in life, which, independent of the more 
substantial rewards they offer, acquire peculiar value and dignity from the 
coats and waistcoats connected with them. A field-marshal has his uniform; 
a bishop his silk apron; a counsellor his silk gown; a beadle his cocked 
hat. Strip the bishop of his apron, or the beadle of his hat and lace; what 
are they? Men. Mere men. Dignity, and even holiness too, sometimes, are 
more questions of coat and waistcoat than some people imagine.
Mr. Bumble had married Mrs. Corney, and was master of the workhouse. 
Another beadle had come into power. On him the cocked hat, gold-laced coat, 
and staff, had all three descended.
"And tomorrow two months it was done!" said Mr. Bumble, with a sigh. "It 
seems a age."
Mr. Bumble might have meant that he had concentrated a whole existence of 
happiness into the short space of eight weeks; but the sigh - there was a 
vast deal of meaning in the sigh.
"I sold myself," said Mr. Bumble, pursuing the same train of reflection, 
"for six tea-spoons, a pair of sugar-tongs, and, a milk-pot; with a small 
quantity of second-hand furniture and twenty pound in money. I went very 
reasonable. Cheap, dirt cheap!"
"Cheap!" cried a shrill voice in Mr. Bumble's ear, "you would have been 
dear at any price; and dear enough I paid for you, Lord above knows that!"
Mr. Bumble turned, and encountered the face of his interesting consort, 
who, imperfectly comprehending the few words she had overheard of his 
complaint, had hazarded the foregoing remark at a venture.
"Mrs. Bumble, ma'am!" said Mr. Bumble, with sentimental sternness.
"Well?" cried the lady.
"Have the goodness to look at me," said Mr. Bumble, fixing his eyes upon 
her. ("If she stands such a eye as that," said Mr. Bumble to himself, "she 
can stand anything. It is a eye I never knew to fail with paupers. If it 
fails with her, my power is gone.")
Whether an exceedingly small expansion of eye be sufficient to quell 
paupers, who, being lightly fed, are in no very high condition; or whether 
the late Mrs. Corney was particularly proof against eagle glances; are 
matters of opinion. The matter of fact is, that the matron was in no way 
overpowered by Mr. Bumble's scowl, but, on the contrary, treated it with 
great disdain, and even raised a laugh thereat, which sounded as though it 
were genuine.
On hearing this most unexpected sound, Mr. Bumble looked, first 
incredulous, and afterwards amazed. He then relapsed into his former state; 
nor did he rouse himself until his attention was again awakened by the 
voice of his partner.
"Are you going to sit snoring there, all day?" inquired Mrs. Bumble.
"I am going to sit here, as long as I think proper, ma'am," rejoined Mr. 
Bumble; "and although I was not snoring, I shall snore, gape, sneeze, 
laugh, or cry, as the humour strikes me; such being my prerogative.
"Your prerogative!" sneered Mrs. Bumble, with ineffable contempt.
"I said the word, ma'am," said Mr. Bumble. "The prerogative of a man is to 
command."
"And what's the prerogative of a woman, in the name of goodness?" cried the 
relict of Mr. Corney deceased.
"To obey, ma'am," thundered Mr. Bumble. "Your late unfortunate husband 
should have taught it you; and then, perhaps, he might have been alive now. 
I wish he was, poor man!"
Mrs. Bumble, seeing at a glance, that the decisive moment had now arrived, 
and that a blow struck for the mastership on one side or other, must 
necessarily be final and conclusive, no sooner heard this allusion to the 
dead and gone, than she dropped into a chair, and with a loud scream that 
Mr. Bumble was a hard-hearted brute, fell into a paroxysm of tears.
But tears were not the things to find their way to Mr. Bumble's soul; his 
heart was waterproof. they were less troublesome than a manual assault; but 
she was quite prepared to make trial of the latter mode of proceeding, as 
Mr. Bumble was not long in discovering.
The first proof he experienced of the fact, was conveyed in a hollow sound, 
immediately succeeded by the sudden flying off of his hat to the opposite 
end of the room. This preliminary proceeding lay bare his head, the expert 
lady, clasping him tightly round the throat with one hand, inflicted a 
shower of blows (dealt with singular vigour and dexterity) upon it with the 
other. This done, she created a little variety by scratching his face, and 
tearing his hair; and, having by this time inflicted as much punishment as 
she deemed necessary for the offence, she pushed him over a chair, which 
was luckily well situated for the purpose, and defied him to talk about his 
prerogative again, if he dared.
"Get up!" said Mrs. Bumble, in a voice of command. "And take yourself away 
from here, unless you want me to do something desperate."
Mr. Bumble rose with a very rueful countenance - wondering much what 
something desperate might be. Picking up his hat, he looked towards the 
door.
"Are you going?" demanded Mrs. Bumble.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly," rejoined Mr. Bumble, making a quicker 
motion towards the door. "I didn't intend to - I'm going, my dear! You are 
so very violent, that really I -"
At this instant, Mrs. Bumble stepped hastily forward to replace the carpet, 
which had been kicked up in the scuffle. Mr. Bumble immediately darted out 
of the room, without bestowing another thought on his unfinished sentence, 
leaving the late Mrs. Corney in full possession of the field.
Mr. Bumble was fairly taken by surprise, and fairly beaten. He had a 
decided propensity for bullying; derived no inconsiderable pleasure from 
the exercise of petty cruelty; and, consequently, was (it is needless to 
say) a coward. This is by no means a disparagement to his character; for 
many official personages, who are held in high respect and admiration, are 
the victims of similar infirmities. The remark is made, indeed, rather in 
his favour than otherwise, and with a view of impressing the reader with a 
just sense of his qualifications for office.
But the measure of his degradation was not yet full. After making a tour of 
the house, and thinking, for the first time, that the poor-laws really were 
too hard on people; and that men who ran away from their wives, leaving 
them chargeable to the parish, ought, in justice, to be visited with no 
punishment at all, but rather rewarded as meritorious individuals who had 
suffered much, Mr. Bumble came to a room where some of the female paupers 
were usually employed in washing the parish linen, whence the sound of 
voices in conversation, now proceeded.
"Hem!" said Mr. Bumble, summoning up all his native dignity. "These women 
at least shall continue to respect the prerogative. Hollo! hollo, there! 
What do you mean by this noise, you hussies?"
With these words, Mr. Bumble opened the door, and walked in with a very 
fierce and angry manner; which was at once exchanged for a most humiliated 
and cowering air, as his eyes unexpectedly rested on the form of his lady 
wife.
"My dear," said Mr. Bumble, "I didn't know you were here."
"Didn't know I was here!" repeated Mrs. Bumble. "What do you do here?"
"I thought they were talking rather too much to be doing their work 
properly, my dear," replied Mr. Bumble, glancing distractedly at a couple 
of old women at the wash-tub, who were comparing notes of admiration at the 
workhouse-master's humility.
"You thought they were talking too much?" said Mrs. Bumble. "What business 
is it of yours?"
"Why, my dear -" urged Mr. Bumble submissively.
"What business is it of yours?" demanded Mrs. Bumble again.
"It's very true, you're matron here, my dear," submitted Mr. Bumble; "but I 
thought you mightn't be in the way just then."
"I'll tell you what, Mr. Bumble," returned his lady. "We don't want any of 
your interference. You're a great deal too fond of poking your nose into 
things that don't concern you, making everybody in the house laugh, the 
moment your back is turned, and making yourself look like a fool every hour 
in the day. Be off; come!"
Mr. Bumble, seeing with excruciating feelings the delights of the two old 
paupers, who were tittering together most rapturously, hesitated for an 
instant. Mrs. Bumble, whose patience brooked no delay, caught up a bowl of 
soap-suds, and motioning him towards the door, ordered him instantly to 
depart, on pain of receiving the contents upon his portly person.
What could Mr. Bumble do? He looked dejectedly round, and slunk away; and, 
as he reached the door, the titterings of the paupers broke into a shrill 
chuckle of irrepressible delight. It wanted but this. He was degraded in 
their eyes; he had lost caste and station before the very paupers; he had 
fallen from all the height and pomp of beadleship, to the lowest depth of 
the most snubbed henpeckery.
"All in two months!" said Mr. Bumble, filled with dismal thoughts. "Two 
months! No more than two months ago, I was not only my own master, but 
everybody else's, so far as the porochial workhouse was concerned, and 
now!"
It was too much. Mr. Bumble boxed the ears of the boy who opened the gate 
for him (for he had reached the portal in his reverie); and walked, 
distractedly into the street.
He walked up one street, and down another, until exercise had abated the 
first passion of his grief; and then the revulsion of feeling made him 
thirsty. He passed a great many public-houses; but, at length paused before 
one in a byway, whose parlour, as he gathered from a hasty peep over the 
blinds, was deserted, save by one solitary customer. It began to rain, 
heavily, at the moment. This determined him. Mr. Bumble stepped in; and 
ordering something to drink, as he passed the bar, entered the apartment 
into which he had looked from the street.
The man who was seated there, was tall and dark, and wore a large cloak. He 
had - the air of a stranger; and seemed, by a certain haggardness in his 
look, as well as by the dusty soils on his dress, to have travelled some 
distance. He eyed Bumble askance, as he entered, but scarcely deigned to 
nod his head in acknowledgement of his salutation.
Mr. Bumble had quite dignity enough for two, supposing even that the 
stranger had been more familiar; so he drank his gin-and-water in silence, 
and read the paper with great show of pomp and circumstance.
It so happened, however, as it will happen very often, when men fall into 
company under such circumstances, that Mr. Bumble felt, every now and then, 
a powerful inducement, which he could not resist, to steal a look at the 
stranger; and that whenever he did so, he withdrew his eyes, in some 
confusion, to find that the stranger was at that moment stealing a look at 
him. Mr. Bumble's awkwardness was enhanced by the very remarkable 
expression of the stranger's eye, which was keen and bright, but shadowed 
by a scowl of distrust and suspicion, unlike anything he had ever observed 
before, and repulsive to behold.
When they had encountered each other's glance several times in this way, 
the stranger, in a harsh, deep voice, broke silence.
"Were you looking for me," he said, "when you peered in at the window?"
"Not that I am aware of, unless you're Mr. --" Here Mr. Bumble stopped 
short; for he was curious to know the Like washable beaver hats that 
improve with rain, his nerves were rendered stouter and more vigorous, by 
showers of tears, which, being tokens of weakness, and so far tacit 
admissions of his own power, pleased and exalted him. He eyed his good lady 
with looks of great satisfaction, and begged, in an encouraging manner, 
that she should cry her hardest; the exercise being looked upon, by the 
faculty, as strongly conducive to health.
"It opens the lungs, washes the countenance, exercises the eyes, and 
softens down the temper," said Mr. Bumble. "So cry away."
As he discharged himself of his pleasantry, Mr. Bumble took his hat from a 
peg, and putting it on, rather rakishly on one side, as a man might, who 
felt he had asserted his superiority in a becoming manner, thrust his hands 
into his pockets, and sauntered towards the door, with much ease and 
waggishness depicted in his whole appearance.
Now, Mrs. Corney that was, had tried the tears, because
stranger's name, and thought in his impatience, he might supply the blank.
"I see you were not," said the stranger; an expression of sarcasm playing 
about his mouth; "or you would have known my name. You don't know it. I 
would recommend you not to ask for it."
"I mean no harm, young man," observed Mr. Bumble majestically.
"And have done none," said the stranger.
Another silence succeeded this short dialogue; which was again broken by 
the stranger.
"I have seen you before, I think?" said he. "You were differently dressed 
at that time, and I only passed you in the street, but I should know you 
again. You were beadle here once; were you not?"
"I was," said Mr. Bumble, in some surprise; "porochial beadle."
"Just so," rejoined the other, nodding his head. "It was in that character 
I saw you. What are you now?"
"Master of the workhouse," rejoined Mr. Bumble, slowly and impressively, to 
check any undue familiarity the stranger might otherwise assume. "Master of 
the workhouse, young man!"
"You have the same eye to your own interest, that you always had, I doubt 
not?" resumed the stranger, looking keenly into Mr. Bumble's eyes, as he 
raised them in astonishment at the question. "Don't scruple to answer 
freely, man. I know you pretty well, you see."
"I suppose, a married man," replied Mr. Bumble, shading his eyes with his 
hand, and surveying the stranger, from head to foot, in evident perplexity, 
"is not more averse to turning an honest penny when he can, than a single 
one. Porochial officers are not so well paid that they can afford to refuse 
any little extra fee, when it comes to them in a civil and proper manner."
The stranger smiled, and nodded his head again, as much as to say, he had 
not mistaken his man; then rang the
"Fill this glass again," he said, handing Mr. Bumble's empty tumbler to the 
landlord. "Let it be strong and hot. You like it so, I suppose?" a Not too 
strong," replied Mr. Bumble, with a delicate cough.
"You understand what that means, landlord!" said the stranger dryly.
The host smiled, disappeared, and shortly afterwards returned with a 
steaming jorum, of which, the first gulp brought the water into Mr. 
Bumble's eyes.
"Now listen to me," said the stranger, after closing the door and window. 
"I came down to this place, today, to find you out; and, by one of those 
chances which the devil throws in the way of his friends sometimes, you 
walked into the very room I was sitting in, while you were uppermost in my 
mind. I want some information from you. I don't ask you to give it for 
nothing, slight as it is. Put up that, to begin with."
As he spoke, he pushed a couple of sovereigns across the table, to his 
companion, carefully, as though unwilling that the clinking of money should 
be heard without. When Mr. Bumble had scrupulously examined the coins, to 
see that they were genuine, and had put them up, with much satisfaction in 
his waistcoat pocket, he went on:
"Carry your memory back - let me see - twelve years, last winter."
"It's a long time," said Mr. Bumble. "Very good. I've done it."
"The scene, the workhouse."
"Good!"
"And the time, night."
"Yes."
"And the place, the crazy hole, wherever it was, in which miserable drabs 
brought forth the life and health so often denied to themselves - gave 
birth to puling children for the parish to rear; and hid their shame, rot 
'em, in the grave!"
"The lying-in room, I suppose?" said Mr. Bumble, not quite following the 
stranger's excited description.
"Yes," said the stranger. "A boy was born there."
"A many boys," observed Mr. Bumble, shaking his head despondingly.
"A murrain on the young devils!" cried the stranger; "I speak of one; a 
meek-looking, pale-faced boy, who was apprenticed down here to a coffin-
maker - I wish he had made his coffin, and screwed his body in it- and who 
afterwards ran away to London, as it was supposed."
"Why, you mean Oliver! Young Twist!" said Mr. Bumble; "I remember him, of 
course. There wasn't an obstinater young rascal -"
"It's not of him I want to hear; I've heard enough of him," said the 
stranger, stopping Mr. Bumble in the very outset of a tirade on the subject 
of poor Oliver's vices. "It's of a woman; the hag that nursed his mother. 
Where is she?"
"Where is she?" said Mr. Bumble, whom the gin-and-water had rendered 
facetious. "It would be hard to tell. There's no midwifery there, whichever 
place she's gone to; so I suppose she's out of employment, anyway."
"What do you mean?" demanded the stranger sternly.
"That she died last winter," rejoined Mr. Bumble.
The man looked fixedly at him when he had given this information, and 
although he did not withdraw his eyes for some time afterwards, his gaze 
gradually became vacant and abstracted, and he seemed lost in thought. For 
some time, he appeared doubtful whether he ought to be relieved or 
disappointed by the intelligence; but at length he breathed more freely; 
and withdrawing his eyes, observed that it was no great matter. With that 
he rose, as if to depart.
But Mr. Bumble was cunning enough; and he at once saw that an opportunity 
was opened, for the lucrative disposal of some secret in the possession of 
his better half. He well remembered the night of old Sally's death, which 
the occurrences of that day had given him good reason to recollect, as the 
occasion on which he had proposed to Mrs. Corney; and although that lady 
had never confided to him the disclosure of which she had been the solitary 
witness, he had heard enough to know that it related to something that had 
occurred in the old woman's attendance, as workhouse nurse, upon the young 
mother of Oliver Twist. Hastily calling this circumstance to mind, he 
informed the stranger, with an air of mystery, that one woman had been 
closeted with the old harridan shortly before she died; and that she could, 
as he had reason to believe, throw some light on the subject of his 
inquiry.
"How can I find her?" said the stranger, thrown off his guard; and plainly 
showing that all his fears (whatever they were) were aroused afresh by the 
intelligence.
"Only through me," rejoined Mr. Bumble.
"When?" cried the stranger hastily.
"Tomorrow," rejoined Bumble.
"At nine in the evening," said the stranger, producing a scrap of paper, 
and writing down upon it, an obscure address by the water-side, in 
characters that betrayed his agitation; "at nine in the evening, bring her 
to me there. I needn't tell you to be secret. It's your interest."
With these words, he led the way to the door, after stopping to pay for the 
liquor that had been drunk. Shortly remarking that their roads were 
different, he departed without more ceremony than an emphatic repetition of 
the hour of appointment for the following night.
On glancing at the address, the parochial functionary observed that it 
contained no name. The stranger had not gone far, so he made after him to 
ask it.
"What do you want," cried the man, turning quickly round, as Bumble touched 
him on the arm, "following me?"
"Only to ask a question," said the other, pointing to the scrap of paper. 
"What name am I to ask for?"
"Monks!" rejoined the man; and strode hastily away.



Chapter 38

Containing An Account Of What Passed Between Mr. And Mrs. Bumble, And Mr. 
Monks, At Their Nocturnal Interview.

It was a dull, close, overcast summer evening. The clouds, which had been 
threatening all day, spread out in a dense and sluggish mass of vapour, 
already yielded large drops of rain, and seemed to presage a violent 
thunder-storm, when Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, turning out of the main street of 
the town, directed their course towards a scattered little colony of 
ruinous houses, distant from it some miles and a half, or thereabouts, and 
erected on a low, unwholesome swamp, bordering upon the river.
They were both wrapped in old and shabby outer garments, which might, 
perhaps, serve the double purpose of protecting their persons from the 
rain, and sheltering them from observation. The husband carried a lantern, 
from which, however, no light yet shone; and trudged a few paces in front 
as though - the way being dirty - to give his wife the benefit of treading 
in his heavy footprints. They went on, in profound silence; every now and 
then, Mr. Bumble relaxed his pace, and turned his head as if to make sure 
that his helpmate was following; then, discovering that she was close at 
his heels he mended his rate of walking, and proceeded, at a considerable 
increase of speed, towards their place of destination.
This was far from being a place of doubtful character; for it had long been 
known as the residence of none but low ruffians, who, under various 
pretences of living by their labour, subsisted chiefly on plunder and 
crime. It was a collection of mere hovels - some, hastily built with loose 
bricks, others, of old worm-eaten ship-timber jumbled together without any 
attempt at order or arrangement, and planted, for the most part, within a 
few feet of the river's bank. A few leaky boats drawn up on the mud, and 
made fast to the dwarf wall which skirted it, and here and there an oar or 
coil of rope, appeared, at first, to indicate that the inhabitants of these 
miserable cottages pursued some avocation on the river; but a glance at the 
shattered and useless condition of the articles thus displayed, would have 
led a passer-by, without much difficulty, to the conjecture that they were 
disposed there, rather for the preservation of appearances, than with any 
view of their being actually employed.
In the heart of this cluster of huts, and skirting the river, which its 
upper storey overhung, stood a large building, formerly used as a 
manufactory of some kind. It had, in its day, probably furnished employment 
to the inhabitants of the surrounding tenements. But it had long since gone 
to ruin. The rat, the worm, and the action of the damp, had weakened and 
rotted the piles on which it stood; and a considerable portion of the 
building had already sunk down into the water; while the remainder, 
tottering and bending over the dark stream, seemed to wait a favourable 
opportunity of following its old companion, and involving itself in the 
same fate.
It was before this ruinous building that the worthy couple paused, as the 
first peal of distant thunder reverberated in the air, and the rain 
commenced pouring violently down.
"The place should be somewhere here," said Bumble, consulting a scrap of 
paper he held in his hand.
"Hollo, there!" cried a voice from above.
Following the sound, Mr. Bumble raised his head, and descried a man looking 
out of a door, breast-high, on the second storey. "Stand still a minute," 
cried the voice; "I'll be with you directly." With which the head 
disappeared, and the door closed.
"Is that the man?" asked Mr. Bumble's good lady.
Mr. Bumble nodded in the affirmative.
"Then, mind what I told you," said the matron; "and be careful to say as 
little as you can, or you'll betray us at once."
Mr. Bumble, who had eyed the building with very rueful looks, was 
apparently about to express some doubts relative to the advisability of 
proceeding any further with the enterprise just then, when he was prevented 
by the appearance of Monks; who opened a small door, near which they stood, 
and beckoned them inwards.
"Come in!" he cried impatiently, stamping his foot upon the ground. "Don't 
keep me here!"
The woman, who had hesitated at first, walked boldly in, without any other 
invitation. Mr. Bumble, who was ashamed or afraid to lay behind, followed; 
obviously very ill at ease and with scarcely any of that remarkable dignity 
which was usually his chief characteristic.
"What the devil made you stand lingering there, in the wet?" said Monks, 
turning round, and addressing Bumble, after he had bolted the door behind 
them.
"We - we were only cooling ourselves," stammered Bumble, looking 
apprehensively about him.
"Cooling yourselves!" retorted Monks. "Not all the rain that ever fell, or 
ever will fall, will put as much of hell's fire out, as a man can carry 
about with him. You won't cool yourself so easily; don't think it!"
With this agreeable speech, Monks turned short upon the matron, and bent 
his gaze upon her, till even she, who was not easily cowed, was fain to 
withdraw her eyes, and turn them towards the ground.
"This is the woman, is it?" demanded Monks.
"Hem! That is the woman," replied Mr. Bumble, mindful of his wife's 
caution.
"You think women never can keep secrets, I suppose?" said the matron, 
interposing, and returning, as she spoke, the searching look of Monks.
"I know they will always keep one till it's found out," said Monks.
"And what may that be?" asked the matron.
"The loss of their own name," replied Monks. "So, by the same rule, if a 
woman's a party to a secret that might hang or transport her, I'm not 
afraid of her telling it to anybody; not I! Do you understand, mistress?"
"No," rejoined the matron, slightly colouring as she spoke.
"Of course you don't!" said Monks. "How should you?"
Bestowing something half-way between a smile and a frown upon his two 
companions, and again beckoning them to follow him, the man hastened across 
the apartment, which was of considerable extent, but low in the roof. He 
was preparing to ascend a steep staircase, or rather ladder, leading to 
another floor of warehouses above, when a bright flash of lightning 
streamed down the aperture, and a peal of thunder followed, which shook the 
crazy building to its centre.
"Hear it!" he cried, shrinking back. "Hear it! Rolling and crashing on as 
if it echoed through a thousand caverns where the devils were hiding from 
it. I hate the sound!" He remained silent for a few moments; and then, 
removing his hands suddenly from his face, showed, to the unspeakable 
discomposure of Mr. Bumble, that it was much distorted, and discoloured.
"These fits come over me, now and then," said Monks, observing his alarm; 
"and thunder sometimes brings them on. Don't mind me now; it's all over for 
this once."
Thus speaking, he led the way up the ladder; and hastily closing the window-
shutter of the room into which it led, lowered a lantern which hung at the 
end of a rope and pulley passed through one of the heavy beams in the 
ceiling, and which cast a dim light upon an old table and three chairs that 
were placed beneath it.
"Now," said Monks, when they had all three seated themselves, "the sooner 
we come to our business, the better for all. The woman knows what it is, 
does she?"
The question was addressed to Bumble; but his wife anticipated his reply, 
by intimating that she was perfectly acquainted with it.
"He is right in saying that you were with this hag the night she died; and 
that she told you something -"
"About the mother of the boy you named," replied the matron, interrupting 
him. "Yes."
"The first question is, of what nature was her communication?" said Monks.
"That's the second," observed the woman, with much deliberation. "The first 
is, what may the communication be worth?"
"Who the devil can tell that, without knowing of what kind it is?" asked 
Monks.
"Nobody better than you, I am persuaded," answered Mrs. Bumble, who did not 
want for spirit, as her yoke-fellow could abundantly testify.
"Humph!" said Monks significantly, and with a look of eager inquiry; "there 
may be money's worth to get, eh?"
"Perhaps there may," was the composed reply.
"Something that was taken from her," said Monks. "Something that she wore. 
Something that -"
"You had better bid," interrupted Mrs. Bumble. "I have heard enough, 
already, to assure me that you are the man I ought to talk to."
Mr. Bumble, who had not yet been admitted by his better half into any 
greater share of the secret than he had originally possessed, listened to 
this dialogue with outstretched neck and distended eyes, which he directed 
towards his wife and Monks, by turns, in undisguised astonishment - 
increased, if possible, when the latter sternly demanded what sum was 
required for the disclosure.
"What's it worth to you?" asked the woman, as collectedly as before.
"It may be nothing; it may be twenty pounds," replied Monks. "Speak out, 
and let me know which."
"Add five pounds to the sum you have named; give me five-and-twenty pounds 
in gold," said the woman; "and I'll tell you all I know. Not before."
"Five-and-twenty pounds!" exclaimed Monks, drawing back.
"I spoke as plainly as I could," replied Mrs. Bumble. "It's not a large 
sum, either."
"Not a large sum for a paltry secret, that may be nothing when it's told!" 
cried Monks impatiently; "and which has been lying dead for twelve years 
past or more!"
"Such matters keep well, and, like good wine, often double their value in 
course of time," answered the matron, still preserving the resolute 
indifference she had assumed. "As to lying dead, there are those who will 
lie dead for twelve thousand years to come, or twelve million, for anything 
you or I know, who will tell strange tales at last!"
"What if I pay it for nothing?" asked Monks hesitatingly.
"You can easily take it away again," replied the matron. "I am but a woman, 
alone here, and unprotected."
"Not alone, my dear, nor unprotected neither," submitted Mr. Bumble, in a 
voice tremulous with fear; "I am here, my dear. And besides," said Mr. 
Bumble, his teeth chattering as he spoke, "Mr. Monks is too much of a 
gentleman to attempt any violence on porochial persons. Mr. Monks is aware 
that I am not a young man, my dear, and also that I am a little run to 
seed, as I may say; but he has heerd - I say I have no doubt Mr. Monks has 
heerd, my dear - that I am a very determined officer, with very uncommon 
strength, if I'm once roused. I only want a little rousing; that's all."
As Mr. Bumble spoke, he made a melancholy feint of grasping his lantern 
with fierce determination; and plainly showed, by the alarmed expression of 
every feature, that he did want a little rousing, and not a little, prior 
to making any very warlike demonstration - unless, indeed, against paupers, 
or other person or persons trained down for the purpose.
"You are a fool," said Mrs. Bumble, in reply; "and had better hold your 
tongue."
"He had better have cut it out, before he came, if he can't speak in a 
lower tone," said Monks grimly. "So! He's your husband, eh?"
"He my husband!" tittered the matron, parrying the question.
"I thought as much, when you came in," rejoined Monks, marking the angry 
glance which the lady darted at her spouse as she spoke. "So much the 
better; I have less hesitation in dealing with two people, when I find that 
there's only one will between them. I'm in earnest. See here!"
He thrust his hand into a side-pocket; and, producing a canvas bag, told 
out twenty-five sovereigns on the table, and pushed them over to the woman.
"Now," he said, "gather them up; and when this cursed peal of thunder, 
which I feel is coming up to break over the house-top, is gone, let's hear 
your story."
The thunder, which seemed in fact much nearer and to shiver and break 
almost over their heads, having subsided, Monks, raising his face from the 
table, bent forward to listen to what the woman should say. The faces of 
the three nearly touched, as the two men leaned over the small table in 
their eagerness to hear, and the woman also leaned forward to render her 
whisper audible. The sickly rays of the suspended lantern falling directly 
upon them, aggravated the paleness and anxiety of their countenances, 
which, encircled by the deepest gloom and darkness, looked ghastly in the 
extreme.
"When this woman, that we called old Sally, died," the matron began, "she 
and I were alone."
"Was there no one by?" asked Monks, in the same hollow whisper; "no sick 
wretch or idiot in some other bed? No one who could hear, and might, by 
possibility, understand?"
"Not a soul," replied the woman; "we were alone. I stood alone beside the 
body when death came over it."
"Good," said Monks, regarding her attentively. "Go on."
"She spoke of a young creature," resumed the matron, "who had brought a 
child into the world some years before; not merely in the same room, but in 
the same bed, in which she then lay dying."
''Ay?" said Monks, with quivering lip, and glancing over his shoulder. 
"Blood! How things come about!"
"The child was the one you named to him last night," said the matron, 
nodding carelessly towards her husband; "the mother this nurse had robbed."
"In life?" asked Monks.
"In death," replied the woman, with something like a shudder. "She stole 
from the corpse, when it had hardly turned to one, that which the dead 
mother had prayed her, with her last breath, to keep for the infant's 
sake."
"She sold it?" cried Monks, with desperate eagerness; "did she sell it? 
Where! When? To whom? How long before?"
"As she told me, with great difficulty, that she had done this," said the 
matron, "she fell back and died."
"Without saying more?" cried Monks, in a voice which, from its very 
suppression, seemed only the more furious. "It's a lie! I'll not be played 
with. She said more. I'll tear the life out of you both, but I'll know what 
it was."
"She didn't utter another word," said the woman, to all appearance unmoved 
(as Mr. Bumble was very far from being) by the strange man's violence; "but 
she clutched my gown, violently, with one hand, which was partly closed; 
and when I saw that she was dead, and so removed the hand by force, I found 
it clasped a scrap of dirty paper."
"Which contained -" interposed Monks, stretching forward.
"Nothing," replied the woman; "it was a pawnbroker's duplicate."
"For what?" demanded Monks.
"In good time I'll tell you," said the woman. "I judge that she had kept 
the trinket, for some time, in the hope of turning it to better account; 
and then had pawned it; and had saved or scraped together money to pay the 
pawnbroker's interest year by year, and prevent it running out; so that if 
anything came of it, it could still be redeemed. Nothing had come of it; 
and, as I tell you, she died with the scrap of paper, all worn and 
tattered, in her hand. The time was out in two days; I thought something 
might one day come of it too; and so redeemed the pledge."
"Where is it now?" asked Monks quickly.
"There," replied the woman. And, as if glad to be relieved of it, she 
hastily threw upon the table a small kid bag scarcely large enough for a 
French watch, which Monks pouncing upon, tore open with trembling hands. It 
contained a little gold locket, in which were two locks of hair, and a 
plain gold wedding-ring.
"It has the word 'Agnes' engraved on the inside," said the woman. "There is 
a blank left for the surname; and then follows the date; which is within a 
year before the child was born. I found out that."
"And this is all?" said Monks, after a close and eager scrutiny of the 
contents of the little packet.
"All," replied the woman.
Mr. Bumble drew a long breath, as if he were glad to find that the story 
was over, and no mention made of taking the five-and-twenty pounds back 
again; and now he took courage to wipe off the perspiration which had been 
trickling over his nose, unchecked, during the whole of the previous 
dialogue.
"I know nothing of the story, beyond what I can guess at," said his wife, 
addressing Monks, after a short silence; "and I want to know nothing; for 
it's safer not. But I may ask you two questions, may I?"
"You may ask," said Monks, with some show of surprise; "but whether I 
answer or not is another question."
"Which makes three," observed Mr. Bumble, essaying a stroke of 
facetiousness.
"Is that what you expected to get from me?" demanded the matron
"It is," replied Monks. "The other question?"
"What do you propose to do with it? Can it be used against me?"
"Never," rejoined Monks; "nor against me either. See here! But don't move a 
step forward, or your life is not worth a bulrush."
With these words, he suddenly wheeled the table aside, and pulling an iron 
ring in the boarding, threw back a large trapdoor which opened close at Mr. 
Bumble's feet, and caused that gentleman to retire several paces backward, 
with great precipitation.
"Look down," said Monks, lowering the lantern into the gulf. "Don't fear 
me. I could have let you down, quietly enough, when you were seated over 
it, if that had been my game."
Thus encouraged, the matron drew near to the brink; and even Mr. Bumble 
himself, impelled by curiosity, ventured to do the same. The turbid water, 
swollen by the heavy rain, was rushing rapidly on below; and all other 
sounds were lost in the noise of its plashing and eddying against the green 
and slimy piles. There had once been a water-mill beneath; the tide foaming 
and chafing round the few rotten stakes, and fragments of machinery that 
yet remained, seemed to dart onward, with a new impulse, when freed from 
the obstacles which had unavailingly attempted to stem its headlong course.
"If you flung a man's body down there, where would it be by tomorrow 
morning?" said Monks, swinging the lantern to and fro in the dark well. ''
"Twelve miles down the river, and cut to pieces besides," replied Bumble, 
recoiling at the thought.
Monks drew the little packet from his breast, where he had hurriedly thrust 
it; and tying it to a leaden weight, which had formed a part of some 
pulley, and was lying on the floor, dropped it into the stream. It fell 
straight, and true as a die; clove the water with a scarcely audible 
splash; and was gone.
The three, looking into each other's faces, seemed to breathe more freely.
"There!" said Monks, closing the trap-door, which fell heavily back into 
its former position. "If the sea ever gives up its dead, as books say it 
will, it will keep its gold and silver to itself, and that trash among it. 
We have nothing more to say, and may break up our pleasant party."
"By all means," observed Mr. Bumble, with great alacrity. "You'll keep a 
quiet tongue in your head, will you?" said Monks, with a threatening look. 
"I am not afraid of your wife."
"You may depend upon me, young man," answered Mr. Bumble, bowing himself 
gradually towards the ladder, with excessive politeness. "On everybody's 
account, young man; on my own, you know, Mr. Monks."
"I am glad, for your sake, to hear it," remarked Monks. "Light your 
lantern! And get away from here as fast as you can."
It was fortunate that the conversation terminated at this point, or Mr. 
Bumble, who had bowed himself to within six inches of the ladder, would 
infallibly have pitched headlong into the room below. He lighted his 
lantern from that which Monks had detached the rope, and now carried in his 
hand; and, making no effort to prolong the discourse, descended in silence, 
followed by his wife. Monks brought up the rear, after pausing on the steps 
to satisfy himself that there were no other sounds to be heard than the 
beating of the rain without, and the rushing of the water.
They traversed the lower room, slowly, and with caution; for Monks started 
at every shadow; and Mr. Bumble, holding his lantern a foot above the 
ground, walked not only with remarkable care, but with a marvellously light 
step for a gentleman of his figure, looking nervously about him for hidden 
trap-doors. The gate at which they had entered, was softly unfastened and 
opened by Monks; and, merely exchanging a nod with their mysterious 
acquaintance, the married couple emerged into the wet and darkness outside.
They were no sooner gone, than Monks, who appeared to entertain an 
invincible repugnance to being left alone, called to a boy who had been 
hidden somewhere below. Bidding him go first, and bear the light, he 
returned to the chamber he had just quitted.



Chapter 39

Introduces Some Respectable Characters With Whom The Reader Is Already 
Acquainted, And Shows How Monks And The Jew Laid Their Worthy Heads 
Together

On the evening following that upon which the three worthies mentioned in 
the last chapter, disposed of their little matter of business as therein 
narrated, Mr. William Sikes, awakening from a nap, drowsily growled forth 
an inquiry what time of night it was.
The room in which Mr. Sikes propounded this question, was not one of those 
he had tenanted, previous to the Chertsey expedition, although it was in 
the same quarter of the town, and was situated at no great distance from 
his former lodgings. It was not, in appearance, so desirable a habitation 
as his old quarters, being a mean and badly-furnished apartment, of very 
limited size; lighted only by one small window in the shelving roof, and 
abutting on a close and dirty lane. Nor were there wanting other 
indications of the good gentleman's having gone down in the world of late; 
for a great scarcity of furniture and total absence of comfort, together 
with the disappearance of all such small movables as spare clothes and 
linen, bespoke a state of extreme poverty; while the meagre and attenuated 
condition of Mr. Sikes himself would have fully confirmed these symptoms, 
if they had stood in any need of corroboration.
The housebreaker was lying on the bed, wrapped in his white waistcoat, by 
way of dressing-gown, and displaying a set of features in no degree 
improved by the cadaverous hue of illness, and the addition of a soiled 
night-cap, and a stiff, black beard of a week's growth. The dog sat at the 
bedside, now eyeing his master with a wistful look, and now pricking his 
ears, and uttering a low growl as some noise in the street, or in the lower 
part of the house, attracted his attention. Seated by the window, busily 
engaged in patching an old waistcoat which formed a portion of the robber's 
ordinary dress, was a female, so pale and reduced with watching and 
privation, that there would have been considerable difficulty in 
recognising her as the same Nancy who has already figured in this tale, but 
for the voice in which she replied to Mr. Sikes's question.
"Not long gone seven," said the girl. "How do you feel tonight, Bill?"
"As weak as water," replied Mr. Sikes, with an imprecation on his eyes and 
limbs. "Here; lend us a hand, and let me get off this thundering bed 
anyhow."
This had not improved Mr. Sikes's temper; for, as the girl raised him up 
and led him to a chair, he muttered various curses on her awkwardness, and 
struck her.
"Whining, are you?" said Sikes. "Come! Don't stand snivelling there. If you 
can't do anything better than that, cut off altogether. D'ye hear me?"
"I hear you," replied the girl, turning her face aside, and forcing a 
laugh. "What fancy have you got in your head now?"
"Oh! you've thought better of it, have you?" growled Sikes, marking the 
tear which trembled in her eye. "All the better for you, you have."
"Why, you don't mean to say, you'd be hard upon me tonight, Bill," said the 
girl, laying her hand upon his shoulder.
"No!" cried Sikes. "Why not?"
"Such a number of nights," said the girl, with a touch of woman's 
tenderness, which communicated something like sweetness of tone, even to 
her voice - "such a number of nights as I've been patient with you, nursing 
and caring for you, as if you had been a child; and this the first that 
I've seen you like yourself; you wouldn't have served me as you did just 
now, if you'd thought of that, would you? Come, come; say you wouldn't."
"Well, then," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "I wouldn't. Why, damme, now, the girl's 
whining again!"
"It's nothing," said the girl, throwing herself into a chair. "Don't you 
seem to mind me. It'll soon be over."
"What'll be over?" demanded Mr. Sikes, in a savage voice. "What foolery are 
you up to, now, again? Get up and bustle about, and don't come over me with 
your woman's nonsense."
At any other time, this remonstrance, and the tone in which it was 
delivered, would have had the desired effect; but the girl being really 
weak and exhausted, dropped her head over the back of the chair, and 
fainted, before Mr. Sikes could get out a few of the appropriate oaths with 
which, on similar occasions, he was accustomed to garnish his threats. Not 
knowing, very well, what to do, in this uncommon emergency - for Miss 
Nancy's hysterics were usually of that violent kind which the patient 
fights and struggles out of, without much assistance - Mr. Sikes tried a 
little blasphemy; and finding that mode of treatment wholly ineffectual, 
called for assistance.
"What's the matter here, my dear?" said Fagin, looking in.
"Lend a hand to the girl, can't you?" replied Sikes impatiently. "Don't 
stand chattering and grinning at me!"
With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl's assistance, 
while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the artful Dodger), who had followed his 
venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle 
with which he was laden, and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master 
Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with 
his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient's throat; 
previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.
"Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley," said Mr. 
Dawkins; "and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts."
These united restoratives, administered with great energy, especially that 
department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in 
the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry, were not long in 
producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, 
staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow; leaving 
Mr. Sikes to confront the newcomers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-
for appearance.
"Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?" he asked Fagin.
"No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and 
I've brought something good with me, that you'll be glad to see. Dodger, my 
dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all 
our money on, this morning.
In compliance with Mr. Fagin's request, the Artful untied his bundle, which 
was of large size, and formed of an old tablecloth; and handed the articles 
it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates; who placed them on the table, 
with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
"Sitch a rabbit-pie, Bill," exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to 
view a huge pasty; "sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, 
that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there's no occasion to pick 
'em; half a pound of seven-and-sixpenny green, so precious strong that if 
you mix it with biling water, it'll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot 
off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn't work at all 
at, before they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness - oh no! Two half-
quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo'ster; and, to wind 
up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!"
Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his 
extensive pockets, a full-sized wine bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. 
Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits 
from the bottle he carried, which the invalid tossed down his throat 
without a moment's hesitation.
"Ah!" said Fagin, rubbing his hands with great satisfaction. "You'll do, 
Bill; you'll do now."
"So!" exclaimed Mr. Sikes; "I might have been done for, twenty times over, 
afore you'd have done anything to help me. What do you mean by leaving a 
man in this state, three weeks and more, you false-hearted wagabond?"
"Only hear him, boy!" said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. "And us come to 
bring him all these beau-ti-ful things."
"The things is well enough in their way," observed Mr. Sikes, "little 
soothed as he glanced over the table; "but what have you got to say for 
yourself, why you should leave me here, down in the mouth, health, blunt 
and everything else; and take no more notice of me, all this mortal time, 
than if I was that 'ere dog. - Drive him down, Charley!"
"I never see such a jolly dog as that," cried Master Bates, doing as he was 
desired. "Smelling the grub like a old lady a-going to market! He'd make 
his fortun' on the stage that dog would, and - rewive the drayma besides."
"Hold your din," cried Sikes, as the dog retreated under the bed, still 
growling angrily. "What have you got to say for yourself, you withered old 
fence, eh?"
"I was away from London, a week and more, my dear, on a plant," replied the 
Jew.
"And what about the other fortnight?" demanded Sikes. "What about the other 
fortnight that you've left me lying here, like a sick rat in his hole?"
"I couldn't help it, Bill," replied Fagin, "I can't go into a long 
explanation before company; but I couldn't help it, upon my honour."
"Upon your what?" growled Sikes, with excessive disgust. "Here! Cut me off 
a piece of that pie, one of you boys, to take the taste of that out of my 
mouth, or it'll choke me dead."
"Don't be out of temper, my dear," urged Fagin submissively. "I have never 
forgot you, Bill; never once."
"No! I'll pound it that you ha'n't," replied Sikes, with a bitter grin. 
"You've been scheming and plotting away, every hour that I have laid 
shivering and burning here; and Bill was to do this; and Bill was to do 
that; and Bill was to do it all, dirt cheap, as soon as he got well, and 
was quite poor enough for your work. If it hadn't been for the girl, I 
might have died."
"There now, Bill," remonstrated Fagin, eagerly catching at the word. "If it 
hadn't been for the girl! Who but poor ould Fagin was the means of your 
having such a handy girl about you?"
"He says true enough there!" said Nancy, coming hastily forward. "Let him 
be; let him be."
Nancy's appearance gave a new turn to the conversation; for the boys, 
receiving a sly wink from the wary old Jew, began to ply her with liquor, 
of which, however, she took very sparingly; while Fagin, assuming an 
unusual flow of spirits, gradually brought Mr. Sikes into a better temper, 
by affecting to regard his threats as a little pleasant banter; and, 
moreover, by laughing very heartily at one or two rough jokes, which, after 
repeated applications to the spirit-bottle, he condescended to make.
"It's all very well," said Mr. Sikes; "but I must have some blunt from you 
tonight."
"I haven't a piece of coin about me," replied the Jew.
"Then you've got lots at home," retorted Sikes; "and I must have some from 
there."
"Lots!" cried Fagin, holding up his hands. "I haven't so much as would -"
"I don't know how much you've got, and I dare say you hardly know yourself, 
as it would take a pretty long time to count it," said Sikes; "but I must 
have some tonight; and that's flat."
"Well, well," said Fagin, with a sigh, "I'll send the Artful round 
presently."
"You won't do nothing of the kind," rejoined Mr. Sikes. "The Artful's a 
deal too artful, and would forget to come, or lose his way, or get dodged 
by traps and so be prewented, or anything for an excuse, if you put him up 
to it. Nancy shall go to the ken and fetch it, to make all sure; and I'll 
lie down and have a snooze while she's gone."
After a great deal of haggling and squabbling, Fagin beat down the amount 
of the required advance from five pounds to three pounds four and sixpence; 
protesting with many solemn asservations that would only leave 
eighteenpence to keep house with; Mr. Sikes sullenly remarking that if he 
couldn't get any more he must be content with that, Nancy prepared to 
accompany him home; while the Dodger and Master Bates put the eatables in 
the cupboard. The Jew then, taking leave of his affectionate friend, 
returned homeward, attended by Nancy and the boys; Mr. Sikes, meanwhile, 
flinging himself on the bed, and composing himself to sleep away the time 
until the young lady's return.
In due course they arrived at Fagin's abode, where they found Toby Crackit 
and Mr. Chitling intent upon their fifteenth game at cribbage, which it is 
scarcely necessary to say the latter gentleman lost, and with it, his 
fifteenth and last sixpence, much to the amusement of his young friends. 
Mr. Crackit, apparently somewhat ashamed at being found relaxing himself 
with a gentleman so much his inferior in station and mental endowments, 
yawned, and inquiring after Sikes, took up his hat to go.
"Has nobody been, Toby?" asked Fagin.
"Not a living leg," answered Mr. Crackit, pulling up his collar; "it's been 
as dull as swipes. You ought to stand something handsome, Fagin, to 
recompense me for keeping house so long. Damme, I'm as flat as a juryman; 
and should have gone to sleep, as fast as Newgate, if I hadn't had the good-
natur' to amuse this youngster. Horrid dull, I'm blessed if I ain't!"
With these and other ejaculations of the same kind, Mr. Toby Crackit swept 
up his winnings, and crammed them into his waistcoat pocket with a haughty 
air, as though such small pieces of silver were wholly beneath the 
consideration of a man of his figure; this done, he swaggered out of the 
room, with so much elegance and gentility, that Mr. Chitling, bestowing 
numerous admiring glances on his legs and boots till they were out of 
sight, assured the company that he considered his acquaintance cheap at 
fifteen sixpences an interview, and that he didn't value his losses the 
snap of his little finger.
"Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!" said Master Bates, highly amused by this 
declaration.
"Not a bit of it," replied Mr. Chitling. "Am I, Fagin?"
"A very clever fellow, my dear," said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, 
and winking to his other pupils.
"And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; ain't he, Fagin?" asked Tom.
"No doubt at all of that, my dear."
"And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; ain't it, Fagin?" 
pursued Tom.
"Very much so, indeed, my dear. They're only jealous, Tom, because he won't 
give it to them."
"Ah!" cried Tom triumphantly, "that's where it is! He has cleaned me out. 
But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can't I, Fagin?"
"To be sure you can," replied Fagin; "and the sooner you go the better, 
Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don't lose any more time. Dodger! 
Charley! It's time you were on the lay. Come! It's near ten, and nothing 
done yet."
In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, 
and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they 
went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, 
it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar, 
inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods about town, 
who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good 
society and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society 
aforesaid) who establish their reputation upon very much the same footing 
as flash Toby Crackit.
"Now," said Fagin, when they had left the room, "I'll go and get you that 
cash, Nancy. This is only the key of a little cupboard where I keep a few 
odd things the boys get, my dear. I never lock up my money, for I've got 
none to lock up, my dear - ha! ha! ha! - none to lock up. It's a poor 
trade, Nancy, and no thanks; but I'm fond of seeing the young people about 
me; and I bear it all; I bear it all. Hush!" he said, hastily concealing 
the key in his breast, "who's that? Listen!"
The girl, who was sitting at the table with her arms folded, appeared in no 
way interested in the arrival, or to care whether the person, whoever he 
was, came or went, until the murmur of a man's voice reached her ears. The 
instant she caught the sound, she tore off her bonnet and shawl, with the 
rapidity of lightning, and thrust them under the table. The Jew, turning 
round immediately afterwards, she muttered a complaint of the heat, in a 
tone of languor that contrasted, very remarkably, with the extreme haste 
and violence of this action, which, however, had been unobserved by Fagin, 
who had his back towards her at the time.
"Bah!" whispered the Jew, as though nettled by the interruption; "it's the 
man I expected before; he's coming downstairs. Not a word about the money 
while he's here, Nance. He won't stop long. Not ten minutes, my dear."
Laying his skinny forefinger upon his lip, the Jew carried a candle to the 
door, as a man's step was heard upon the stairs without. He reached it, at 
the same moment as the visitor, who, coming hastily into the room, was 
close upon the girl before he observed her.
It was Monks.
"Only one of my young people," said Fagin, observing that Monks drew back, 
on beholding a stranger. "Don't move, Nancy."
The girl drew closer to the table, and glancing at Monks with an air of 
careless levity, withdrew her eyes; but as he turned his towards Fagin, she 
stole another look, so keen and searching, and full of purpose, that if 
there had been any bystander to observe the change, he could hardly have 
believed the two looks to have proceeded from the same person.
"Any news?" inquired Fagin.
"Great."
"And - and - good?" asked Fagin, hesitating as though he feared to vex the 
other man by being too sanguine.
"Not bad, anyway," replied Monks, with a smile. "I have been prompt enough 
this time. Let me have a word with you."
The girl drew closer to the table, and made no offer to leave the room, 
although she could see that Monks was pointing to her. The Jew, perhaps 
fearing she might say something aloud about the money, if he endeavoured to 
get rid of her, pointed upward, and took Monks out of the room.
"Not that infernal hole we were in before," she could hear the man say as 
they went upstairs. Fagin laughed; and making some reply which did not 
reach her, seemed, by the creaking of the boards, to lead his companion to 
the second storey.
Before the sound of their footsteps had ceased to echo through the house, 
the girl had slipped off her shoes; and drawing her gown loosely over her 
head, and muffling her arms in it, stood at the door, listening with 
breathless interest. The moment the noise ceased, she glided from the room; 
ascended the stairs with incredible softness and silence; and was lost in 
the gloom above.
The room remained deserted for a quarter of an hour or more; the girl 
glided back with the same unearthly tread; and, immediately afterwards, the 
two men were heard descending. Monks went at once into the street; and the 
Jew crawled upstairs again for the money. When he returned, the girl was 
adjusting her shawl and bonnet, as if preparing to be gone.
"Why, Nance," exclaimed the Jew, staring back as he put down the candle, 
"how pale you are!"
"Pale!" echoed the girl, shading her eyes with her hands, as if to look 
steadily at him.
"Quite horrible. What have you been doing to yourself?"
"Nothing that I know of, except sitting in this close place for I don't 
know how long and all," replied the girl carelessly. "Come! Let me get 
back; that's a dear."
With a sigh for every piece of money, Fagin told the amount into her hand. 
They parted without more conversation, merely interchanging a "good-night."
When the girl got into the open street, she sat down upon a doorstep; and 
seemed, for a few moments, wholly bewildered and unable to pursue her way. 
Suddenly she arose; and hurrying on, in a direction quite opposite to that 
in which Sikes was awaiting her return, quickened her pace, until it 
gradually resolved into a violent run. After completely exhausting herself, 
she stopped to take breath; and, as if suddenly recollecting herself, and 
deploring her inability to do something she was bent upon, wrung her hands, 
and burst into tears.
It might be that her tears relieved her, or that she felt the full 
hopelessness of her condition; but she turned back; and hurrying with 
nearly as great rapidity in the contrary direction, partly to recover lost 
time, and partly to keep pace with the violent current of her own thoughts, 
soon reached the dwelling where she had left the housebreaker.
If she betrayed any agitation, when she presented herself to Mr. Sikes, he 
did not observe it; for merely inquiring if she had brought the money, and 
receiving a reply in the affirmative, he uttered a growl of satisfaction, 
and replacing his head upon the pillow, resumed the slumbers which her 
arrival had interrupted.
It was fortunate for her that the possession of money occasioned him so 
much employment next day in the way of eating and drinking; and withal had 
so beneficial an effect in smoothing down the asperities of his temper; 
that he had neither time nor inclination to be very critical upon her 
behaviour and deportment. That she had all the abstracted and nervous 
manner of one who is on the eve of some bold and hazardous step, which it 
has required no common struggle to resolve upon, would have been obvious to 
the lynx-eyed Fagin, who would most probably have taken the alarm at once; 
but Mr. Sikes, lacking the niceties of discrimination, and being troubled 
with no more subtle misgivings than those which resolve themselves into a 
dogged roughness of behaviour towards everybody; and being, furthermore, in 
an unusually amiable condition, as has been already observed, saw nothing 
unusual in her demeanour, and indeed, troubled himself so little about her, 
that, had her agitation been or more perceptible than it was, it would have 
been very unlikely to have awakened his suspicions.
As that day closed in, the girl's excitement increased; and, when night 
came on, and she sat by, watching until the housebreaker should drink 
himself asleep, there was an unusual paleness in her cheek, and a fire in 
her eye, that even Sikes observed with astonishment.
Mr. Sikes being weak from the fever, was lying in bed, taking hot water 
with his gin to render it less inflammatory; and had pushed his glass 
towards Nancy to be replenished for the third or fourth time, when these 
symptoms first struck him.
"Why, burn my body!" said the man, raising himself on his hands as he 
stared the girl in the face. "You look like a corpse come to life again. 
What's the matter?"
"Matter!" replied the girl. "Nothing. What do you look at me so hard for?"
"What foolery is this?" demanded Sikes, grasping her by the arm, and 
shaking her roughly. "What is it? What do you mean? What are you thinking 
of?"
"Of many things, Bill," replied the girl, shivering, and as she did so, 
pressing her hands upon her eyes. "But, Lord! What odds in that?"
The tone of forced gaiety in which the last words were spoken, seemed to 
produce a deeper impression on Sikes than the wild and rigid look which had 
preceded them.
"I tell you wot it is," said Sikes; "if you haven't caught the fever, and 
got it comin' on, now, there's something more than usual in the wind, and 
something dangerous, too. You're not a-going to No, damme! you wouldn't do 
that!"
"Do what?" asked the girl.
"There ain't," said Sikes, fixing his eyes upon her, and muttering the 
words to himself - "there ain't a stauncher-hearted gal going, or I'd have 
cut her throat three months ago. She's got the fever coming on; that's it."
Fortifying himself with this assurance, Sikes drained the glass to the 
bottom, and then, with many grumbling oaths, called for his physic. The 
girl jumped up, with great alacrity; poured it quickly out, but with her 
back towards him; and held the vessel to his lips, while he drank off the 
contents.
"Now," said the robber, "come and sit aside of me, and put on your own 
face; or I'll alter it so, that you won't know it again when you do want 
it."
The girl obeyed. Sikes, locking her hand in his, fell back upon the pillow, 
turning his eyes upon her face. They closed; opened again; closed once 
more; again opened. He shifted his position restlessly; and, after dozing 
again, and again, for two or three minutes, and as often springing up with 
a look of terror, and gazing vacantly about him, was suddenly stricken, as 
it were, while in the very attitude of rising, into a deep and heavy sleep. 
The grasp of his hand relaxed; the upraised arm fell languidly by his side; 
and he lay like one in a profound trance.
"The laudanum has taken effect at last," murmured the girl, as she rose 
from the bedside. "I may be too late, even now."
She hastily dressed herself in her bonnet and shawl, looking fearfully 
round, from time to time, as if, despite the sleeping draught, she expected 
every moment to feel the pressure of Sikes' heavy hand upon her shoulders; 
then stooping softly over the bed, she kissed the robber's lips; and then 
opening and closing the room door with noiseless touch, hurried from the 
house.
A watchman was crying half-past nine, down a dark passage through which she 
had to pass, in gaining the main thoroughfare.
"Has it long gone the half-hour?" asked the girl.
"It'll strike the hour in another quarter," said the man, raising the 
lantern to her face.
"And I cannot get there in less than an hour or more," muttered Nancy, 
brushing swiftly past him, and gliding rapidly down the street.
Many of the shops were already closing in the back lanes and avenues 
through which she tracked her way, in making from Spitalfields towards the 
west end of London. The clock struck ten, increasing her impatience. She 
tore along the narrow pavement, elbowing the passengers from side to side, 
and darting almost under the horses' heads, crossed crowded streets, where 
clusters of persons were eagerly watching their opportunity to do the like.
"'The woman is mad!" said the people, turning to look after her as she 
rushed away.
When she reached the more wealthy quarter of the town, the streets were 
comparatively deserted; and here her headlong progress excited a still 
greater curiosity in the stragglers whom she hurried past. Some quickened 
their pace behind, as though to see whither she was hastening at such an 
unusual rate; and a few made head upon her, and looked back, surprised at 
her undiminished speed; but they fell off one by one; and when she neared 
her place of destination, she was alone.
It was a family hotel in a quiet but handsome street near Hyde Park. As the 
brilliant light of the lamp which burned before its door, guided her to the 
spot, the clock struck eleven. She had loitered for a few paces as though 
irresolute, and making up her mind to advance; but the sound determined 
her, and she stepped into the hall. The porter's seat was vacant. She 
looked round with an air of incertitude, and advanced towards the stairs.
"Now, young woman!" said a smartly-dressed female, looking out from a door 
behind her, "who do you want here ?"
"A lady who is stopping in this house," answered the girl.
"A lady!" was the reply, accompanied with a scornful look. "What lady?"
"Miss Maylie," said Nancy.
The young woman, who had by this time noted her appearance, replied only by 
a look of virtuous disdain, and summoned a man to answer her. To him, Nancy 
repeated her request.
"What name am I to say?" asked the waiter.
"It's of no use saying any," replied Nancy.
"Nor business?" said the man.
"No, nor that neither," rejoined the girl. "I must see the lady."
"Come!" said the man, pushing her towards the door. "None of this. Take 
yourself off."
"I shall be carried out, if I go!" said the girl violently; "and I can make 
that a job that two of you won't like to do. Isn't there anybody here," she 
said, looking round, "that will see a simple message carried for a poor 
wretch like me?"
This appeal produced an effect on a good-tempered-faced man-cook, who with 
some other of the servants was looking on, and who stepped forward to 
interfere.
"Take it up for her, Joe; can't you?" said this person.
"What's the good?" replied the man. "You don't suppose the young lady will 
see such as her, do you?"
This allusion to Nancy's doubtful character, raised a vast quantity of 
chaste wrath in the bosoms of four housemaids, who remarked, with great 
fervour, that the creature was a disgrace to her sex; and strongly 
advocated her being thrown, ruthlessly, into the kennel.
"Do what you like with me," said the girl, turning to the men again; "but 
do what I ask you first, and I ask you to give this message for God 
Almighty's sake."
The soft-hearted cook added his intercession, and the result was that the 
man who had first appeared undertook its delivery.
"What's it to be?" said the man, with one foot on the stairs.
"That a young woman earnestly asks to speak to Miss Maylie alone," said 
Nancy; "and that if the lady will only hear the first word she has to say, 
she will know whether to hear her business, or to have her turned out of 
doors as an impostor."
"I say," said the man, "you're coming it strong!"
"You give the message," said the girl firmly; "and let me hear the answer."
The man ran upstairs. Nancy remained, pale and almost breathless, listening 
with quivering lip to the very audible expressions of scorn, of which the 
chaste housemaids were very prolific; and of which they became still more 
so, when the man returned, and said the young woman was to walk upstairs.
"It's no good being proper in this world," said the first housemaid.
"Brass can do better than the gold what has stood the fire," said the 
second.
The third contented herself with wondering "what ladies was made of;" and 
the fourth took the first in a quartet of "Shameful!" with which the Dianas 
concluded.
Regardless of all this, for she had weightier matters at heart, Nancy 
followed the man, with trembling limbs, to a small antechamber, lighted by 
a lamp from the ceiling. Here he left her, and retired.



Chapter 40

A Strange Interview, Which Is A Sequel To The Last Chapter.

The girl's life had been squandered in the streets, and among the most 
noisome of the stews and dens of London, but there was something of the 
woman's original nature left in her still; and when she heard a light step 
approaching the door opposite to that by which she had entered, and thought 
of the wide contrast which the small room would in another moment contain, 
she felt burdened with the sense of her own deep shame, and shrank as 
though she could scarcely bear the presence of her with whom she had sought 
this interview.
But struggling with these better feelings was pride - the vice of the 
lowest and most debased creatures no less than of the high and self-
assured. The miserable companion of thieves and ruffians, the fallen 
outcast of low haunts, the associate of the scourings of the jails and 
hulks, living within the shadow of the gallows itself - even this degraded 
being felt too proud to betray a feeble gleam of the womanly feeling which 
she thought a weakness, but which alone connected her with that humanity, 
of which her wasting life had obliterated so many, many traces when a very 
child.
She raised her eyes sufficiently to observe that the figure which presented 
itself was that of a slight and beautiful girl; then, bending them on the 
ground, she tossed her head with affected carelessness as she said:
"It's a hard matter to get to see you, lady. If I had taken offence, and 
gone away, as many would have done, you'd have been sorry for it one day, 
and not without reason either."
"I am very sorry if any one has behaved harshly to you," replied Rose. "Do 
not think of that. Tell me why you wished to see me. I am the person you 
inquired for."
The kind tone of this answer, the sweet voice, the gentle manner, the 
absence of any accent of haughtiness or displeasure, took the girl 
completely by surprise, and she burst into tears.
"Oh, lady, lady!" she said, clasping her hands passionately before her 
face, "if there was more like you, there would be fewer like me - there 
would - there would!"
"Sit down," said Rose earnestly. "If you are in poverty or affliction I 
shall be truly glad to relieve you if I can - I shall indeed. Sit down."
"Let me stand, lady," said the girl, still weeping, "and do not speak to me 
so kindly till you know me better. It is growing late. Is - is- that door 
shut?"
"Yes," said Rose, recoiling a few steps, as if to be nearer assistance in 
case she should require it. "Why?"
"Because," said the girl, "I am about to put my life, and the lives of 
others in your hands. I am the girl that dragged little Oliver back to old 
Fagin's on the night he went out from the house in Pentonville."
"You!" said Rose Maylie.
"I, lady!" replied the girl. "I am the infamous creature you have heard of, 
that lives among the thieves, and that never, from the first moment I can 
recollect, my eyes and senses opening on London streets, have known any 
better life, or kinder words than they have given me, so help me God! Do 
not mind shrinking openly from me, lady. I am younger than you would think, 
to look at me, but I am well used to it. The poorest women fall back, as I 
make my way along the crowded pavement."
"What dreadful things are these!" said Rose, involuntarily falling from her 
strange companion.
"Thank Heaven upon your knees, dear lady," cried the girl, "that you had 
friends to care for and keep you in your childhood, and that you were never 
in the midst of cold and hunger, and riot and drunkenness, and - and - 
something worse than all - as I have been from my cradle. I may use the 
word, for the alley and the gutter were mine, as they will be my death-
bed."
"I pity you!" said Rose, in a broken voice. "It wrings my heart to hear 
you!"
"Heaven bless you for your goodness!" rejoined the girl. "If you knew what 
I am sometimes, you would pity me indeed. But I have stolen away from those 
who would surely murder me, if they knew, I had been here, to tell you what 
I have overheard. Do you know a man named Monks?"
"No," said Rose.
"He knows you," replied the girl; "and knew you were here, for it was by 
hearing him tell the place that I found you out."
"I never heard the name," said Rose.
"Then he goes by some other amongst you," rejoined the girl, "which I more 
than thought before. Some time ago, and soon after Oliver was put into your 
house on the night of the robbery, I - suspecting this man - listened to a 
conversation held between him and Fagin in the dark. I found out, from what 
I heard, that Monks - the man I asked you about, you know -"
"Yes," said Rose, "I understand."
"That Monks," pursued the girl, "had seen him accidentally with two of our 
boys on the day we first lost him, and had known him directly to be the 
same child that he was watching for, though I couldn't make out why. A 
bargain was struck with Fagin, that if Oliver was got back he should have a 
certain sum; and he was to have more for making him a thief, which this 
Monks wanted for some purpose of his own."
"For what purpose?" asked Rose.
"He caught sight of my shadow on the wall as I listened, in the hope of 
finding out," said the girl; "and there are not many people besides me that 
could have got out of their way in time to escape discovery. But I did; and 
I saw him no more till last night."
"And what occurred then?"
"I'll tell you, lady. Last night he came again. Again they went upstairs, 
and I, wrapping myself up so that my shadow should not betray me, again 
listened at the door. The first words I heard Monks say were these: 'So the 
only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the 
old hag that received them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.' They 
laughed, and talked of his success in doing this; and Monks, talking on 
about the boy, and getting very wild, said that though he had got the young 
devil's money safely now, he'd rather have had it the other way; for, what 
a game it would have been to have brought down the boast of the father's 
will, by driving him through every jail in town and then hauling him up for 
some felony which Fagin could easily manage, after having made a good 
profit of him besides."
"What is all this?" said Rose.
"The truth, lady, though it comes from my lips," replied the girl. "Then he 
said, with oaths common enough in my ears, but strange to yours, that if he 
could gratify his hatred by taking the boy's life without bringing his own 
neck in danger, he would; but, as he couldn't, he'd be upon the watch to 
meet him at every turn in life; and if he took advantage of his birth and 
history, he might harm him yet. ' In short, Fagin,' he says, 'Jew as you 
are, you never laid such snares as I'll contrive for my young brother, 
Oliver."'
"His brother!" exclaimed Rose.
"Those were his words," said Nancy, glancing uneasily round, as she had 
scarcely ceased to do, since she began to speak, for a vision of Sikes 
haunted her perpetually. "And more. When he spoke of you and the other 
lady, and said it seemed contrived by Heaven, or the devil against him, 
that Oliver should come into your hands, he laughed, and said there was 
some comfort in that, too, for how many thousand and hundreds of thousands 
of pounds would you not give, if you had them, to know who your two-legged 
spaniel was."
"You do not mean," said Rose, turning very pale, "to tell me that this was 
said in earnest?"
"He spoke in hard and angry earnest, if a man ever did," replied the girl, 
shaking her head. "He is an earnest man when his hatred is up. I know many 
who do worse things; but I'd rather listen to them all a dozen times, than 
to that Monks once. It is growing late, and I have to reach home without 
suspicion of having been on such an errand as this. I must get back 
quickly."
"But what can I do?" said Rose. "To what use can I turn this communication 
without you? Back! Why do you wish to return to companions you paint in 
such terrible colours? If you repeat this information to a gentleman whom I 
can summon in an instant from the next room, you can be consigned to some 
place of safety without half an hour's delay."
"I wish to go back," said the girl. "I must go back, because - how can I 
tell such things to an innocent lady like you? - because among the men I 
have told you of, there is one - the most desperate among them all- that I 
can't leave; no, not even to be saved from the life I am leading now."
"Your having interfered in this dear boy's behalf before," said Rose; "your 
coming here, at so great a risk, to tell me what you have heard; your 
manner, which convinces me of the truth of what you say; your evident 
contrition and sense of shame; all lead me to believe that you might be yet 
reclaimed. Oh!" said the earnest girl, folding her hands as the tears 
coursed down her face, "do not turn a deaf ear to the entreaties of one of 
your own sex; the first - the first, I do believe, who ever appealed to you 
in the voice of pity and compassion. Do hear my words, and let me save you 
yet, for better things."
"Lady," cried the girl, sinking on her knees, "dear, sweet angel-lady, you 
are the first that ever blessed me with such words as these, and if I had 
heard them years ago, they might have turned me from a life of sin and 
sorrow; but it is too late - it is too late!"
"It is never too late," said Rose, "for penitence and atonement."
"It is," cried the girl, writhing in the agony of her mind; "I cannot leave 
him now! I could not be his death!"
"Why should you be?" asked Rose.
"Nothing could save him," cried the girl. "If I told others what I have 
told you, and led to their being taken, he would be sure to die. He is the 
boldest, and has been so cruel!"
"Is it possible," cried Rose, "that for such a man as this, you can resign 
every future hope, and the certainty of immediate rescue? It is madness."
"I don't know what it is," answered the girl; "I only know that it is so, 
and not with me alone, but with hundreds of others as bad and wretched as 
myself. I must go back. Whether it is God's wrath for the wrong I have 
done, I do not know; but I am drawn back to him through every suffering and 
ill-usage; and I should be, I believe, if I know that I was to die by his 
hand at last."
"What am I to do?" said Rose. "I should not let, you depart from me thus."
"You should, lady, and I know you will," rejoined the girl, rising. "You 
will not stop my going because I have trusted in your goodness, and forced 
no promise from you, as I might have done."
"Of what use, then, is the communication you have made?" said Rose. "This 
mystery must be investigated, or how will its disclosure to me benefit 
Oliver, whom you are anxious to serve?"
"You must have some kind of gentleman about you that will hear it as a 
secret, and advise you what to do," rejoined the girl.
"But where can I find you again when it is necessary?" asked Rose. "I do 
not seek to know where these dreadful people live, but where will you be 
walking or passing at any settled period from thus time?"
"Will you promise me that you will have my secret strictly kept, and come 
alone, or with the only other person that knows it; and that I shall not be 
watched or followed?" asked the girl.
"I promise you solemnly," answered Rose.
"Every Sunday night, from eleven until the clock strikes twelve," said the 
girl without hesitation, "I will walk on London Bridge, if I am alive."
"Stay another moment," interposed Rose, as the girl moved hurriedly towards 
the door. "Think once again on your own condition, and the opportunity you 
have of escaping from it. You have a claim on me, not only as the voluntary 
bearer of this intelligence, but as a woman lost almost beyond redemption. 
Will you return to this gang of robbers, and to this man, when a word can 
save you? What fascination is it that can take you back, and make you cling 
to wickedness and misery? Ohl is there no chord in your heart that I can 
touch! Is there nothing left, to which I can appeal against this terrible 
infatuation!
"When ladies as young, and good, and beautiful as you are," replied the 
girl steadily, "give away your hearts, love will carry you all lengths - 
even such as you, who have a home, friends, other admirers, everything, to 
fill them. When such as I, who have no certain roof but the coffin-lid, and 
no friend in sickness or death but the hospital nurse, set our rotten 
hearts on any man, and let him fill the place that has been a blank through 
all our wretched lives, who can hope to cure us? Pity us, lady - pity us 
for having only one feeling of the woman left, and for having that turned, 
by a heavy judgement, from a comfort and a pride, into a new means of 
violence and suffering."
"You will," said Rose, after a pause, "take some money from me, which may 
enable you to live without dishonesty - at all events until we meet again."
"Not a penny," replied the girl, waving her hand.
"Do not close your heart against all my efforts to help you," said Rose, 
stepping gently forward. "I wish to serve you indeed."
"You would serve me best, lady," replied the girl, wringing her hands, "if 
you could take my life at once; for I have felt more grief to think of what 
I am, tonight, than I ever did before, and it would be something not to die 
in the hell in which I have lived. God bless you, sweet lady, and send as 
much happiness on your head as I have brought shame on mine!"
Thus speaking, and sobbing aloud, the unhappy creature turned away; while 
Rose Maylie, overpowered by this extraordinary interview, which had more 
the semblance of a rapid dream than an actual occurrence, sank into a chair 
and endeavoured to collect her wandering



Chapter 41

Containing Fresh Discoveries, And Showing That Surprises, Like Misfortunes, 
Seldom Come Alone.

Her situation was, indeed, one of no common trial and difficulty. While she 
felt the most eager and burning desire to penetrate the mystery in which 
Oliver's history was enveloped, she could not but hold sacred the 
confidence which.the miserable woman with whom she had just conversed, had 
reposed in her, as a young and guileless girl. Her words and manner had 
touched Rose Maylie's heart; and, mingled with her love for her young 
charge, and scarcely less intense in its truth and fervour, was her fond 
wish to win the outcast back to repentance and hope.
They purposed remaining in London only three days, prior to departing for 
some weeks to a distant part of the coast. It was now midnight of the first 
day. What course of action could she determine upon, which could be adopted 
in eight-and-forty hours? Or how could she postpone the journey without 
exciting suspicion?
Mr. Losberne was with them, and would be for the next two days; but Rose 
was too well acquainted with the excellent gentleman's impetuosity, and 
foresaw too clearly the wrath with which, in the first explosion of his 
indignation, he would regard the instrument of Oliver's recapture, to trust 
him with the secret, when her representations in the girl's behalf could be 
seconded by no experienced person. These were all reasons for the greatest 
caution and most circumspect behaviour in communicating it to Mrs. Maylie, 
whose first impulse would infallibly be to hold a conference with the 
worthy doctor on the subject. As to resorting to any legal adviser, even if 
she had known how to do so, it was scarcely to be thought of, for the same 
reasons. Once the thought occurred to her of seeking assistance from Harry; 
but this awakened the recollection of their last parting, and it seemed 
unworthy of her to call him back, when - the tears rose to her eyes as she 
pursued this train of reflection - he might have by this time learned to 
forget her, and to be happier away.
Disturbed by these different reflections, inclining now to one course and 
then to another, and again recoiling from all, as each successive 
consideration presented itself to her mind, Rose passed a sleepless and 
anxious night. After more communing with herself next day, she arrived at 
the desperate conclusion of consulting Harry.
"If it be painful to him," she thought, "to come back here, how painful it 
will be to me! But perhaps he will not come; he may write, or he may come 
himself, and studiously abstain from meeting me - he did when he went away. 
I hardly thought he would; but it was better for us both." And here Rose 
dropped the pen, and turned away, as though the very paper which was to be 
her messenger should not see her weep.
She had taken up the same pen, and laid it down again fifty times, and had 
considered and reconsidered the first line of her letter without writing 
the first word, when Oliver, who had been walking in the streets, with Mr. 
Giles for a bodyguard, entered the room in such breathless haste and 
violent agitation, as seemed to betoken some new cause of alarm.
"What makes you look so hurried?" asked Rose, advancing to meet him.
"I hardly know how; I feel as if I should be choked," replied the boy. "Oh, 
dear! To think that I should see him at last, and you should be able to 
know that I have told you all the truth!"
"I never thought you had told us anything but the truth," said Rose, 
soothing him. "But what is this? - of whom do you speak?"
"I have seen the gentleman," replied Oliver, scarcely able to articulate, 
"the gentleman who was so good to me - Mr. Brownlow, that we have so often 
talked about."
"Where?" asked Rose.
"Getting out of a coach," replied Oliver, shedding tears of delight, "and 
going into a house. I didn't speak to him - I couldn't speak to him, for he 
didn't see me, and I trembled so, that I was not able to go up to him. But 
Giles asked, for me, whether he lived there, and they said he did. Look 
here," said Oliver, opening a scrap of paper, "here it is; here's where he 
lives - I'm going there directly! Oh, dear me, dear me! What shall I do 
when I come to see him and hear him speak again!"
With her attention not a little distracted by these and a great many other 
incoherent exclamations of joy, Rose read the address, which was Craven 
Street, in the Strand, and very soon determined upon turning the discovery 
to account.
"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 moment'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 despatch, and in little more than five 
minutes they were on their way to Craven Street. When they arrived there, 
Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing the old 
gentleman 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. At no great distance from whom, was seated another 
old gentleman, in nankeen breeches and gaiters; who did not look 
particularly benevolent, and who was sitting with his hands clasped on the 
top of a thick stick, and his chin propped thereupon.
"Dear me," said the gentleman in the bottle-green coat, 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, glancing from the other 
gentleman to the one who had spoken.
"That is my name," said the old gentleman. "This is my friend, Mr. Grimwig. 
Grimwig, will you leave us for a few minutes?"
"I believe," interposed Miss Maylie, "that at this period of our interview, 
I need not give the gentleman the trouble of going away. If I am correctly 
informed, he is cognisant of the business on which I wish to speak to you."
Mr. Brownlow inclined his head. Mr. Grimwig, who had made one very stiff 
bow, and risen from his chair, made another very stiff bow, and dropped 
into it again.
"I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally 
embarrassed; "but you once showed great benevolence and goodness 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 you knew him as," replied Rose.
The words no sooner escaped her lips, than Mr. Grimwig, who had been 
affecting to dip into a large book that lay on the table, upset it with a 
great crash, and falling back in his chair, discharged from his features 
every expression but one of unmitigated wonder, and indulged in a prolonged 
and vacant stare; then, as if ashamed of having betrayed so much emotion, 
he jerked himself, as it were, by a convulsion into his former attitude, 
and looking out straight before him emitted a long, deep whistle, which 
seemed, at last, not to be discharged on empty air, but to die away in the 
innermost recesses of his stomach. '
Mr. Brownlow was no less surprised, although his astonishment was not 
expressed in the same eccentric manner. He drew his chair nearer to Miss 
Maylie's, and said:
"Do me the favour, my dear young lady, to leave entirely out of the 
question that goodness and benevolence of which you speak, and of which 
nobody else knows anything; and if you have it in your power to produce any 
evidence which will alter the unfavourable opinion I was once induced to 
entertain of that poor child, in Heaven's name put me in possession of it."
"A bad one! I'll eat my head if he is not a bad one," growled Mr. Grimwig, 
speaking by some ventriloquial power, without moving a muscle of his face.
"He is a child of a noble nature and a warm heart," said Rose, colouring; 
"and that Power which has thought fit to try him beyond his years, has 
planted in his breast affections and feelings which would do honour to many 
who have numbered his days six times over."
"I'm only sixty-one," said Mr. Grimwig, with the same rigid face. "And, as 
the devil's in it if this Oliver is not twelve years old at least, I don't 
see the application of that remark."
"Do not heed my friend, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow; "he does not mean 
what he says."
"Yes, he does," growled Mr. Grimwig.
"No, he does not," said Mr. Brownlow, obviously rising in wrath as he 
spoke.
"He'll eat his head, if he doesn't," growled Mr. Grimwig.
"He would deserve to have it knocked off, if he does," said Mr. Brownlow.
"And he'd uncommonly like to see any man offer to do it," responded Mr. 
Grimwig, knocking his stick upon the floor.
Having gone thus far, the two old gentleman severally took snuff, and 
afterwards shook hands, according to their invariable custom.
"Now, Miss Maylie," said Mr. Brownlow, "to return to the subject in which 
your humanity is so much interested. Will you let me know what intelligence 
you have of this poor child; allowing me to premise that I exhausted every 
means in my power of discovering him, and that since I have been absent 
from this country, my first impression that he had imposed upon me, and had 
been persuaded by his former associates to rob me, has been considerably 
shaken."
Rose, who had had time to collect her thoughts, at once related, in a few 
natural words, all that had befallen Oliver since he left Mr. Brownlow's 
house; reserving Nancy's information for that gentleman's private ear, and 
concluding with the assurance that his only sorrow, for some months past, 
had been the not being able to meet with his former benefactor and friend.
"Thank God!" said the old gentleman. "This is great happiness to me - great 
happiness. But you have not told me where he is now, Miss Maylie. You must 
pardon my finding fault with you - but why not have brought him?"
"He is waiting in a coach at the door," replied Rose.
"At this door!" cried the old gentleman. With which he hurried out of the 
room, down the stairs, up the coach steps, and into the coach, without 
another word.
When the room door closed behind him, Mr. Grimwig lifted up his head, and 
converting one of the hind legs of his chair into a pivot, described three 
distinct circles with the assistance of his stick and the table, sitting in 
it all the time. After performing this evolution, he rose and limped as 
fast as he could up and down the room at least a dozen times, and then 
stopping before Rose, kissed her without the slightest preface.
"Hush!" he said, as the young lady rose in some alarm at this unusual 
proceeding. "Don't be afraid. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. You're 
a sweet girl. I like you. Here they are!"
In fact, as he threw himself at one dextrous dive into his former seat, Mr. 
Brownlow returned, accompanied by Oliver, whom Mr. Grimwig received very 
graciously; and if the gratification of that moment had been the only 
reward for all her anxiety and care in Oliver's behalf, Rose Maylie would 
have been well repaid.
"There is somebody else who should not be forgotten, by the bye," said Mr. 
Brownlow, ringing the bell. "Send Mrs. Bedwin here, if you please."
The old housekeeper answered the summons with all despatch; and dropping a 
curtsey at the door, waited for orders.
"Why, you get blinder every day, Bedwin," said Mr. Brownlow, rather 
testily.
"Well, that I do, sir," replied the old lady. "People's eyes, at my time of 
life, don't improve with age, sir."
"I could have told you that," rejoined Mr. Brownlow; "but put on your 
glasses, and see if you can't find out what you were wanted for, will you?"
The old lady began to rummage in her pocket for her spectacles. But 
Oliver's patience was not proof against this new trial; and yielding to his 
first impulse, he sprang into her arms.
"God be good to me!" cried the old lady, embracing him; "it is my innocent 
boy!"
"My dear old nurse!" cried Oliver.
"He would come back - I knew he would," said the old lady, holding him in 
her arms. "How well he looks, and how like a gentleman's son he is dressed 
again! Where have you been, this long, long while? Ah! the same sweet face, 
but not so pale; the same soft eye, but not so sad. I have never forgotten 
them, or his quiet smile, but have seen them every day, side by side with 
those of my own dear children, dead and gone since I was a lightsome young 
creature." Running on thus, and now holding Oliver from her to mark how he 
had grown, now clasping him to her and passing her fingers fondly through 
his hair, the good soul laughed and wept upon his neck by turns.
Leaving her and Oliver to compare notes at leisure, Mr. Brownlow led the 
way into another room, and there heard from Rose a full narration of her 
interview with Nancy, which occasioned him no little surprise and 
perplexity. Rose also explained her reasons for not confiding in her friend 
Mr. Losberne in the first instance. The old gentleman considered that she 
had acted prudently, and readily undertook to hold solemn conference with 
the worthy doctor himself. To afford him an early opportunity for the 
execution of this design, it was arranged that he should call at the hotel 
at eight o'clock that evening, and that in the meantime Mrs. Maylie should 
be cautiously informed of all that had occurred. These preliminaries 
adjusted, Rose and Oliver returned home.
Rose had by no means overrated the measure of the good doctor's wrath. 
Nancy's history was no sooner unfolded to him than he poured forth a shower 
of mingled threats and execrations; threatened to make her the first victim 
of the combined ingenuity of Messrs. Blathers and Duff; and actually put on 
his hat preparatory to sallying forth to obtain the assistance of those 
worthies. And, doubtless, he would, in this first outbreak, have carried 
the intention into effect without a moment's consideration of the 
consequences, if he had not been restrained, in part, by corresponding 
violence on the side of Mr. Brownlow, who was himself of an irascible 
temperament, and partly by such arguments and representations as seemed 
best calculated to dissuade him from his hot-brained purpose.
"Then what the devil is to be done?" said the impetuous doctor, when they 
had rejoined the two ladies. "Are we to pass a vote of thanks to all these 
vagabonds, male and female, and beg them to accept a hundred pounds, or so, 
apiece, as a trifling mark of our esteem, and some slight acknowledgement 
of their kindness to Oliver?"
"Not exactly that," rejoined Mr. Brownlow, laughing; "but we must proceed 
gently and with great care."
"Gentleness and care," exclaimed the doctor. "I'd send them one and all to -
"
"Never mind where," interposed Mr. Brownlow. "But reflect whether sending 
them anywhere is likely to attain the object we have in view."
"What object?" asked the doctor.
"Simply, the discovery of Oliver's parentage, and regaining for him the 
inheritance of which, if this story be true, he has been fraudulently 
deprived."
"Ah!" said Mr. Losberne, cooling himself with his pocket-handkerchief; "I 
almost forgot that."
"You see," pursued Mr. Brownlow; "placing this poor girl entirely out of 
the question, and supposing it were possible to bring these scoundrels to 
justice without compromising her safety, what good should we bring about?"
"Hanging a few of them at least, in all probability," suggested the doctor, 
"and transporting the rest."
"Very good," replied Mr. Brownlow, smiling; abut no doubt they will bring 
that about for themselves in the fulness of time, and if we step in to 
forestall them, it seems to me that we shall be performing a very quixotic 
act, in direct opposition to our own interest - or at least Oliver's, which 
is the same thing."
"How?" inquired the doctor.
"Thus. It is quite clear that we shall have extreme difficulty in getting 
to the bottom of this mystery, unless we can bring this man, Monks, upon 
his knees. That can only be done by stratagem, and by catching him when he 
is not surrounded by these people. For, suppose he were apprehended, we 
have no proof against him. He is not even (so far as we know, or as the 
facts appear to us) concerned with the gang in any of their robberies. If 
he were not discharged, it is very unlikely that he could receive any 
further punishment than being committed to prison as a rogue and vagabond; 
and of course ever afterwards his mouth would be so obstinately closed that 
he might as well, for our purpose, be deaf, dumb, blind, and an idiot."
"Then," said the doctor impetuously, "I put it to you again, whether you 
think it reasonable that this promise to the girl should be considered 
binding; a promise made with the best and kindest intentions, but really -"
"Do not discuss the point, my dear young lady, pray," said Mr. Brownlow, 
interrupting Rose as she was about to speak. "The promise shall be kept. I 
don't think it will, in the slightest degree, interfere with our 
proceedings. But, before we can resolve upon any precise course of action, 
it will be necessary to see the girl; to ascertain from her whether she 
will point out this Monks, on the understanding that he is to be dealt with 
by us, and not by the law; or, if she will not, or cannot do that, to 
procure from her such an account of his haunts and description of his 
person, as will enable us to identify him. She cannot be seen until next 
Sunday night; this is Tuesday. I would suggest that in the meantime we 
remain perfectly quiet, and keep these matters secret even from Oliver 
himself."
Although Mr. Losberne received with many wry faces a proposal involving a 
delay of five whole days, he was fain to admit that no better course 
occurred to him just then; and as both Rose and Mrs. Maylie sided very 
strongly with Mr. Brownlow, that gentleman's proposition was carried 
unanimously.
"I should like," he said, "to call in the aid of my friend Grimwig. He is a 
strange creature, but a shrewd one, and might prove of material assistance 
to us; I should say that he was bred a lawyer, and quitted the bar in 
disgust because he had only one brief and a motion of course, in twenty 
years, though whether that is a recommendation or not, you must determine 
for yourselves."
"I have no objection to your calling in your friend if I may call in mine," 
said the doctor.
"We must put it to the vote," replied Mr. Brownlow, "who may he be?"
"That lady's son, and this young lady's very old friend," said the doctor, 
motioning towards Mrs. Maylie, and concluding with an expressive glance at 
her niece.
Rose blushed deeply, but she did not make any audible objection to this 
motion (possibly she felt in a hopeless minority); and Harry Maylie and Mr. 
Grimwig were accordingly added to the committee.
"We stay in town, of course," said Mr. Maylie, "while there remains the 
slightest prospect of prosecuting this inquiry with a chance of success. I 
will spare neither trouble nor expense in behalf of the object in which we 
are all so deeply interested, and I am content to remain here, if it be for 
twelve months, so long as you assure me that any hope remains."
"Good!" rejoined Mr. Brownlow. "And as I see on the faces about me, a 
disposition to inquire how it happened that I was not in the way to 
corroborate Oliver's tale, and had so suddenly left the kingdom, let me 
stipulate that I shall be asked no questions until such time as I may deem 
it expedient to forestall them by telling my own story. Believe me, I make 
this request with good reason, for I might otherwise excite hopes destined 
never to be realised, and only increase difficulties and disappointments 
already numerous enough. Come! Supper has been announced, and young Oliver, 
who is all alone in the next room, will have begun to think, by this time, 
that we have wearied of his company, and entered into some dark conspiracy 
to thrust him forth upon the world."
With these words, the old gentleman gave his hand to Mrs. Maylie, and 
escorted her into the supper-room. Mr. Losberne followed, leading Rose; and 
the council was, for the present, effectually broken up.



Chapter 42

An Old Acquaintance Of Oliver's, Exhibiting Decided Marks Of Genius, 
Becomes A Public Character In The Metropolis.

Upon the night when Nancy, having lulled Mr. Sikes to sleep, hurried on her 
self-imposed mission to Rose Maylie, there advanced towards London, by the 
Great North Road, two persons, upon whom it is expedient that this history 
should bestow some attention.
They were a man and a woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a 
male and female; for the former was one of those long-limbed, knock-kneed, 
shambling, bony people, to whom it is difficult to assign any precise age - 
looking as they do, when they are yet boys, like undergrown men, and when 
they are almost men, like overgrown boys. The woman was young, but of a 
robust and hardy make, as she need have been to bear the weight of the 
heavy bundle which was strapped to her back. Her companion was not 
encumbered with much luggage, as there merely dangled from a stick which he 
carried over his shoulder, a small parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, 
and apparently light enough. This circumstance, added to the length of his 
legs, which were of unusual extent, enabled him with much ease to keep some 
half-dozen paces in advance of his companion, to whom he occasionally 
turned with an impatient jerk of the head, as if reproaching her tardiness, 
and urging her to greater exertion.
Thus, they had toiled along the dusty road, taking little heed of any 
object within sight, save when they stepped aside to allow a wider passage 
for the mail-coaches which were whirling out of town, until they passed 
through Highgate archway; when the foremost traveller stopped and called 
impatiently to his companion.
"Come on, can't yer? What a lazybones ye are, Charlotte."
"It's a heavy load, I can tell you," said the female, coming up, almost 
breathless with fatigue.
"Heavy! What are yer talking about! What are yer made for?" rejoined the 
male traveller, changing his own little bundle as he spoke, to the other 
shoulder. "Oh, there yer are, resting again! Well, if yer ain't enough to 
tire anybody's patience out, I don't know what is!"
"Is it much farther?" asked the woman, resting herself against a bank, and 
looking up with the perspiration streaming from her face.
"Much farther! Yer as good as there," said the long-legged tramper, 
pointing out before him. "Look there! Those are the lights of London."
"They're a good two mile off, at least," said the woman despondingly.
"Never mind whether they're two mile off, or twenty," said Noah Claypole, 
for he it was; "but get up and come on, or I'll kick yer, and so I give yer 
notice."
As Noah's red nose grew redder with anger, and as he crossed the road while 
speaking, as if fully prepared to put his threat into execution, the woman 
rose without any further remark, and trudged onward by his side.
"Where do you mean to stop for the night, Noah?" she asked, after they had 
walked a few hundred yards.
"How should I know?" replied Noah, whose temper had been considerably 
impaired by walking.
"Near, I hope," said Charlotte.
"No, not near," replied Mr. Claypole. ''There! Not near; so don't think 
it."
"Why not?"
"When I tell yer that I don't mean to do a thing, that's enough, without 
any why or because either," replied Mr. Claypole, with dignity.
"Well, you needn't be so cross," said his companion.
"A pretty thing it would be, wouldn't it, to go and stop at the very first 
public-house outside the town, so that Sowerberry, if he came up after us, 
might poke in his old nose, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs 
on," said Mr Claypole, in a jeering tone. "No! I shall go and lose myself 
among the narrowest streets I can find, and not stop till we come to the 
very out-of-the-wayest house I can set eyes on. 'Cod, yer may thank yer 
stars I've got a head; for if we hadn't gone, at first, the wrong road a 
purpose, and come back across country, yer'd have been locked up hard and 
fast a week ago, my lady. And serve yer right for being a fool."
"I know I ain't as cunning as you are," replied Charlotte; "but don't put 
all the blame on me, and say I should have been locked up. You would have 
been if I had been, anyway."
"Yer took the money from the till, yer know yer did," said Mr. Claypole.
"I took it for you, Noah dear," rejoined Charlotte.
"Did I keep it?" asked Mr. Claypole.
"No; you trusted in me, and let me carry it like a dear, and so you are," 
said the lady, chucking him under the chin, and drawing her arm through 
his.
This was indeed the case; but as it was not Mr. Claypole's habit to repose 
a blind and foolish confidence in anybody, it should be observed, in 
justice to that gentleman, that he had trusted Charlotte to this extent, in 
order that, if they were pursued, the money might be found on her; which 
would leave him an opportunity of asserting his innocence of any theft, and 
would greatly facilitate his chances of escape. Of course, he entered at 
this juncture into no explanation of his motives, and they walked on very 
leisurely together.
In pursuance of this cautious plan, Mr. Claypole went on, without halting, 
until he arrived at the Angel at Islington, where he wisely judged, from 
the crowd of passengers and number of vehicles, that London began in 
earnest. Just pausing to observe which appeared the most crowded streets, 
and consequently the most to be avoided, he crossed into St. John's Road, 
and was soon deep in the obscurity of the intricate and dirty ways, which, 
lying between Gray's Inn Lane and Smithfield, render that part of the town 
one of the lowest and worst that improvement has left in the midst of 
London.
Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him; 
now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external 
character of some small public-house; and now jogging on again, as some 
fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his purpose. At 
length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in appearance and more 
dirty than any he had yet seen; and, having crossed over and surveyed it 
from the opposite pavement, graciously announced his intention of putting 
up there, for the night.
"So give us the bundle," said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman's 
shoulders, and slinging it over his own; "and don't yer speak, except when 
yer spoke to. What's the name of the house - t-h-r - three what?"
"Cripples," said Charlotte.
"Three Cripples," repeated Noah, "and a very good sign too. Now, then! Keep 
close at my heels, and come along." With these injunctions, he pushed the 
rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his 
companion.
There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on 
the counter, was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, 
and Noah stared very hard at him.
If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy's dress, there might have been 
some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide; but as he had discarded 
the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers, there 
seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention 
in a public-house.
"Is this the Three Cripples?" asked Noah.
"That is the dabe of this 'ouse," replied the Jew.
"A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us 
here," said Noah, nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this 
most ingenious device for attracting respect, and perhaps to warn her to 
betray no surprise. "We want to sleep here tonight."
"I'b dot certaid you cad," said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; "but 
I'll idquire."
"Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while 
yer inquiring, will yer?" said Noah.
Barney complied by ushering them into a small back room, and setting the 
required viands before them; having done which, he informed the travellers 
that they could be lodged that night, and left the amiable couple to their 
refreshment.
Now, this back room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower, 
so that any person connected with the house, undrawing a small curtain 
which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named 
apartment, about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon 
any guests in the back room without any great hazard of being observed (the 
glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright 
beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to 
the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of 
conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this 
place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from 
making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his 
evening's business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young 
pupils.
"Hush!" said Barney; "stradegers id the next roob."
"Strangers!" repeated the old man in a whisper.
"Ah! Ad rud uds too," added Barney. "Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your 
way, or I'b bistaked."
Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest. Mounting 
a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass, from which 
secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish, and 
porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to 
Charlotte, who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.
"Aha!" he whispered, looking round to Barney, "I like that fellow's looks. 
He'd be of use to us; he knows how to train the girl already. Don't make as 
much noise as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear 'em talk - let me hear 
'em."
He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the 
partition, listened attentively; with a subtle and eager look upon his 
face, that might have appertained to some old goblin.
"So I mean to be a gentleman," said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs, and 
continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too 
late to hear. "No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman's life 
for me; and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady."
"I should like that well enough, dear," replied Charlotte; "but tills ain't 
to be emptied every day, and people to get clear
"Tills be blowed!" said Mr. Claypole; "there's more things besides tills to 
be emptied."
"What do you mean?" asked his companion.
"Pockets, women's ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!" said Mr. 
Claypole, rising with the porter.
"But you can't do all that, dear," said Charlotte.
"I shall look out to get into company with them as can," replied Noah. 
"They'll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself 
are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful 
creetur as yer can be when I let yer."
"Lor, how nice it is to hear you say so!" exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a 
kiss on his ugly face.
"There, that'll do; don't yer be too affectionate, in case I'm cross with 
yer," said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. "I should like to 
be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of 'em, and follering 
'em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good 
profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort, I say 
it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you've got - especially as we 
don't very well know how to get rid of it ourselves."
After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with 
an aspect of deep wisdom; and having well shaken its contents, nodded 
condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared 
greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of 
the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a-very low bow 
he made, as he advanced, and setting himself down at the nearest table, 
ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.
"A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year," said Fagin, rubbing 
his hands. "From the country, I see, sir?"
"How do yer see that?" asked Noah Claypole.
"We have not so much dust as that in London," replied Fagin, pointing from 
Noah's shoes to that of his companion and from them to the two bundles.
"Yer a sharp feller," said Noah. "Ha! ha! only hear that, Charlotte!"
"Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear," replied the Jew, sinking 
his voice to a confidential whisper; "and that's the truth."
Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his 
right forefinger - a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not 
with complete success, in consequence of his own nose not being large 
enough for the purpose. However, Mr. Fagin seemed to interpret the 
endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion, and put 
about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner.
"Good stuff that," observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.
"Dear!" said Fagin. "A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or 
a woman's reticule, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it 
regularly."
Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell 
back in his chair, and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance 
of ashy paleness and excessive terror.
"Don't mind me, my dear," said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. "Ha! ha! it 
was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was 
only me."
"I didn't take it," stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like 
an independent gentleman, but coiling them up as well as he could under his 
chair; "it was all her doing: yer've got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer 
have."
"No matter who's got it, or who did it, my dear!" replied Fagin, glancing, 
nevertheless, with a hawk's eye at the girl and the two bundles. "I'm in 
that way myself, and I like you for it."
"In what way?" asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.
"In that way of business," rejoined Fagin; "and so are the people of the 
house. You've hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you 
could be. There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; 
that is, when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the 
young woman; so I've said the word, and you may make your minds easy."
Noah Claypole's mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his 
body certainly was not; for he snuffled and writhed about, into various 
uncouth positions, eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and 
suspicion.
"I'll tell you more," said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl, by dint 
of friendly nods and muttered encouragements. "I have got a friend that I 
think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way, where 
you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you 
best at first, and be taught all the others."
"Yer speak as if yer were in earnest," replied Noah.
"What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?" inquired Fagin, 
shrugging his shoulders. "Here! Let me have a word with you outside."
"There's no occasion to trouble ourselves to move," said Noah, getting his 
legs by gradual degrees abroad - again. "She'll take the luggage upstairs 
the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles!"
This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty, was obeyed 
without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the best of her way off 
with the packages while Noah held the door open and watched her out.
"She's kept tolerably well under, ain't she?" he asked, as he resumed his 
seat, in the tone of a keeper who has tamed some wild animal.
"Quite perfect," rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder. "You're a 
genius, my dear."
"Why, I suppose if I wasn't, I shouldn't be here," replied Noah. "But, I 
say, she'll be back if yer lose time."
"Now, what do you think?" said Fagin. "If you was to like my friend, could 
you do better than join him?"
"Is he in a good way of business; that's where it is!" responded Noah, 
winking one of his little eyes.
"The top of the tree," said Fagin; "employs a power of hands; has the very 
best society in the profession."
"Regular town-maders?" asked Mr. Claypole.
"Not a countryman among 'em; and I don't think he'd take you, even on my 
recommendation, if he didn't run rather short of assistants just now," 
replied Fagin.
"Should I have to hand over?" said Noah, slapping his breeches pocket.
"It couldn't possibly be done without," replied Fagin, in a most decided 
manner.
"Twenty pound, though - it's a lot of money!"
"Not when it's in a note you can't get rid of," retorted Fagin. "Number and 
date taken, I suppose! Payment stopped at the bank? Ah! It's not worth much 
to him. It'll have to go abroad, and he couldn't sell it for a great deal 
in the market."
"When could I see him?" asked Noah doubtfully.
"Tomorrow morning."
"Where?"
"Here."
"Um!" said Noah. "What's the wages?"
"Live like a gentleman - board and lodging, pipes and spirits free - half 
of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns," replied Mr. Fagin.
Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least comprehensive, 
would have acceded even to these glowing terms, had he been a perfectly 
free agent, is very doubtful; but as he recollected that, in the event of 
his refusal it was in the power of his new acquaintance to give him up to 
justice immediately (and more unlikely things had come to pass), he 
gradually relented, and said he thought that would suit him.
"But, yer see," observed Noah, "as she will be able to do a good deal, I 
should like to take something very light."
"A little fancy work?" suggested Fagin.
"Ah! something of that sort," replied Noah. "What do you think would suit 
me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and not very dangerous, 
you know. That's the sort of thing!"
"I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear," 
said Fagin. "My friend wants somebody who would do that well, very much."
"Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn't mind turning my hand to it 
sometimes," rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; "but it wouldn't pay by itself, 
you know."
"That's true!" observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. "No, 
it might not."
"What do you think, then?" asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. "Something 
in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk 
than being at home."
"What do you think of the old ladies?" asked Fagin. "There's a good deal of 
money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the 
corner."
"Don't they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?" asked Noah, 
shaking his head. "I don't think that would answer my purpose. Ain't there 
any other line open?"
"Stop!" said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah's knee. "The kinchin lay."
"What's that?" demanded Mr. Claypole.
"The kinchins, my dear," said Fagin, "is the young children that's sent on 
errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just 
to take their money away - they've always got it ready in their hands - 
then knock 'em into a kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were 
nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! 
ha!"
"Ha! ha!" roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. "Lord, 
that's the very thing!"
"To be sure it is," replied Fagin; "and you can have a few good beats 
chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighbourhoods like 
that, where they're always going errands; and you can upset as many 
kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!"
With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst 
of laughter both long and loud.
"Well, that's all right!" said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and 
Charlotte had returned. "What time tomorrow shall we say?"
"Will ten do?" asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, "What 
name shall I tell my good friend?"
"Mr. Bolter," replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such an emergency. 
"Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter."
"Mrs. Bolter's humble servant," said Fagin, bowing with grotesque 
politeness. "I hope I shall know her better very shortly."
"Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?" thundered Mr. Claypole.
"Yes, Noah, dear!" replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.
"She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking," said Mr. Morris 
Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. "You understand?"
"Oh, yes, I understand - perfectly," replied Fagin, telling the truth for 
once. "Good-night! Good-night!"
With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, 
bespeaking his good lady's attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative 
to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of 
superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a 
gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the 
kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.



Chapter 43

Wherein Is Shown How The Artful Dodger Got Into Trouble.

"And so it was you that was your own friend, was it?" asked Mr. Claypole, 
otherwise Bolter, when, by virtue of the compact entered into between them, 
he had removed next day to Fagin's house. "'Cod, I thought as much last 
night!"
"Every man's his own friend, my dear," replied Fagin, with his most 
insinuating grin. "He hasn't as good a one as himself anywhere."
"Except sometimes," replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of a man of the 
world. "Some people are nobody's enemies but their own, yer know."
"Don't believe that," said Fagin. "When a man's his own enemy, it's only 
because he's too much his own friend; not because he's careful for 
everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain't such a thing in nature."
"There oughtn't to be, if there is," replied Mr. Bolter.
"That stands to reason," said Fagin. "Some conjurers say that number three 
is the magic number, and some say number seven. It's neither, my friend, 
neither. It's number one."
"Ha! ha!" cried Mr. Bolter. "Number one for ever."
"In a little community like ours, my dear," said Fagin, who felt it 
necessary to qualify his position, "we have a general number one; that is, 
you can't consider yourself as number one, without considering me too as 
the same, and all the other young people."
"Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
"You see," pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this interruption, awe are 
so mixed up together, and identified in our interests, that it must be so. 
For instance, it's your object to take care of number one - meaning 
yourself."
"Certainly," replied Mr. Bolter. "Yer about right there."
"Well! You can't take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of 
me, number one."
"Number two, you mean," said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the 
quality of selfishness.
"No, I don't!" retorted Fagin. "I'm of the same importance to you, as you 
are to yourself."
"I say," interrupted Mr. Bolter, "yer a very nice man, and I'm very fond of 
yer; but we ain't quite so thick together, as all that comes to."
"Only think," said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and stretching out his 
hands; "only consider. You've done what's a very pretty thing, and what I 
love you for doing; but what at the same time would put the cravat round 
your throat, that's so very easily tied and so very difficult to unloose - 
in plain English, the halter!"
Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it inconveniently 
tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone but not in substance.
"The gallows," continued Fagin - "the gallows, my dear, is an ugly finger-
post, which points out a very short and sharp turning that has stopped many 
a bold fellow's career on the broad highway. To keep in the easy road, and 
keep it at a distance, is object number one with you."
"Of course it is," replied Mr. Bolter. "What do yer talk about such things 
for?"
"Only to show you my meaning clearly," said the Jew, raising his eyebrows. 
"To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To keep my little business all 
snug, I depend upon you. The first is your number one, the second my number 
one. The more you value your number one, the more careful you must be of 
mine; so we come at last to what I told you at first- that a regard for 
number one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to 
pieces in company."
"That's true," rejoined Mr. Bolter thoughtfully. "Oh! yer a cunning old 
codger!"
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was no mere 
compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of 
his wily genius, which it was most important that he should entertain in 
the outset of their acquaintance. To strengthen an impression so desirable 
and useful, he followed up the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, 
with the magnitude and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction 
together, as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so 
much art, that Mr. Bolter's respect visibly increased, and became tempered 
at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear, which it was highly 
desirable to awaken.
"It's this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy 
losses," said Fagin. "My best hand was taken from me, yesterday morning."
"You don't mean to say he died?" cried Mr. Bolter.
"No, no," replied Fagin, "not so bad as that. Not quite so bad."
"What, I suppose he was -"
"Wanted," interposed Fagin. "Yes, he was wanted."
"Very particular?" inquired Mr. Bolter.
"No," replied Fagin, "not very. He was charged with attempting to pick a 
pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him - his own, my dear, his 
own, for he took snuff.himself, and was very fond of it. They remanded him 
till today, for they thought they knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty 
boxes, and I'd give the price of as many to have him back. You should have 
known the Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger."
"Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don't yer think so?" said Mr. Bolter.
"I'm doubtful about it," replied Fagin, with a sigh. "If they don't get any 
fresh evidence, it'll only be a summary conviction, and we shall have him 
back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it's a case of lagging. 
They know what a clever lad he is; he'll be a lifer. They'll make the 
Artful nothing less than a lifer."
"What do yer mean by lagging and a lifer?" demanded Mr. Bolter. "What's the 
good of talking in that way to me; why don't yer speak so as I can 
understand yer?"
Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar 
tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed that 
they represented that combination of words, "transportation for life," when 
the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in 
his breeches pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.
"It's all up, Fagin," said Charley, when he and his new companion had been 
made known to each other.
"What do you mean?"
"They've found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more's a-coming 
to 'dentify him; and the Artful's booked for a passage out," replied Master 
Bates. "I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit 
him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins - 
lummy Jack - the Dodger - the Artful Dodger - going abroad for a common 
twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he'd a done it under a gold 
watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn't he rob some rich old 
gentleman of all his walables, and go out as a gentleman, and not like a 
common prig, without no honour nor glory!"
With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates 
sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and despondency.
"What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for!" exclaimed 
Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. "Wasn't he always top-sawyer 
among you all! Is there one of you that could touch him or come near him on 
any scent! Eh?"
"Not one," replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; "not 
one."
"Then what do you talk of?" replied Fagin angrily; "what are you blubbering 
for?"
"'Cause it isn't on the record, is it?" said Charley, chafed into perfect 
defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; "'cause it 
can't come out in the 'dictment; 'cause nobody will never know half of what 
he was. How will be stand in the Newgate Calendar? P'r'aps not be there at 
all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!"
"Ha! ha!" cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr. Bolter 
in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; "see what 
a pride they take in their profession, my dear. Ain't it beautiful?"
Mr. Bolter nodded assent; and Fagin, after contemplating the grief of 
Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction, stepped up to 
that young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.
"Never mind, Charley," said Fagin soothingly; "it'll come out, it'll be 
sure to come out. They'll all know what a clever fellow he was; he'll show 
it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he 
is too! What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!"
"Well, it is a honour, that is!" said Charley, a little consoled.
"He shall have all he wants," continued the Jew. "He shall be kept in the 
stone jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman! With his beer every 
day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can't spend it."
"No, shall he though?" cried Charley Bates.
"Ay, that he shall," replied Fagin, "and we'll have a bigwig, Charley - one 
that's got the greatest gift of the gab - to carry on his defence; and he 
shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes; and we'll read it all in 
the papers - 'Artful Dodger shrieks of laughter - here the court was 
convulsed' - eh, Charley, eh?"
"Ha! ha!" laughed Master Bates, "what a lark that would be, wouldn't it, 
Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother 'em, wouldn't he?"
"Would!" cried Fagin. "He shall - he will!"
"Ah, to be sure, so he will," repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.
"I think I see him now," cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.
"So do I," cried Charley Bates. "Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore 
me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular game! All the 
bigwigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of 'em as 
intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge's own son making a speech 
arter dinner - ha! ha! ha!"
In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend's eccentric 
disposition, that Master Bates, who bad at first been disposed to consider 
the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him 
as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and 
felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion 
should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.
"We must know how he gets on today, by some handy means or other," said 
Fagin. "Let me think."
"Shall I go?" asked Charley.
"Not for the world," replied Fagin. "Are you mad, my dear - stark mad, that 
you'd walk into the very place where No, Charley, no. One is enough to lose 
at a time."
"You don't mean to go yourself, I suppose?" said Charley, with a humorous 
leer.
"That wouldn't quite fit," replied Fagin, shaking his head.
"Then why don't you send this new cove?" asked Master Bates, laying his 
hand on Noah's arm. "Nobody knows him."
"Why, if he didn't mind -" observed Fagin.
"Mind!" interposed Charley. "What should he have to mind?"
"Really nothing, my dear," said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, "really 
nothing."
"Oh, I dare say about that, yer know," observed Noah, backing towards the 
door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. "No, no - none of 
that. It's not in my department, that ain't."
"Wot department has he got, Fagin?" inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah's 
lank form with much disgust. "The cutting away when there's anything wrong, 
and the eating all the wittles when there's everything right; is that his 
branch?"
"Never mind," retorted Mr. Bolter; "and don't yer take liberties with yer 
superiors, little boy, or yer'll find yerself in the wrong shop."
Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat that it was 
some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent to Mr. Bolter that he 
incurred no possible danger in visiting the police office; that, inasmuch 
as no account of the little affair in which he had been engaged, nor any 
description of his person, had yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was 
very probable that he was not even suspected of having resorted to it for 
shelter; and that, if he was properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot 
for him to visit as any in London, inasmuch as it would be, of all places, 
the very last, to which he could be supposed likely to resort of his own 
free-will.
Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a much 
greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length consented, with a 
very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By Fagin's directions, he 
immediately substituted for his own attire, a wagoner's frock, velveteen 
breeches, and leather leggings, all of which articles the Jew had at hand. 
He was likewise furnished with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike 
tickets, and a carter's whip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into the 
office, as some country fellow from Covent Garden market might be supposed 
to do for the gratification of his curiosity; and as he was as awkward, 
ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr. Fagin had no fear but that 
he would look the part to perfection.
These arrangements completed, he was informed of the necessary signs and 
tokens by which to recognise the Artful Dodger, and was conveyed by Master 
Bates through dark and winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow 
Street. Having described the precise situation of the office, and 
accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk straight up the 
passage, and when he got into the yard take the door up the steps on the 
right-hand side, and pull off his hat as he went into the room, Charley 
Bates bade him hurry on alone, and promised to bide his return on the spot 
of their parting.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases, punctually followed 
the directions he had received, which - Master Bates being pretty well 
acquainted with the locality - were so exact that he was enabled to gain 
the magisterial presence without asking any questions, or meeting with any 
interruption by the way. He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, 
chiefly women, who were huddled together in a dirty, frowsy room, at the 
upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest, with a 
dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a box for the 
witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right; the 
awful locality last named, being screened off by a partition which 
concealed the Bench from the common gaze, and left the vulgar to imagine 
(if they could) the full majesty of Justice.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to their 
admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a couple of 
policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the table. A jailer 
stood reclining against the dock rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a 
large key, except when he repressed an undue tendency to conversation among 
the idlers, by proclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman 
"Take that baby out," when the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble 
cries, half-smothered in the mother's shawl, from some meagre infant. The 
room smelled close and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-coloured; and the 
ceiling blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a 
dusty clock above the dock - the only thing present, that seemed to go on 
as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with 
both, had left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less unpleasant 
than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that frowned upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although there were 
several women who would have done very well for that distinguished 
character's mother or sister, and more than one man who might be supposed 
to bear a strong resemblance to his father, nobody at all answering the 
description given him of Mr. Dawkins was to be seen. He waited in a state 
of much suspense and uncertainty until the women, being committed for 
trial, went flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance 
of another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the object 
of his visit.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the big coat 
tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right 
hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait altogether indescribable, 
and, taking his place in the dock, requested in an audible voice to know 
what he was placed in that 'ere disgraceful sitivation for.
"Hold your tongue, will you?" said the jailer.
"I'm an Englishman, ain't I?" rejoined the Dodger. "Where are my 
priwileges?"
"You'll get your privileges soon enough," retorted the jailer, "and pepper 
with 'em."
"We'll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got to say 
to the beaks, if I don't," replied Mr. Dawkins. "Now then! Wot is this here 
business? I shall thank the madg'strates to dispose of this here little 
affair, and not to keep me while they read the paper, for I've got an 
appointment with a gentleman in the city, and as I'm a man of my word and 
wery punctual in business matters, he'll go away if I ain't there to my 
time, and then p'r'aps there won't be an action for damage against them as 
kept me away. Oh, no, certainly not!"
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with a view 
to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to communicate "the 
names of them two files as was on the bench," which so tickled the 
spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as Master Bates could have 
done if he had heard the request.
"Silence, there!" cried the jailer.
"What is this?" inquired one of the magistrates.
"A pick-pocketing case, your Worship."
"Has the boy ever been here before?"
"He ought to have been, a many times," replied the jailer. "He has been 
pretty well everywhere else. I know him well, your Worship."
"Oh! you know me, do you?" cried the Artful, making a note of the 
statement. "Wery good. That's a case of deformation of character, anyway." 
Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
"Now then, where are the witnesses?" said the clerk.
"Ah! that's right," added the Dodger. "Where are they? I should like to see 
'em."
This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward who 
had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman in a 
crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a very old 
one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his own 
countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as soon as he 
could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his 
person a silver snuff-box, with the owner's name engraved upon the lid. 
This gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide, and 
being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he 
missed it on the previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from 
the crowd before referred to. He had also remarked a young gentleman in the 
throng, particularly active in making his way about, and that young 
gentleman was the prisoner before him.
"Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?" said the magistrate.
"I wouldn't abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him," 
replied the Dodger.
"Have you anything to say at all?"
"Do you hear his Worship ask if you've anything to say?" inquired the 
jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
"I beg your pardon," said the Dodger, looking up with an air of 
abstraction. "Did you redress yourself to me, my man?"
"I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your Worship," observed 
the officer, with a grin. "Do you mean to say anything, you young shaver?"
"No," replied the Dodger, "not here, for this ain't the shop for justice; 
besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning with the wice-
president of the House of Commons; but I shall have something to say 
elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery numerous and 'spectable 
circle of acquaintance as'll make them beaks wish they'd never been born, 
or that they'd got their footmen to hang 'em up to their own hat-pegs, 
afore they let 'em come out this morning to try it on upon me. It'll -"
"There! He's fully committed!" interposed the clerk. "Take him away."
" Come on," said the jailer.
"Oh, ah! I'll come on," replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with the palm 
of his hand. "Ah! (to the Bench) it's no use your looking frightened; I 
won't show you no mercy, not a ha'porth of it. You'll pay for this, my fine 
fellers. I wouldn't be you for something! I wouldn't go free, now, if you 
was to fall down on your knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! 
Take me away!"
With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off by the 
collar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a parliamentary 
business of it; and then grinning in the officer's face, with great glee 
and self-approval.
Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made the best 
of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting here some 
time, he was joined by that young gentleman, who had prudently abstained 
from showing himself until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug 
retreat, and ascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any 
impertinent person.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating news 
that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and establishing 
for himself a glorious reputation.



Chapter 44

The Time Arrives For Nancy To Redeem Her Pledge To Rose Maylie - She Fails.

Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl 
Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step 
she had taken, worked upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty 
Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been hidden 
from all others, in the full confidence that she was trustworthy and beyond 
the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were, desperate as were 
their originators, and bitter as were her feelings towards Fagin, who had 
led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and 
misery, whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards 
him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him within 
the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at last - richly 
as he merited such a fate - by her hand.
But these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach itself 
from old companions and associations though enabled to fix itself steadily 
on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any consideration. 
Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful inducements to recoil 
while there was yet time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be 
rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, 
she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and 
wretchedness that encompassed her- and what more could she do! She was 
resolved.
Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced 
themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew 
pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what 
was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once she would 
have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and 
was noisy without cause or meaning. At others - often within a moment 
afterwards - she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head upon her 
hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself, told, more 
forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at ease, and that 
her thoughts were occupied with matters very different and distant from 
those in course of discussion by her companions.
It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour. 
Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked 
up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
"An hour this side of midnight," said Sikes, raising the blind to look out 
and returning to his seat. "Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for 
business this."
"Ah!" replied Fagin. "What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there's none quite 
ready to be done."
"You're right for once," replied Sikes gruffly. "It is a pity, for I'm in 
the humour too."
Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
"We must make up for lost time when we've got things into a good train. 
That's all I know," said Sikes.
"That's the way to talk, my dear," replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on 
the shoulder. "It does me good to hear
you."
"Does you good, does it!" cried Sikes. "Well, so be it."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this 
concession. "You're like yourself tonight, Bill! Quite like yourself."
"I don't feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my 
shoulder, so take it away," said Sikes, casting off the Jew's hand.
"It makes you nervous, Bill - reminds you of being nabbed, does it?" said 
Fagin, determined not to be offended.
"Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil," returned Sikes. "There never was 
another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and I 
suppose he is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time, unless you came 
straight from the old un without any father at all betwixt you; which I 
shouldn't wonder at, a bit."
Fagin offered no reply to this compliment; but, pulling Sikes by the 
sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the 
foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.
"Hallo!" cried Sikes. "Nance. Where's the gal going to at this time of 
night?"
"Not far."
"What answer's that?" returned Sikes. "Where are you going?"
"I say, not far."
"And I say where?" retorted Sikes. "Do you hear me?"
"I don't know where," replied the girl.
"Then I do," said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he 
had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. "Nowhere. Sit 
down."
"I'm not well. I told you that before," rejoined the girl. "I want a breath 
of air."
"Put your head out of the winder," replied Sikes.
"There's not enough there," said the girl. "I want it in the street."
"Then you won't have it," replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose, 
locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head, 
flung it up to the top of an old press. "There," said the robber. "Now stop 
quietly where you are, will you?"
"It's not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me," said the girl, turning 
very pale. "What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you're doing?"
"Know what I'm Oh!" cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, "she's out of her 
senses, you know, or she daren't talk to me in that way."
"You'll drive me on to something desperate," muttered the girl, placing 
both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent 
outbreak. "Let me go, will you- this minute- this instant."
"No!" said Sikes.
"Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It'll be better for him. Do 
you hear me?" cried Nancy, stamping her foot upon the ground.
"Hear you!" repeated Sikes, turning round in his chair to confront her. 
"Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such a 
grip on your throat as'll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has 
come over you, you jade! Wot is it?"
"Let me go," said the girl, with great earnestness; then sitting herself 
down on the floor, before the door, she said, "Bill, let me go; you don't 
know what you are doing. You don't, indeed. For only one hour - do - do!"
"Cut my limbs off one by one!" cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the arm, 
"if I don't think the gal's stark raving mad. Get up."
"Not till you let me go - not till you let me go; never - never!" screamed 
the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his opportunity, and 
suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and wrestling with him 
by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat himself on a bench, 
and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by force. She struggled and 
implored by turns until twelve o'clock had struck, and then, wearied and 
exhausted, ceased to contest the point any further.
With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to go out 
that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined Fagin.
"Whew!" said the housebreaker, wiping the perspiration from his face. "Wot 
a precious strange gal that is!"
"You may say that, Bill," replied Fagin thoughtfully. "You may say that."
"Wot did she take it into her head to go out tonight for, do you think?" 
asked Sikes. "Come: you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?"
"Obstinacy; woman's obstinacy, I suppose, my dear."
"Well, I suppose it is," growled Sikes. "I thought I had tamed her, but 
she's as bad as ever."
"Worse," said Fagin thoughtfully. "I never knew her like this, for such a 
little cause."
"Nor I," said Sikes. "I think she's got a touch of that fever in her blood 
yet, and it won't come out - eh?"
"Like enough."
"I'll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she's took 
that way again," said Sikes.
Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.
"She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on 
my back; and you, like a black-hearted wolf as you are, kept yourself 
aloof," said Sikes. "We was very poor too, all the time, and I think, one 
way or other, it's worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so 
long has made her restless - eh?"
"That's it, my dear," replied the Jew, in a whisper. "Hush!"
As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her former 
seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro; tossed 
her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing.
"Why, now she's on the other tack!" exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of 
excessive surprise on his companion.
Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few 
minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes 
that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade him 
good-night. He paused when he reached the room door, and looking round, 
asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.
"Light him down," said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. "It's a pity he 
should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a 
light."
Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached the 
passage, he laid his finger on his lips, and drawing close to the girl, 
said, in a whisper:
"What is it, Nancy, dear?"
"What do you mean?" replied the girl, in the same tone.
"The reason of all this," replied Fagin. "If he" - he pointed with his 
skinny forefinger up the stairs -"is so hard with you (he's a brute, Nance, 
a brute-beast), why don't you -"
"Well?" said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her 
ear, and his eyes looking into hers.
"No matter just now," said Fagin. "We'll talk of this again. You have a 
friend in me, Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and 
close. If you want revenge on those that treat you like a dog - like a dog! 
worse than his dog, for he humours him sometimes - come to me. I say, come 
to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance."
"I know you well," replied the girl, without manifesting the least emotion. 
"Good-night."
She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said good-
night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with a nod 
of intelligence, closed the door between them.
Fagin walked towards his own home, intent upon the thoughts that were 
working within his brain. He had conceived the idea - not from what had 
just passed, though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by 
degrees- that Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker's brutality, had conceived 
an attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated 
absences from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of 
the gang for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her 
desperate impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all 
favoured the supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter 
of certainty. The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He 
would be a valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must 
(thus Fagin argued) be secured without delay.
There was another, and a darker, object to be gained. Sikes knew too much, 
and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds 
were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she could 
never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked - to the 
maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life - on the object of her more 
recent fancy. "With a little persuasion," thought Fagin, "what more likely 
than that she would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and 
worse, to secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous 
villain - the man I hate - gone; another secured in his place; and my 
influence over the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, 
unlimited."
These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he sat 
alone, in the housebreaker's room; and with them uppermost in his thoughts, 
he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of sounding the girl 
in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was no expression of 
surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his meaning. The girl 
clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed that.
But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and 
that was one of the chief ends to be attained. "How," thought Fagin, as he 
crept homewards, "can I increase my influence with her? what new power can 
I acquire?"
Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession 
from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered regard, 
and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she stood in 
no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not secure 
her compliance?"
"I can," said Fagin, almost aloud. "She durst not refuse me then. Not for 
her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall 
be set to work. I shall have you yet!"
He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards the 
spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way, busying his 
bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he wrenched tightly 
in his grasp as though there were a hated enemy crushed with every motion 
of his fingers.



Chapter 45

Noah Claypole Is Employed By Fagin On A Secret Mission.

The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the 
appearance of his new associate, who, after a delay that seemed 
interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious 
assault on the breakfast
"Bolter," said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite 
Morris Bolter.
"Well, here I am," returned Noah. "What's the matter? Don't yer ask me to 
do anything till I have done eating. That's a great fault in this place. 
Yer never get time enough over yer meals."
"You can talk as you eat, can't you?" said Fagin, cursing his dear young 
friend's greediness from the very bottom of his heart.
"Oh, yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk," said Noah, cutting a 
monstrous slice of bread. "Where's Charlotte?"
"Out," said Fagin. "I sent her out this morning with the other young women, 
because I wanted us to be alone."
"Oh!" said Noah. "I wish yer'd ordered her to make some buttered toast 
first. Well. Talk away. Yer won't interrupt me."
There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he had 
evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of business.
"You did well yesterday, my dear," said Fagin. "Beautiful! Six shillings 
and nine-pence-halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a 
fortune to you."
"Don't you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can," said Mr. Bolter.
"No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius; but the milk-
can was a perfect masterpiece."
"Pretty well, I think, for a beginner," remarked Mr. Bolter complacently. 
"The pots I took off airy railings, and the milkcan was standing by itself 
outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain, or 
catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!"
Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh 
out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread-
and-butter, and assisted himself to a second.
"I want you, Bolter," said Fagin, leaning over the table, "to do a piece of 
work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution."
"I say," rejoined Bolter, "don't yer go shoving me into danger, or sending 
me to any more o' yer police-offices. That don't suit me, that don't; and 
so I tell yer."
"There's not the smallest danger in it - not the very smallest," said the 
Jew; "it's only to dodge a woman."
"An old woman?" demanded Mr. Bolter.
"A young one," replied Fagin.
"I can do that pretty well, I know," said Bolter. "I was a regular cunning 
sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to -"
"Not to anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if 
possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the 
house, if it is a house; and to bring back all the information you can."
"What'll yer give me?" asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his 
employer eagerly in the face.
"If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound," said Fagin, wishing to 
interest him in the scent as much as possible. "And that's what I never 
gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn't valuable consideration to 
be gained."
"Who is she?" inquired Noah.
"One of us."
"Oh, Lor!" cried Noah, curling up his nose. "Yer doubtful of her, are yer?"
"She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they 
are," replied Fagin.
"I see," said Noah. "Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they're 
respectable people, eh? Ha! ha I ha! I'm your man."
"I knew you would be," cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
"Of course, of course," replied Noah. "Where is she? Where am I to wait for 
her? Where am I to go?"
"All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I'll point her out at the 
proper time," said Fagin. "You keep ready, and leave the rest to me."
That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and 
equipped in his carter's dress, ready to turn out at a word from Fagin. Six 
nights passed - six long, weary nights - and at each, Fagin came home with 
a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not yet time. On the 
seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he could not conceal. 
It was Sunday.
"She goes abroad tonight," said Fagin, "and on the right errand, I'm sure; 
for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of, will not be 
back much before daybreak. Come with me, Quick."
Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such 
intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily, 
and, hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a 
public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on 
the night of his arrival in London.
It was past eleven o'clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on 
its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and 
the door was closed behind them.
Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words, Fagin, 
and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of glass to 
Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the adjoining 
room. "Is that the woman?" he asked, scarcely above his breath.
Fagin nodded yes.
"I can't see her face well," whispered Noah. "She is looking down, and the 
candle is behind her."
"Stay here," whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an 
instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of 
snuffling the candle, moved it, in the required position, and, speaking to 
the girl, caused her to raise her face.
"I see her now," cried the spy.
"Plainly?"
"I should know her among a thousand."
He hastily descended, as the room door opened, and the girl came out. Fagin 
drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they held 
their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of 
concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.
"Hist!" cried the lad, who held the door. "Dow."
Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.
"To the left," whispered the lad; "take the left had, and keep on the other 
side."
He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl's retreating 
figure, already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he 
considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the better 
to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or thrice, and 
once stopped to let two men who were following close behind her, pass on. 
She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to walk with a steadier 
and firmer step. The spy preserved the same relative distance between them, 
and followed, with his eye upon her.



Chapter 46

The Appointment Kept.

The church clocks chimed three quarters past eleven, as two figures emerged 
on London Bridge. One, which advanced with a swift and rapid step, was that 
of a woman who looked eagerly about her as though in quest of some expected 
object; the other figure was that of a man, who slunk along in the deepest 
shadow he could find, and, at some distance, accommodated his pace to hers -
 stopping when she stopped, and, as she moved again, creeping stealthily on 
- but never allowing himself, in the ardour of his pursuit, to gain upon 
her footsteps. Thus, they crossed the bridge, from the Middlesex to the 
Surrey shore, when the woman, apparently disappointed in her anxious 
scrutiny of the foot-passengers, turned back. The movement was sudden; but 
he who watched her; was not thrown off his guard by it; for, shrinking into 
one of the recesses which surmount the piers of the bridge, and leaning 
over the parapet the better to conceal his figure, he suffered her to pass 
by on the opposite pavement. When she was about the same distance in 
advance as she had been before, he slipped quietly down, and followed her 
again. At nearly the centre of the bridge, she stopped. The man stopped 
too.
It was a very dark night. The day had been unfavourable, and at that hour 
and place there were few people stirring. Such as there were, hurried 
quickly past; very possibly without seeing, but certainly without noticing, 
either the woman, or the man who kept her in view. Their appearance was not 
calculated to attract the importunate regards of such of London's destitute 
population, as chanced to take their way over the bridge that night in 
search of some cold arch or doorless hovel wherein to lay their heads; they 
stood there in silence, neither speaking nor spoken, by any one who passed.
A mist hung over the river, deepening the red glare of the fires that 
burned upon the small craft moored off the different wharves, and rendering 
darker and more indistinct the murky buildings on the banks. The old smoke-
stained storehouses on either side, rose heavy and dull from the dense mass 
of roofs and gables, and frowned sternly upon water too black to reflect 
even their lumbering shapes. The tower of old St. Saviour's Church, and the 
spire of St. Magnus, so long the giant-warders of the ancient bridge, were 
visible in the gloom; but the forest of shipping below bridge, and the 
thickly scattered spires of churches above were nearly all hidden from the 
sight.
The girl had taken a few restless turns to and fro - closely watched 
meanwhile by her hidden observer - when the heavy bell of St. Paul's tolled 
for the death of another day. Midnight had come upon the crowded city. The 
palace, the night-cellar, the jail, the madhouse; the chambers of birth and 
death, of health and sickness, the rigid face of the corpse and the calm 
sleep of the child; midnight was upon them all.
The hour had not struck two minutes, when a young lady, accompanied by a 
grey-haired gentleman, alighted from a hackney-carriage within a short 
distance of the bridge, and, having dismissed the vehicle, walked straight 
towards it. They had scarcely set foot upon its pavement, when the girl 
started, and immediately made towards them.
They walked onward, looking about them with the air of persons who 
entertained some very slight expectation which had little chance of being 
realised, when they were suddenly joined by this new associate. They halted 
with an exclamation of surprise, but suppressed it immediately; for a man 
in the garments of a countryman came close up - brushed against them indeed 
- at that precise moment.
"Not here," said Nancy hurriedly; "I am afraid to speak to you here. Come 
away - out of the public road - down the steps yonder!"
As she uttered these words, and indicated, with her hand, the direction in 
which she wished them to proceed, the countryman looked round, and roughly 
asking what they took up the whole pavement for, passed on.
The steps to which the girl had pointed, were those which, on the Surrey 
bank, and on the same side of the bridge as St. Saviour's Church, form a 
landing-stairs from the river. To this spot, the man bearing the appearance 
of a countryman, hastened unobserved; and, after a moment's survey of the 
place, he began to descend.
These stairs are a part of the bridge; they consist of three flights. Just 
below the end of the second, going down, the stone wall on the left 
terminates in an ornamental pilaster facing towards the Thames. At this 
point the lower steps widen; so that a person turning that angle of the 
wall, is necessarily unseen by any others on the stairs who chance to be 
above him, if only a step. The countryman looked hastily round, when he 
reached this point; and, as there seemed no better place of concealment, 
and the tide being out, there was plenty of room, he slipped aside, with 
his back to the pilaster, and there waited; pretty certain that they would 
come no lower, and that even if he could not hear what was said, he could 
follow them again, with safety.
So tardily stole the time in this lonely place, and so eager was the spy to 
penetrate the motives of an interview so different from what he had been 
led to expect, that he more than once gave the matter up for lost, and 
persuaded himself, either that they had stopped far above, or had resorted 
to some entirely different spot to hold their mysterious conversation. He 
was on the point of emerging from his hiding-place, and regaining the road 
above, when he heard the sound of footsteps, and directly afterwards of 
voices almost close to his ear.
He drew himself straight upright against the wall, and, scarcely breathing, 
listened attentively.
"This is far enough," said a voice, which was evidently that of a 
gentleman. "I will not suffer the young lady to go any further. Many people 
would have distrusted you too much to have come even so far, but you see I 
am willing to humour you."
"To humour me!" cried the voice of the girl whom he had followed. "You're 
considerate, indeed, sir. To humour me! Well, well, it's no matter."
"Why, for what," said the gentleman in a kinder tone, "for what purpose can 
you have brought us to this strange place? Why not have let me speak to 
you, above there, where it is light, and there is something stirring, 
instead of bringing us to this dark and dismal hole?"
"I told you before," replied Nancy, "that I was afraid to speak to you 
there. I don't know why it is," said the girl, shuddering, "but I have such 
a fear and dread upon me tonight that I can hardly stand."
"A fear of what?" asked the gentleman, who seemed to pity her.
"I scarcely know what," replied the girl. "I wish I did. Horrible thoughts 
of death, and shrouds with blood upon them, and a fear that has made me 
burn as if I was on fire, have been upon me all day. I was reading a book 
tonight, to wile the time away, and the same things came into the print."
"Imagination," said the gentleman, soothing her.
"No imagination," replied the girl, in a hoarse voice. "I'll swear I saw ' 
coffin ' written in every page of the book in large black letters - aye, 
and they carried one close to me, in the streets tonight."
"There is nothing unusual in that," said the gentleman. "They have passed 
me often."
"Real ones," rejoined the girl. "This was not."
There was something so uncommon in her manner, that the flesh of the 
concealed listener crept as he heard the girl utter these words, and the 
blood chilled within him. He had never experienced a greater relief than in 
hearing the sweet voice of the young lady as she begged her to be calm, and 
not allow herself to become the prey of such fearful fancies.
"Speak to her kindly," said the young lady to her companion. "Poor 
creature! She seems to need it."
"Your haughty religious people would have held their heads up to see me as 
I am tonight, and preached of flames and vengeance," cried the girl. "Oh, 
dear lady, why ar'n't those who claim to be God's own folks as gentle and 
as kind to us poor wretches as you, who, having youth, and beauty, and all 
that they have lost, might be a little proud instead of so much humbler."
'"Ah!" said the gentleman. "A Turk turns his face, after washing it well, 
to the east, when he says his prayers; these good people, after giving 
their faces such a rub against the world as to take the smiles off, turn 
with no less regularity to the darkest side of heaven. Between the 
Mussulman and the Pharisee, commend me to the first."
These words appeared to be addressed to the young lady, and were perhaps 
uttered with the view of affording Nancy time to recover herself. The 
gentleman, shortly afterwards, addressed himself to her.
"You were not here last Sunday night," he said.
"I couldn't come," replied Nancy; "I was kept by force."
"By whom?"
"Him that I told the young lady of before."
"You were not suspected of holding any communication with anybody on the 
subject which has brought us here tonight, I hope?" asked the old 
gentleman.
"No," replied the girl, shaking her head. "It's not very easy for me to 
leave him unless he knows why; I couldn't have seen the lady when I did, 
but that I gave him a drink of laudanum before I came away."
"Did he awake before you returned?" inquired the gentleman.
"No; and neither he nor any of them suspect me."
"Good," said the gentleman. "Now listen to me."
"I am ready," replied the girl, as he paused for a moment.
"This young lady," the gentleman began, "has communicated to me, and to 
some other friends who can be safely trusted, what you told her nearly a 
fortnight since. I confess to you that I had doubts, at first, whether you 
were to be implicitly relied upon, but now I firmly believe you are."
"I am," replied the girl earnestly.
"I repeat that I firmly believe it. To prove to you that I am disposed to 
trust you, I tell you without reserve, that we propose to extort the 
secret, whatever it may be, from the fears of this man Monks. But if - if," 
said the gentleman, "he cannot be secured, or, if secured, cannot be acted 
upon as we wish, you must deliver.up the Jew."
"Fagin," cried the girl, recoiling.
"That man must be delivered up by you," said the gentleman.
"I will not do it! I will never do it!" replied the girl. "Devil that he 
is, and worse than devil as he has been to me, I will never do that."
"You will not?" said the gentleman, who seemed fully prepared for this 
answer.
"Never!" returned the girl.
"Tell me why?"
"For one reason," rejoined the girl firmly - "for one reason, that the lady 
knows and will stand by me in, I know she will, for I have her promise; and 
for this other reason, besides, that, bad life as he has led, I have led a 
bad life too; there are many of us who have kept the same courses together, 
and I'll not turn upon them, who might - any of them - have turned upon me 
but didn't, bad as they are."
"Then," said the gentleman quickly, as if this had been the point that he 
had been aiming to attain, "put Monks into my hands, and leave him to me to 
deal with."
"What if he turned against the others?"
"I promise you that in that case, if the truth is forced from him, there 
the matter will rest; there must be circumstances in Oliver's little 
history which it would be painful to drag before the public eye, and if the 
truth is once elicited, they shall go scot-free."
"And if it is not?" suggested the girl.
"Then," pursued the gentleman, "this Fagin shall not be brought to justice 
without your consent. In such a case I could show you reasons, I think, 
which would induce you to yield it."
"Have I the lady's promise for that?" asked the girl.
"You have," replied Rose. "My true and faithful pledge."
"Monks would never learn how you know what you do?" said the girl, after a 
short pause.
"Never," replied the gentleman. "The intelligence should be so brought to 
bear upon him, that he could never even guess."
"I have been a liar, and among liars from a little child," said the girl, 
after another interval of silence, "but I will take your words."
After receiving an assurance from both, that she might safely do so, she 
proceeded in a voice so low that it was often difficult for the listener to 
discover even the import of what she said, to describe, by name and 
situation, the public-house whence she had been followed that night. From 
the manner in which she occasionally paused, it appeared as if the 
gentleman were making some hasty notes of the information she communicated. 
When she had thoroughly explained the localities of the place, the best 
position from which to watch it without exciting observation, and the night 
and hour on which Monks was most in the habit of frequenting it, she seemed 
to consider for a few moments, for the purpose of recalling his features 
and appearance more forcibly to her recollection.
"He is tall," said the girl, "and a strongly-made man, but not stout; he 
has a lurking walk; and as he walks, constantly looks over his shoulder, 
first on one side, and then on the other. Don't forget that, for his eyes 
are sunk in his head so much deeper than any other man's, that you might 
almost tell him by that alone. His face is dark, like his hair and eyes; 
and, although he can't be more than six or eight-and-twenty, withered and 
haggard. His lips are often discoloured and disfigured with the marks of 
teeth; for he has desperate fits, and sometimes even bites his hands and 
covers them with wounds. - Why did you start?" said the girl, stopping 
suddenly.
The gentleman replied, in a hurried manner, that he was not conscious of 
having done so, and begged her to proceed.
"Part of this," said the girl, "I've drawn out from other people at the 
house I tell you of, for I have only seen him twice, and both times he was 
covered up in a large cloak. I think that's all I can give you to know him 
by. Stay, though," she added. "Upon his throat, so high that you can see a 
part of it below his neckerchief when he turns his face, there is -"
"A broad red mark, like a burn or scald?" cried the gentleman.
"How's this?" said the girl. "You know him!"
The young lady uttered a cry of surprise, and for a few moments they were 
so still that the listener could distinctly hear them breathe.
"I think I do," said the gentleman, breaking silence. "I should by your 
description. We shall see. Many people are singularly like each other. It 
may not be the same."
As he expressed himself to this effect, with assumed carelessness, he took 
a step or two nearer the concealed spy, as the latter could tell from the 
distinctness with which he heard him mutter, "It must be he!"
"Now," he said, returning, so it seemed by the sound, to the spot where he 
had stood before, "you have given us most valuable assistance, young woman, 
and I wish you to be the better for it. What can I do to serve you?"
"Nothing," replied Nancy.
"You will not persist in saying that," rejoined the gentleman, with a voice 
and emphasis of kindness that might have touched a much harder and more 
obdurate heart. "Think now. Tell me."
"Nothing, sir," rejoined the girl, weeping. "You can do nothing to help me. 
I am past all hope, indeed."
"You put yourself beyond its pale," said the gentleman. "The past has been 
a dreary waste with you, of youthful energies misspent, and such priceless 
treasures lavished, as the Creator bestows but once and never grants again; 
but, for the future, you may hope. I do not say that it is in our power to 
offer you peace of heart and mind, for that must come as you seek it; but a 
quiet asylum, either in England, or, if you fear to remain here, in some 
foreign country, it is not only within the compass of our ability but our 
most anxious wish to secure you. Before the dawn of morning, before this 
river wakes to the first glimpse of daylight, you shall be placed as 
entirely beyond the reach of your former associates, and leave as utter an 
absence of all trace behind you, as if you were to disappear from the earth 
this moment. Come! I would not have you go back to exchange one word with 
any old companion or take one look at any old haunt, or breathe the very 
air which is pestilence and death to you. Quit them all, while there is 
time and opportunity!"
"She will be persuaded now," cried the young lady. "She hesitates, I am 
sure."
"I fear not, my dear," said the gentleman.
"No, sir, I do not," replied the girl, after a short struggle. "I am 
chained to my old life. I loathe and hate it now, but I cannot leave it. I 
must have gone too far to turn back- and yet I don't know, for if you had 
spoken to me so, some time ago, I should have laughed it off. But," she 
said, looking hastily round, "this fear comes over me again. I must go 
home."
"Home!" repeated the young lady, with great stress upon the word.
"Home, lady," rejoined the girl. "To such a home as I have raised for 
myself with the work of my whole life. Let us part. I shall be watched or 
seen. Go! Go! If I have done you any service, all I ask is, that you leave 
me, and let me go my way alone."
"It is useless," said the gentleman, with a sigh. "We compromise her 
safety, perhaps, by staying here. We may have detained her longer than she 
expected already."
"Yes, yes," urged the girl. "You have."
"What," cried the young lady, "can be the end of this poor creature's 
life!"
"What!" repeated the girl. "Look before you, lady. Look at that dark water. 
How many times do you read of such as I who spring into the tide, and leave 
no living thing, to care for, or bewail them. It may be years hence, or it 
may be only months, but I shall come to that at last."
"Do not speak thus, pray," returned the young lady, sobbing.
"It will never reach your ears, dear lady, and God forbid such horrors 
should!" replied the girl. "Good-night, good-night!";
The gentleman turned away.
"This purse," cried the young lady. "Take it for my sake, that you may have 
some resource in an hour of need and trouble."
"No!" replied the girl. "I have not done this for money. Let me have that 
to think of. And yet - give me something that you have worn - I should like 
to have something - no, no, not a ring - your gloves or handkerchief-
anything that I can keep, as having belonged to you, sweet lady. There. 
Bless you! God bless you. Good-night, good-night!"
The violent agitation of the girl, and the apprehension of some discovery 
which would subject her to ill - usage and violence, seemed to determine 
the gentleman to leave her, as she requested. The sound of retreating 
footsteps were audible and the voices ceased.
The two figures of the young lady and her companion soon afterwards 
appeared upon the bridge. They stopped at the summit of the stairs.
"Hark!" cried the young lady, listening. "Did she call! thought I heard her 
voice."
"No, my love," replied Mr. Brownlow, looking sadly back. "She has not 
moved, and will not till we are gone."
Rose Maylie lingered, but the old gentleman drew her arm through his, and 
led her, with gentle force, away. As they disappeared, the girl sank down 
nearly at her full length upon one of the stone stairs, and vented the 
anguish of her heart in bitter tears.
After a time she arose, and, with feeble and tottering steps, ascended to 
the street. The astonished listener remained motionless on his post for 
some minutes afterwards, and having ascertained, with many cautious glances 
round him, that he was again alone, crept slowly from his hiding-place, and 
returned, stealthily and in the shade of the wall, in the same manner as he 
had descended.
Peeping out, more than once, when he reached the top, to make sure that he 
was unobserved, Noah Claypole darted away at his utmost speed, and made for 
the Jew's house as fast as his legs would carry him.


Chapter 47

Fatal Consequences.

It was nearly two hours before daybreak; that time which in the autumn of 
the year may be truly called the dead of night; when the streets are silent 
and deserted; when even sounds appear to slumber, and profligacy and riot 
have staggered home to dream; it was at this still and silent hour, that 
Fagin sat watching in his old lair, with face so distorted and pale, and 
eyes so red and bloodshot, that he looked less like a man, than like some 
hideous phantom, moist from the grave, and worried by an evil spirit.
He sat crouching over a cold hearth; wrapped in an old torn coverlet, with 
his face turned towards a wasting candle that stood upon a table by his 
side. His right hand was raised to his lips, and as, absorbed in thought, 
he bit his long black nails, he disclosed among his toothless gums a few 
such fangs as should have been a dog's or rat's.
Stretched upon a mattress on the floor, lay Noah Claypole, fast asleep. 
Towards him the old man sometimes directed his eyes for an instant, and 
then brought them back again to the candle; which was a long-burnt wick 
drooping almost double, and hot grease falling down in clots upon the 
table, plainly showed that his thoughts were busy elsewhere.
Indeed they were. Mortification at the overthrow of his notable scheme; 
hatred of the girl who had dared to palter with strangers; an utter 
distrust of the sincerity of her refusal to yield him up; bitter 
disappointment at the loss of his revenge on Sikes; the fear of detection, 
and ruin, and death; and a fierce and deadly rage kindled by all; these 
were the passionate considerations which, following close upon each other 
with rapid and ceaseless whirl, shot through the brain of Fagin, as every 
evil thought and blackest purpose lay working at his heart.
He sat without changing his attitude in the least, or appearing to take the 
smallest heed of time, until his quick ear seemed to be attracted by a 
footstep in the street.
"At last," he muttered, wiping his dry and fevered mouth. "At last!"
The bell rang gently as he spoke. He crept upstairs to the door, and 
presently returned accompanied by a man muffled to the chin, who carried a 
bundle under one arm. Sitting down and throwing back his outer coat, the 
man displayed the burly frame of Sikes.
"There!" he said, laying the bundle on the table. "Take care of that, and 
do the most you can with it. It's been trouble enough to get: I thought I 
should have been here three hours ago."
Fagin laid his hand upon the bundle, and locking it in the cupboard, sat 
down again without speaking. But he did not take his eyes off the robber, 
for an instant, during this action; and now that they sat over against each 
other, face to face, he looked fixedly at him, with his lips quivering so 
violently, and his face so altered by the emotions which had mastered him, 
that the housebreaker involuntarily drew back his chair, and surveyed him 
with a look of real affright.
"Wot now?" cried Sikes. "Wot do you look at a man so for?"
Fagin raised his right hand, and shook his trembling forefinger in the air; 
but his passion was so great, that the power of speech was for the moment 
gone.
"Damme!" said Sikes, feeling in his breast with a look of alarm. "He's gone 
mad. I must look to myself here."
"No, no," rejoined Fagin, finding his voice. "It's not - You're not the 
person, Bill. I've no - no fault to find with you."
"Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" said Sikes, looking sternly at him, and 
ostentatiously passing a pistol into a more convenient pocket. "That's 
lucky - for one of us. Which one that is, don't matter."
"I've got that to tell you, Bill," said Fagin, drawing his chair nearer, 
"will make you worse than me."
"Aye?" returned the robber, with an incredulous air. "Tell away! Look 
sharp, or Nance will think I'm lost."
"Lost!" cried Fagin. "She has pretty well settled that, in her own mind, 
already."
Sikes looked with an aspect of great perplexity into the Jew's face, and 
reading no satisfactory explanation of the riddle there, clenched his coat 
collar in his huge hand and shook him soundly.
"Speak, will you!" he said; "or if you won't, it shall be for want of 
breath. Open your mouth and say wot you've got to say in plain words Out 
with it, you thundering old cur, out with it!"
"Suppose that lad that's lying there -" Fagin began.
Sikes turned round to where Noah was sleeping, as if he had not previously 
observed him. "Well?" he said, resuming his former position.
"Suppose that lad," pursued Fagin, "was to peach - to blow upon us all - 
first seeking out the right folks for the purpose, and then having a 
meeting with 'em in the street to paint our likenesses, describe every mark 
that they might know us by, and the crib where we might be most easily 
taken. Suppose he was to do all this, and besides to blow upon a plant 
we've all been in, more or less - of his own fancy; not grabbed, trapped, 
tried, ear-wigged by the parson and brought to it on bread and water - but 
of his own fancy; to please his own taste; stealing out at nights to find 
those most interested against us, and peaching to them. Do you hear me?" 
cried the Jew, his eyes flashing with rage. "Suppose he did all this, what 
then?"
"What then!" replied Sikes, with a tremendous oath. "If he was left alive 
till I came, I'd grind his skull under the iron heel of my boot into as 
many grains as there are hairs upon his head."
"What if I did it!" cried Fagin, almost in a yell. "I, that know so much, 
and could hang so many besides myself!"
"I don't know," replied Sikes, clenching his teeth, and turning white at 
the mere suggestion. "I'd do something in the jail that 'ud get me put in 
irons; and if I was tried along with you, I'd fall upon you with them in 
the open court, and beat your brains out afore the people. I should have 
such strength," muttered the robber, poising his brawny arm, "that I could 
smash your head as if a loaded wagon had gone over it."
"You would?"
"Would I!" said the housebreaker. "Try me."
"If it was Charley, or the Dodger, or Bet, or -"
"I don't care who," replied Sikes impatiently. "Whoever it was, I'd serve 
them the same."
Fagin looked hard at the robber; and, motioning him to be silent, stooped 
over the bed upon the floor, and shook the sleeper to rouse him. Sikes 
leaned forward in his chair, looking on with his hands upon his knees, as 
if wondering much what all this questioning and preparation was to end in.
"Bolter, Bolter! Poor lad!" said Fagin, looking up with an expression of 
devilish anticipation, and speaking slowly and with marked emphasis. "He's 
tired - tired with watching for her so long - watching for her, Bill."
"Wot d'ye mean?" asked Sikes, drawing back.
Fagin made no answer, but bending over the sleeper again, hauled him into a 
sitting posture. When his assumed name had been repeated several time, Noah 
rubbed his eyes, and, giving a heavy yawn, looked sleepily about him.
"Tell me that again - once again, just for him to hear," said the Jew, 
pointing to Sikes as he spoke.
"Tell yer what?" asked the sleepy Noah, shaking himself pettishly.
"That about - NANCY," said Fagin, clutching Sikes by the wrist, as if to 
prevent his leaving the house before he had heard enough. "You followed 
her?"
"Yes."
"To London Bridge?"
"Yes."
"Where she met two people?"
"So she did."
"A gentleman and a lady that she had gone to of her own accord before, who 
asked her to give up all her pals, and Monks first, which she did- and to 
describe him, which she did- and to tell her what house it was that we meet 
at, and go to, which she did- and where it could be best watched from, 
which she did- and what time the people went there, which she did. She did 
all this. She told it all every word without a threat, without a murmur - 
she did - did she not?" cried Fagin, half-mad with fury.
"All right," replied Noah, scratching his head. "That's just what it was!"
"What did they say about last Sunday?"
"About last Sunday!" replied Noah, considering. "Why, I told yer that 
before."
"Again. Tell it again!" cried Fagin, tightening his grasp on Sikes, and 
brandishing his other hand aloft, as the foam flew from his lips.
"They asked her," said Noah, who, as he grew more wakeful, seemed to have a 
dawning perception who Sikes was - "they asked her why she didn't come last 
Sunday, as she promised. She said she couldn't."
"Why - why?" Tell him that."
"Because she was forcibly kept at home by Bill, the man she had told them 
of before, replied Noah.
"What more of him?" cried Fagin. "What more of the man she had told them of 
before? Tell him that, tell him that."
"Why, that she couldn't very easily get out of doors unless he knew where 
she was going to," said Noah; "and so the first time she went to see the 
lady, she - ha! ha! ha! it made me laugh when she said it, that it did - 
she gave him a drink of laudanum."
"Hell's fire!" cried Sikes, breaking fiercely from Fagin. "Let me go!"
Flinging the old man from him, he rushed from the room, and darted, wildly 
and furiously, up the stairs.
"Bill, Bill!" cried Fagin, following him hastily. "A word. Only a word."
The word would not have been exchanged, but that the housebreaker was 
unable to open the door, on which he was expending fruitless oaths and 
violence, when the Jew came panting up.
"Let me out," said Sikes. "Don't speak to me; it's not safe. Let me out, I 
say!"
"Hear me speak a word," rejoined Fagin, laying his hand upon the lock. "You 
won't be -"
"Well," replied the other.
"You won't be - too - violent, Bill?"
The day was breaking, and there was light enough for the men to see each 
other's faces. They exchanged one brief glance; there was a fire in the 
eyes of both, which could not be mistaken. "I mean," said Fagin, showing 
that he felt all disguise was now useless, "not too violent for safety. Be 
crafty, Bill, and not too bold."
Sikes made no reply; but, pulling open the door, of which Fagin had turned 
the lock, dashed into the silent streets.
Without one pause, or moment's consideration, without once turning his head 
to the right or left, or raising his eyes to the sky, or lowering them to 
the ground, but looking straight before him with savage resolution, his 
teeth so tightly compressed that the strained jaw seemed starting through 
his skin, the robber held on his headlong course, nor muttered a word, nor 
relaxed a muscle, until he reached his own door. He opened it, softly, with 
a key; strode lightly up the stairs; and entering his own room, double-
locked the door, and lifting a heavy table against it, drew back the 
curtain of the bed.
The girl was lying, half-dressed, upon it. He had roused her from her 
sleep, for she raised herself with a hurried and startled look.
"Get up!" said the man.
"It is you, Bill!" said the girl, with an expression of pleasure at his 
return.
"It is," was the reply. "Get up."
There was a candle burning, but the man hastily drew it from the 
candlestick and hurled it under the grate. Seeing the faint light of early 
day without, the girl rose to undraw the curtain.
"Let it be," said Sikes, thrusting his hand before her. "There's light 
enough for wot I've got to do."
"Bill," said the girl, in the low voice of alarm, "why do you look like 
that at me?"
The robber sat regarding her for a few seconds, with dilated nostrils and 
heaving breast; and then, grasping her by the head and throat, dragged her 
into the middle of the room, and looking once towards the door, placed his 
heavy hand upon her mouth.
"Bill, Bill!" gasped the girl, wrestling with the strength of mortal fear; 
"I - won't scream or cry - not once - hear me - speak to me - tell me what 
I have done?"
"You know, you she-devil!" returned the robber, suppressing his breath. 
"You were watched tonight; every word you said was heard."
"Then spare my life for the love of Heaven, as I spared yours," rejoined 
the girl, clinging to him. "Bill, dear Bill, you cannot have the heart to 
kill me. Oh! think of all I have given up, only this one night, for you. 
You shall have time to think, and save yourself this crime; I will not 
loose my hold, you cannot throw me off. Bill, Bill, for dear God's sake, 
for your own, for mine, stop before you spill my blood! I have been true to 
you, upon my guilty soul I have!"
The man struggled violently to release his arms; but those of the girl were 
clasped round his, and tear her as he would, he could not tear them away.
"Bill," cried the girl, striving to lay her head upon his breast, "the 
gentleman and that dear lady, told me tonight of a home in some foreign 
country where I could end my days in solitude and peace. Let me see them 
again, and beg them, on my knees, to show the same mercy and goodness to 
you; and let us both leave this dreadful place, and far apart lead better 
lives, and forget how we have lived, except in prayers, and never see each 
other more. It is never too late to repent. They told me so - I feel it now 
- but we must have time - a little, little time!"
The housebreaker freed one arm, and grasped his pistol. The certainty of 
immediate detection if he fired, flashed across his mind even in the midst 
of his fury; and he beat it twice with all the force he could summon, upon 
the upturned face that almost touched his own.
She staggered and fell, nearly blinded with the blood that rained down from 
a deep gash in her forehead; but raising herself, with difficulty, on her 
knees, drew from her bosom a white handkerchief - Rose Maylie's own- and 
holding it up, in her folded hands, as high towards Heaven as her feeble 
strength would allow, breathed one prayer for mercy to her Maker.
It was a ghastly figure to look upon. The murderer, staggering backward to 
the wall, and shutting out the sight with his hand, seized a heavy club and 
struck her down.



Chapter 48

The Flight Of Sikes.

Of all bad deeds that, under cover of the darkness, had been committed 
within wide London's bounds since night hung over it, that was the worst. 
Of all the horrors that rose with an ill scent upon the morning air, that 
was the foulest and most cruel.
The sun - the bright sun, that brings back, not light alone, but new life, 
and hope, and freshness to man - burst upon the crowded city in clear and 
radiant glory. Through costly coloured glass and paper-mended window, 
through cathedral dome and rotten crevice, it shed its equal ray. It 
lighted up the room where the murdered woman lay. It did. He tried to shut 
it out, but it would stream in. If the sight had been a ghastly one in the 
dull morning, what was it now, in all that brilliant light!
He had not moved; he had been afraid to stir. There had been a moan and 
motion of the hand; and, with terror added to rage, he had struck and 
struck again. Once he threw a rug over it; but it was worse to fancy the 
eyes, and imagine them moving towards him, than to see them glaring upward, 
as if watching the reflection of the pool of gore that quivered and danced 
in the sunlight on the ceiling. He had plucked it off again. And there was 
the body - mere flesh and blood, no more - but such flesh, and so much 
blood!
He struck a light, kindled a fire, and thrust the club into it. There was 
hair upon the edge, which blazed and shrank into a light cinder, and, 
caught by the air, whirled up the chimney. Even that frightened him, sturdy 
as he was; but he held the weapon till it broke, and then piled it on the 
coals to burn away, and smoulder into ashes. He washed himself, and rubbed 
his clothes; there were spots that would not be removed, but he cut the 
pieces out, and burned them. How those stains were dispersed about the 
room! The very feet of the dog were bloody.
All this time he had, never once, turned his back upon the corpse; no, not 
for a moment. Such preparations completed, he moved, backward, towards the 
door, dragging the dog with him, lest he should soil his feet anew and 
carry out new evidences of the crime into the streets. He shut the door 
softly, locked it, took the key, and left the house.
He crossed over, and glanced up at the window, to be sure that nothing was 
visible from the outside. There was the curtain still drawn, which she 
would have opened to admit the light she never saw again. It lay nearly 
under there. He knew that. God, how the sun poured down upon the very spot!
The glance was instantaneous. It was a relief to have got free of the room. 
He whistled on the dog and walked rapidly away.
He went through Islington; strode up the hill at Highgate on which stands 
the stone in honour of Whittington; turned down to Highgate Hill, unsteady 
of purpose, and uncertain where to go; struck off to the right again, 
almost as soon as he began to descend it; and taking the footpath across 
the fields, skirted Caen Wood, and so came out on Hampstead Heath. 
Traversing the hollow by the Vale of Health, he mounted the opposite bank, 
and crossing the road which joins the villages of Hampstead and Highgate, 
made along the remaining portion of the heath to the fields at North End, 
in one of which he laid himself down under a hedge, and slept.
Soon he was up again, and away - not far into the country, but backwards 
towards London by the highroad - then back again - then over another part 
of the same ground as he already traversed - then wandering up and down in 
fields, and lying on ditches' brinks to rest, and starting up to make for 
some other spot, and do the same, and ramble on again.
Where could he go, that was near and not too public, to get some meat and 
drink? Hendon. That was a good place, not far off, and out of most people's 
way. Thither he directed his steps - running sometimes, and sometimes, with 
a strange perversity, loitering at a snail's pace, or stopping altogether 
and idly breaking the hedges with his stick. But when he got there, all the 
people he met - the very children at the doors - seemed to view him with 
suspicion. Back he turned again, without the courage to purchase bit or 
drop, though he had tasted no food for many hours; and once more he 
lingered on the heath uncertain where to go.
He wandered over miles and miles of ground, and still came back to the old 
place. Morning and noon had passed, and the day was on the wane, and still 
he rambled to and fro, and up and down, and round and round, and still 
lingered about the same spot. At last he got away, and shaped his course 
for Hatfield.
It was nine o'clock at night, when the man, quite tired out, and the dog, 
limping and lame from the unaccustomed exercise, turned down the hill by 
the church of the quiet village, and plodding along the little street, 
crept into a small public-house, whose scanty light had guided them to the 
spot. There was a fire in the taproom, and some country labourers were 
drinking before it. They made room for the stranger, but he sat down in the 
farthest corner, and ate and drank alone, or rather with his dog, to whom 
he cast a morsel of food from time to time.
The conversation of the men assembled here, turned upon the neighbouring 
land, and farmers; and when those topics were exhausted, upon the age of 
some old man who had been buried on the previous Sunday; the young men 
present considering him very old, and the old men present declaring him to 
have been quite young - not older, one white-haired grandfather said, than 
he was - with ten or fifteen year of life in him at least if he had taken 
care; if he had taken care.
There was nothing to attract attention, or excite alarm in this. The 
robber, after paying his reckoning, sat silent and unnoticed in the corner, 
and had almost dropped asleep, when he was half-awakened by the noisy 
entrance of a newcomer.
This was an antic fellow, half-pedlar and half-mountebank, who travelled 
about the country on foot to vend hones, strops, razors, wash-balls, 
harness-paste, medicine for dogs- and horses, cheap perfumery, cosmetics, 
and such like wares, which he carried in a case slung to his back. His 
entrance was the signal for various homely jokes with the countrymen, which 
slackened not until he had made his supper, and opened his box of 
treasures, when he ingeniously contrived to unite business with amusement.
"And what be that stoof? Good to eat, Harry?" asked a grinning countryman, 
pointing to some composition-cakes in one corner.
"This," said the fellow, producing one - "this is the infallible and 
invaluable composition for removing all sorts of stain, rust, dirt, mildew, 
spick, speck, spot, or spatter, from silk, satin, linen, cambric, cloth, 
crape, stuff, carpet, merino, muslin, bombazeen, or woollen stuff. Wine-
stains, fruit-stains, beer-stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-
stains, any stains, all come out at one rub with the infallible and 
invaluable composition. If a lady stains her honour, she has only need to 
swallow one cake and she's cured at once - for it's poison. If a gentleman 
wants to prove this, he has only need to bolt one little square, and he has 
put it beyond question - for it's quite as satisfactory as a pistol-bullet, 
and a great deal nastier in the flavour, consequently the more credit in 
taking it. One penny a square. With all these virtues, one penny a square!"
There were two buyers directly, and more of the listeners plainly 
hesitated. The vendor observing this, increased in loquacity.
"It's all bought up as fast as it can be made," said the fellow. "There are 
fourteen water-mills, six steam-engines, and a galvanic battery, always a-
working upon it, and they can't make it fast enough, though the men work so 
hard that they die off, and the widows is pensioned directly, with twenty 
pound a year for each of the children, and a premium of fifty for twins. 
One penny a square! Two halfpence is all the same, and four farthings is 
received with joy. One penny a square! Wine-stains, fruit-stains, beer-
stains, water-stains, paint-stains, pitch-stains, mud-stains, blood-stains! 
Here is a stain upon the hat of a gentleman in company, that I'll take 
clean out, before he can order me a pint of ale."
"Ah!" cried Sikes, starting up. "Give that back."
"I'll take it clean out, sir," replied the man, winking to the company, 
"before you can come across the room to get it. Gentlemen all, observe the 
dark stain upon this gentleman's hat, no wider than a shilling, but thicker 
than a half-crown. Whether it is a wine-stain, fruit-stain, beer-stain, 
water-stain, paint-stain' pitch-stain, mud-stain, or blood-stain."
The man got no further, for Sikes with a hideous imprecation overthrew the 
table, and tearing the hat from him, burst out of the house.
With the same perversity of feeling and irresolution that has fastened upon 
him, despite himself, all day, the murderer, finding that he was not 
followed, and that they most probably considered him some drunken, sullen 
fellow, turned back up the town, and getting out of the glare of the lamps 
of a stagecoach that was standing in the street, was walking past, when he 
recognised the mail from London, and saw that it was standing at the little 
post-office. He almost knew what was to come; but he crossed over, and 
listened.
The guard was standing at the door, waiting for the letter-bag. A man, 
dressed like a gamekeeper, came up at the moment, and he handed him a 
basket which lay ready on the pavement.
"That's for your people," said the guard. "Now, look alive in there, will 
you. Damn that 'ere bag, it warn't ready night afore last; this won't do, 
you know!"
"Anything new up in town, Ben?" asked the gamekeeper, drawing back to the 
window-shutters, the better to admire the horses.
"No, nothing that I knows on," replied the man, pulling on his gloves. 
"Corn's up a little. I heerd talk of a murder, too, down Spitalfields way, 
but I don't reckon much upon it."
"Oh, that's quite true," said a gentleman inside, who was looking out of 
the window. "And a dreadful murder it was."
"Was it, sir?" rejoined the guard, touching his hat. "Man or woman, pray, 
sir?"
"A woman," replied the gentleman. "It is supposed -"
"Now, Ben," replied the coachman impatiently.
"Damn that 'ere bag," said the guard; "are you gone to sleep in there?"
"Coming!" cried the office keeper, running out.
"Coming," growled the guard. "Ah, and so's the young 'ooman of property 
that's going to take a fancy to me, but I don't know when. Here, give hold. 
All ri-right!"
The horn sounded a few cheerful notes, and the coach was gone.
Sikes remained standing in the street, apparently unmoved by what he had 
just heard, and agitated by no stronger feeling than a doubt where to go. 
At length he went back again, and took the road which leads from Hatfield 
to St. Albans.
He went on doggedly; but as he left the town behind him, and plunged into 
the solitude and darkness of the road, he felt a dread and awe creeping 
upon him which shook him to the core. Every object before him, substance or 
shadow, still or moving, took the semblance of some fearful thing; but 
these fears were nothing compared to the sense that haunted him of that 
morning's ghastly figure following at his heels. He could trace its shadow 
in the gloom, supply the smallest item of the outline, and note how stiff 
and solemn it seemed to stalk along. He could hear its garments rustling in 
the leaves, and every breath of wind came laden with that last low cry. If 
he stopped it did the same. If he ran, it followed - not running too, that 
would have been a relief, but like a corpse endowed with the mere machinery 
of life, and borne on one slow melancholy wind that never rose or fell.
At times he turned, with desperate determination, resolved to beat this 
phantom off, though it should look him dead; but the hair rose on his head, 
and his blood stood still, for it had turned with him and was behind him 
then. He had kept it before him that morning, but it was behind now - 
always. He leaned his back against a bank, and felt that it stood above 
him, visibly out against the cold night-sky. He threw himself upon the road 
- on his back upon the road. At his head it stood, silent, erect, and still 
- a living gravestone, with its epitaph in blood.
Let no man talk of murderers escaping justice, and hint that Providence 
must sleep. There were twenty score of violent deaths in one long minute of 
that agony of fear.
There was a shed in a field he passed, that offered shelter for the night. 
Before the door, were three tall poplar-trees, which made it very dark 
within; and the wind moaned through them with a dismal wail. He could not 
walk on, till daylight came again; and here he stretched himself close to 
the wall - to undergo new torture.
For now, a vision came before him, as constant and more terrible than that 
from which he had escaped. Those widely-staring eyes, so lustreless and so 
glassy, that he had better borne to see them than think upon them, appeared 
in the midst of the darkness - light in themselves, but giving light to 
nothing. There were but two, but they were everywhere. If he shut out the 
sight, there came the room with every well-known object - some, indeed, 
that he would have forgotten, if he had gone over its contents from memory -
 each in its accustomed place. The body was in its place, and its eyes were 
as he saw them when he stole away. He got up, and rushed into the field 
without. The figure was behind him. He re-entered the shed, and shrank down 
once more. The eyes were there, before he had laid himself along.
And here he remained, in such terror as none but he can know, trembling in 
every limb, and the cold sweat starting from every pore, when suddenly 
there arose upon the night-wind the noise of distant shouting, and the roar 
of voices mingled in alarm and wonder. Any sound of men in that lonely 
place, even though it conveyed a real cause of alarm, was something to him. 
He regained his strength and energy at the prospect of personal danger; 
and, springing to his feet, rushed into the open air.
The broad sky seemed on fire. Rising into the air with showers of sparks, 
and rolling one above the other, were sheets of flame, lighting the 
atmosphere for miles around, and driving clouds of smoke in the direction 
where he stood. The shouts grew louder as new voices swelled the roar, and 
he could hear the cry of Fire! mingled with the ringing of an alarm-bell, 
the fall of heavy bodies, and the crackling of flames as they twined round 
some new obstacle and shot aloft as though refreshed by food. The noise 
increased as he looked. There were people there - men and women - light, 
bustle. It was like new life to him. He darted onward - straight, headlong -
 dashing through brier and brake, and leaping gate and fence as madly as 
his dog, who careered with loud and sounding bark before him.
He came upon the spot. There were half-dressed figures tearing to and fro, 
some endeavouring to drag the frightened horses from the stables, others 
driving the cattle from the yard and outhouses, and others coming laden 
from the burning pile, amidst a shower of falling sparks, and the tumbling 
down of red-hot beams. The apertures, where doors and windows stood an hour 
ago, disclosed a mass of raging fire; walls rocked and crumbled into the 
burning well; the molten lead and iron poured down, white-hot, upon the 
ground. Women and children shrieked, and men encouraged each other with 
noisy shouts and cheers. The clanking of the engine-pumps, and the spurting 
and hissing of the water as it fell upon the blazing wood, added to the 
tremendous roar. He shouted, too, till he was hoarse; and, flying from 
memory and himself, plunged into the thickest of the throng.
Hither and thither he dived that night; now working at the pumps, and now 
hurrying through the smoke and flame, but never ceasing to engage himself 
wherever noise and men were thickest. Up and down the ladders, upon the 
roofs of buildings, over floors that quaked and trembled with his weight, 
under the lee of falling bricks and stones, in every part of that great 
fire was he; but he bore a charmed life, and had neither scratch nor 
bruise, nor weariness nor thought, till morning dawned again, and only 
smoke and blackened ruins remained.
This mad excitement over, there returned, with tenfold force, the dreadful 
consciousness of his crime. He looked suspiciously about him, for the men 
were conversing in groups, and he feared to be the subject of their talk. 
The dog obeyed the significant beck of his finger, and they drew off, 
stealthily, together. He passed near an engine where some men were seated, 
and they called to him to share in their refreshment. He took some bread 
and meat; and as he drank a draught of beer, heard the firemen, who were 
from London, talking about the murder. "He has gone to Birmingham, they 
say," said one; "but they'll have him yet, for the scouts are out, and by 
tomorrow night there'll be a cry all through the country."
He hurried off, and walked till he almost dropped upon the ground; then lay 
down in a lane, and had a long, but broken and uneasy sleep. He wandered on 
again, irresolute and undecided, and oppressed with the fear of another 
solitary night.
Suddenly, he took the desperate resolution of going back to London.
"There's somebody to speak to there, at all events," he thought. "A good 
hiding-place, too. They'll never expect to nab me there, after this country 
scent. Why can't I lay by for a week or so, and, forcing blunt from Fagin, 
get abroad to France? Damme, I'll risk it."
He acted upon this impulse without delay, and choosing the least frequented 
roads, began his journey back, resolved to lie concealed within a short 
distance of the metropolis, and, entering it at dusk, by a circuitous 
route, to proceed straight to that part of it which he had fixed on for his 
destination.
The dog, though. If any description of him were out, it would not be 
forgotten that the dog was missing, and had probably gone with him. This 
might lead to his apprehension as he passed along the streets. He resolved 
to drown him, and walked on, looking for a pond, and picking up a heavy 
stone and tying it to his handkerchief as he went.
The animal looked up into his master's face while these preparations were 
making; and, whether his instinct apprehended something of their purpose, 
or the robber's sidelong look at him was sterner than ordinary, he skulked 
a little farther in the rear than usual, and cowered as he came more slowly 
along. When his master halted at the brink of a pool, and looked round to 
call him, he stopped outright.
"Do you hear me call? Come here!" cried Sikes.
The animal came up from the very force of habit; but as Sikes stooped to 
attach the handkerchief to his throat, he uttered a low growl and started 
back.
"Come back!" said the robber.
The dog wagged his tail, but moved not. Sikes made a running-noose and 
called him again.
The dog advanced, retreated, paused an instant, turned, and scoured away at 
his hardest speed.
The man whistled again and again, and sat down and waited in the 
expectation that he would return. But no dog appeared, and at length he 
resumed his journey.



Chapter 49

Monks And Mr. Brownlow At Length Meet - Their Conversation, And The 
Intelligence That Interrupts It.

The twilight was beginning to close in, when Mr. Brownlow alighted from a 
hackney-coach at his own door and knocked softly. The door being opened, a 
sturdy man got out of the coach and stationed himself on one side of the 
steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, dismounted too, 
and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out 
a third man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This 
man was Monks.
They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. 
Brownlow, preceding them, led the way into a back room. At the door of this 
apartment, Monks, who had ascended with evident reluctance, stopped. The 
two men looked to the old gentleman as if for instructions.
"He knows the alternative," said Mr. Brownlow. "If he hesitates or moves a 
finger but as you bid him, drag him into the street, call for the aid of 
the police, and impeach him as a felon in my name."
"How dare you say this of me?" asked Monks.
"How dare you urge me to it, young man?" replied Mr. Brownlow, confronting 
him with a steady look. "Are you mad enough to leave this house? Unhand 
him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you, by 
all I hold most solemn and most sacred, that the instant you set foot in 
the street, that instant will I have you apprehended on a charge of fraud 
and robbery. I am resolute and immovable. If you are determined to be the 
same, your blood be upon your own head!"
"By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by these 
dogs?" asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood 
beside him.
"By mine," replied Mr. Brownlow. "Those persons are indemnified by me. If 
you complain of being deprived of your liberty - you had power and 
opportunity to retrieve t as you came along, but you deemed it advisable to 
remain quiet - I say again, throw yourself for protection on the law. I 
will appeal to the law too; but when you have gone too far to recede, do 
not sue to me for leniency, when the power will have passed into other 
hands; and do not say I plunged you down the gulf into which you rushed 
yourself."
Monks was plainly disconcerted, and alarmed besides. He hesitated.
"You will decide quickly," said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect firmness and 
composure. "If you wish me to prefer my charges publicly, and consign you 
to a punishment the extent of which, although I can, with a shudder, 
foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, you know the way. If not, and 
you appeal to my forbearance, and the mercy of those you have deeply 
injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for 
you two whole days."
Monks muttered some unintelligible words, but wavered Still.
"You will be prompt," said Mr. Brownlow. "A word from me, and the 
alternative has gone for ever."
Still the man hesitated.
"I have not the inclination to parley," said Mr. Brownlow, "and, as I 
advocate the dearest interests of others, I have not the right."
"Is there," demanded Monks, with a faltering tongue - "is there - no middle 
course?"
"None."
Monks looked at the old gentleman with an anxious eye; but, reading in his 
countenance nothing but severity and determination, walked into the room, 
and, shrugging his shoulders, sat down.
"Lock the door on the outside," said Mr Brownlow to the attendants, "and 
come when I ring."
The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
"This is pretty treatment, sir," said Monks, throwing down his hat and 
cloak, "from my father's oldest friend."
"It is because I was your father's oldest friend, young man," returned Mr. 
Brownlow; "it is because the hopes and wishes of young and happy years were 
bound up with him, and that fair creature of his blood and kindred who 
rejoined her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, lonely man; it is 
because he knelt with me beside his only sister's deathbed when he was yet 
a boy, on the morning that would - but Heaven willed otherwise - have made 
her my young wife; it is because my seared heart clung to him, from that 
time forth, through all his trials and errors, till he died; it is because 
old recollections and associations filled my heart, and even the sight of 
you brings with it old thoughts of him; it is because of all these things 
that I am moved to treat you gently now - yes, Edward Leeford, even now - 
and blush for your unworthiness who bear the name."
"What has the name to do with it?" asked the other, after contemplating, 
half in silence, and half in dogged wonder, the agitation of his companion. 
"What is the name to me?"
'"Nothing," replied Mr. Brownlow - "nothing to you. But it was hers; and 
even at this distance of time brings back to me, an old man, the glow and 
thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated by a stranger. I am very 
glad you have changed it - very - very."
"This is all mighty fine," said Monks (to retain his assumed designation) 
after a long silence, during which he had jerked himself in sullen defiance 
to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, shading his face with his hand. "But 
what do you want with me?"
"You have a brother," said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself; "a brother, the 
whisper of whose name in your ear when I carne behind you in the street, 
was, in itself, almost enough to make you accompany me hither, in wonder 
and alarm."
"I have no brother," replied Monks. "You know I was an only child. Why do 
you talk to me of brothers? You know that, as well as I."
"Attend to what I do know, and you may not," said Mr. Brownlow. "I shall 
interest you by and by. I know that of the wretched marriage, into which 
family pride, and the most sordid and narrowest of all ambition, forced 
your unhappy father when a mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural 
issue."
"I don't care for hard names," interrupted Monks, with a jeering laugh. 
"You know the fact, and that's enough for
"But I also know," pursued the old gentleman, "the misery, the slow 
torture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I know how 
listlessly and wearily each of that wretched pair dragged on their heavy 
chain through a world that was poisoned to them both. I know how cold 
formalities were succeeded by open taunts; how indifference gave place to 
dislike, dislike to hate, and hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched 
the clanking bond asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each a 
galling fragment, of which nothing but death could break the rivets, to 
hide it in new society beneath the gayest looks they could assume. Your 
mother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But it rusted and cankered at your 
father's heart for years."
"Well, they were separated," said Monks, "and what of that?"
"When they had been separated for some time," returned Mr. Brownlow, "and 
your mother, wholly given up to continental frivolities, had utterly 
forgotten the young husband ten good years her junior, who, with prospects 
blighted, lingered on at home, he fell among new friends. This 
circumstance, at least, you know already."
"Not I," said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot upon the 
ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything. "Not I."
"Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you have never 
forgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness," returned Mr. 
Brownlow. "I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven 
years old, and your father but one-and-thirty - for he was, I repeat, a 
boy, when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go back to events which 
cast a shade upon the memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and 
disclose to me the truth?"
"I have nothing to disclose," rejoined Monks. "You must talk on if you 
will."
"These new friends, then," said Mr. Brownlow, "were a naval officer retired 
from active service, whose wife had died some half a year before, and left 
him with two children - there had been more, but, of all their family, 
happily but two survived. They were both daughters; one a beautiful 
creature of nineteen, and the other a mere child of two or three years 
old."
"What's this to me?" asked Monks.
"They resided," said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear the 
interruption, "in a part of the country to which your father in his 
wanderings had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, 
intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each other. Your father was gifted 
as few men are. He had his sister's soul and person. As the old officer 
knew him more and more, he grew to love him. I would that it had ended 
there. His daughter did the same."
The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his eyes fixed 
upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:
"The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted, to that 
daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion of a 
guileless girl."
"Your tale is of the longest," observed Monks, moving restlessly in his 
chair.
"It is a true tale of grief, and trial, and sorrow, young man," returned 
Mr. Brownlow, "and such tales usually are; if it were one of unmixed joy 
and happiness, it would be very brief. At length, one of those rich 
relations to strengthen whose interest and importance your father had been 
sacrificed, as others are often - it is no uncommon case - died, and to 
repair the misery he had been instrumental in occasioning, left him his 
panacea for all griefs - money. It was necessary that he should immediately 
repair to Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had 
died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went; was seized with 
mortal illness there; was followed, the moment the intelligence reached 
Paris, by your mother, who carried you with her; he died the day after her 
arrival, leaving no will - no will - so that the whole property fell to her 
and you."
At this part of the recital, Monks held his breath, and listened with a 
face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed towards the 
speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his position with the air of 
one who has experienced a sudden relief, and wiped his hot face and hands.
"Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on his way," said 
Mr. Brownlow slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the other's face, "he came to 
me."
"I never heard of that," interrupted Monks, in a tone intended to appear 
incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable surprise.
"He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture - a 
portrait painted by himself - a likeness of this poor girl - which he did 
not wish to leave behind, and could not carry forward on his hasty journey. 
He was worn by anxiety and remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, 
distracted way, of ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided in me his 
intention to convert his whole property, at any loss, into money, and, 
having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent acquisition, to 
fly the country - I guessed too well he would not fly alone- and never see 
it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, whose strong attachment 
had taken root in the earth and covered one most dear to both - even from 
me he withheld any more particular confession, promising to write and tell 
me all, and after that to see me once again, for the last time on earth. 
Alas! That was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.
"I went," said Mr. Brownlow after a short pause - "I went, when all was 
over, to the scene of his - I will use the term the world would freely use, 
for worldly harshness or favour are now alike to him - of his guilty love, 
resolved that if her fears were realised, that erring child should find one 
heart and home to shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that 
part a week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were 
outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or whither, 
none can tell."
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with a smile of 
triumph.
"When your brother," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to the other's chair 
- "when your brother - a feeble, ragged, neglected child - was cast in my 
way by a stronger hand than chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice 
and infamy"
"What?" cried Monks.
"By me," said Mr. Brownlow. "I told you I should interest you before long. 
I say by me - I see that your cunning associate suppressed my name, 
although for aught he knew, it would be quite strange to your ears. When he 
was rescued by me, then, and lay recovering from sickness in my house, his 
strong resemblance to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with 
astonishment. Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there 
was a lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse of 
some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell you he 
was snared away before I knew his history -"
"Why not?" asked Monks hastily.
"Because you know it well."
"I!"
"Denial to me is vain," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I shall show you that I know 
more than that."
"You - you - can't prove anything against me," stammered Monks. "I defy you 
to do it!"
"We shall see," returned the old gentleman, with a searching glance. "I 
lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him. Your mother being 
dead, I knew that you alone could solve the mystery if anybody could, and 
as, when I had last heard of you, you were on your own estate in the West 
Indies - whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother's death to 
escape the consequences of vicious courses here - I made the voyage. You 
had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but no one 
could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to your residence. 
You came and went, they said, as strangely as you had ever done, sometimes 
for days together and sometimes not for months, keeping, to all appearance, 
the same low haunts and mingling with the same infamous herd who had been 
your associates when a fierce, ungovernable boy. I wearied them with new 
applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until two hours 
ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you for an instant."
"And now you do see me," said Monks, rising boldly, "what then? Fraud and 
robbery are high-sounding words - justified, you think, by a fancied 
resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub of a dead man's. Brother! You 
don't even know that a child was born of this maudlin pair; you don't even 
known that."
"I did not," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but within the last 
fortnight I have learned it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. 
There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving the secret and the 
gain to you at her own death. It contained a reference to some child likely 
to be the result of this sad connection; which child was born, and 
accidentally encountered by you, when your suspicions were first awakened 
by his resemblance to his father. You repaired to the place of his birth. 
There existed proofs - proofs long suppressed - of his birth and parentage. 
Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your 
accomplice the Jew, 'the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the 
bottom of the river, and the old hag that received them from the mother is 
rotting in her coffin.' Unworthy son, coward, liar - you, who hold your 
councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose 
plots and wiles have brought a violent death upon the head of one worth 
millions such as you - you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness 
to your own father's heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and 
profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease which has 
made your face an index even to your mind - you, Edward Leeford, do you 
still brave me?"
"No, no, no!" returned the coward, overwhelmed by these accumulated 
charges.
"Every word!" cried the old gentleman - "every word that has passed between 
you and this detested villain, is known to me. Shadows on the wall have 
caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear; the sight of the 
persecuted child has turned vice itself, and given it the courage and 
almost the attributes of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were 
morally if not really a party."
"No, no," interposed Monks. "I - I know nothing of that; I was going to 
inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I didn't know the 
cause. I thought it was a common quarrel."
"It was the partial disclosure of your secrets," replied Mr. Brownlow. 
"Will you disclose the whole?"
"Yes, I will."
"Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it before 
witnesses?"
"That I promise, too."
"Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and proceed with 
me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for the purpose of 
attesting it?"
"If you insist upon that, I'll do that also," replied Monks.
"You must do more than that," said Mr. Brownlow. "Make restitution to an 
innocent and unoffending child, for such he is, although the offspring of a 
guilty and most miserable love. You have not forgotten the provisions of 
the will. Carry them into execution so far as your brother is concerned, 
and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more."
While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark and evil looks on 
this disposal and the possibilities of evading it, torn by his fears on the 
one hand and his hatred on the other, the door was hurriedly unlocked, and 
a gentleman (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in violent agitation.
"The man will be taken," he cried. "He will be taken tonight!"
"The murderer?" asked Mr. Brownlow.
"Yes, yes," replied the other. "His dog has been seen lurking about some 
old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master either is, or will 
be, there, under cover of darkness. Spies are hovering about in every 
direction. I have spoken to the men who are charged with his capture, and 
they tell me he can never escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is 
proclaimed by Government tonight."
"I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow, "and proclaim it with my own 
lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr. Maylie?"
"Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a coach with you, 
he hurried off to where he heard this," replied the doctor, "and, mounting 
his horse, sallied forth to join the first party at some place in the 
outskirts agreed upon between them."
"Fagin," said Mr. Brownlow; "what of him?"
"When I last heard, he had not been taken; but he will be, or is, by this 
time. They're sure of him."
"Have you made up your mind?" asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.
"Yes," he replied. "You - you - will be secret with me?"
"I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety."
They left the room, and the door was again locked.
"What have you done?" asked the doctor, in a whisper.
"All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor girl's 
intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good 
friend's inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of escape, and laid 
bare the whole villainy which by these lights became plain as day. Write 
and appoint the evening after tomorrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall 
be down there, a few hours before, but shall require rest; especially the 
young lady, who may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can 
quite foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered 
creature. Which way have they taken?"
"Drive straight to the office and you will be in time," replied Mr. 
Losberne. "I will remain here."
The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of excitement wholly 
uncontrollable.



Chapter 50

The Pursuit And Escape.

Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, 
where the buildings on the banks are dirtiest and the vessels on the river 
blackest with the dust of colliers and the smoke of close-built, low-roofed 
houses, there exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary 
of the many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even by 
name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.
To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze of close, 
narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and poorest of 
waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be supposed to 
occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions are heaped in the 
shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of wearing apparel dangle at the 
salesman's door, and stream from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling 
with unemployed labourers of the lowest class, ballast-heavers, coal-
whippers, brazen woman, ragged children, and the raff and refuse of the 
river, he makes his way with difficulty along, assailed by offensive sights 
and smells from the narrow alleys which branch off on the right and left, 
and deafened by the clash of ponderous wagons that bear great piles of 
merchandise from the stacks of warehouses that rise from every corner. 
Arriving, at length, in streets remoter and less frequented than those 
through which he has passed, he walks beneath tottering house-fronts 
projecting over the pavement, dismantled walls that seem to totter as he 
passes, chimneys half-crushed, half-hesitating to fall, windows guarded by 
rusty iron bars that time and dirt have almost eaten away, and every 
imaginable sign of. desolation and neglect.
In such a neighbourhood, beyond Dockhead in the borough of Southwark, 
stands Jacob's Island, surrounded by a muddy ditch, six or eight feet deep 
and fifteen or twenty wide when the tide is in, once called Mill Pond, but 
known in the days of this story as Folly Ditch. It is a creek or inlet from 
the Thames, and can always be filled at high water by opening the sluices 
at the lead mills from which it took its old name.
At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the wooden bridges thrown 
across it at Mill Lane, will see the inhabitants of the houses on either 
side lowering from their back doors and windows, buckets, pails, and 
domestic utensils of all kinds, in which to haul the water up; and when his 
eye is turned from these operations to the houses themselves, his utmost 
astonishment will be excited by the scene before him. Crazy wooden 
galleries common to the backs of half a dozen houses, with holes from which 
to look upon the slime beneath; windows, broken and patched, with poles 
thrust out, on which to dry the linen that is never there; rooms so small, 
so filthy, so confined, that the air would seem too tainted even for the 
dirt and squalor which they shelter; wooden chambers thrusting themselves 
out above the mud, and threatening to fall into it - as some have done; 
dirt-besmeared walls and decaying foundations; every repulsive lineament of 
poverty, every loathsome indication of filth, rot, and garbage; all these 
ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.
In Jacob's Island, the warehouses are roofless and empty; the walls are 
crumbling down; the windows are windows no more; the doors are falling into 
the streets; the chimneys are blackened, but they yield no smoke. Thirty or 
forty years ago, before losses and chancery suits came upon it, it was a 
thriving place; but now it is a desolate island indeed. The houses have no 
owners; they are broken open, and entered upon by those who have the 
courage; and there they live, and there they die. They must have powerful 
motives for a secret residence, or be reduced to a destitute condition 
indeed, who seeks a refuge in Jacob's Island.
In an upper room of one of these houses - a detached house of fair size, 
ruinous in other respects, but strongly defended at door and window, of 
which house the back commanded the ditch in manner already described - 
there were assembled three men, who regarding each other every now and then 
with looks expressive of perplexity and expectation, sat for some time in 
profound and gloomy silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. 
Chitling, and the third a robber of fifty years, whose nose had been almost 
beaten in, in some old scuffle, and whose face bore a frightful scar which 
might probably be traced to the same occasion. This man was a returned 
transport and his name was Kags.
"I wish," said Toby, turning to Mr. Chitling, "that you had picked out some 
other crib when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my 
fine feller."
"Why didn't you, blunder-head?" said Kags.
"Well, I thought you'd have been a little more glad to see me than this," 
replied Mr. Chitling, with a melancholy air.
"Why, look'ee, young gentleman," said Toby, "when a man keeps himself so 
very exclusive as I have done, and by that means has a snug house over his 
head with nobody a-prying and smelling about it, it's rather a startling 
thing to have the honour of a visit from a young gentleman (however 
respectable and pleasant." person he may be to play cards with at 
conweniency) circumstanced as you are."
"Especially, when the exclusive young man has got a friend stopping with 
him, that's arrived sooner than was expected from foreign parts, and is too 
modest to want to be presented to the judges on his return," added Mr. 
Kags.
There was a short silence, after which Toby Crackit, seeming to abandon as 
hopeless any further effort to maintain his usual devil-may-care swagger, 
turned to Chitling, and said:
"When was Fagin took, then?"
"Just at dinner-time - two o'clock this afternoon. Charley and I made our 
lucky up the wash'us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, 
head downwards; but his legs were so precious long that they stuck out at 
the top, and so they took him too."
"And Bet!"
"Poor Bet! She went to see the body, to speak to who it was," replied 
Chitling, his countenance falling more and more, "and went off mad, 
screaming and raving, and beating her head against the boards; so they put 
a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital- and there she is."
"Wot's come of young Bates?" demanded Kags.
"He hung about, not to come over here afore dark, but he'll be here soon," 
replied Chitling. "There's nowhere else to go to now, for the people at the 
Cripples are all in custody, and the bar of the ken - I went up there and 
see it with my own eyes - is filled with traps."
"This is a smash," observed Toby, biting his lips. "There's more than one 
will go with this."
"The sessions are on," said Kags, "if they get the inquest over, and Bolter 
turns king's evidence - as of course he will, from what he's said already - 
they can prove Fagin an accessory before the fact, and get the trial on on 
Friday, and he'll swing in six days from this, by G!"
"You should have heard the people groan," said Chitling; "the officers 
fought like devils, or they'd have torn him away. He was down once, but -
they made a ring round him, and fought their way along. You should have 
seen how he looked about him, all muddy and bleeding, and clung to them as 
if they were his dearest friends. I can see 'em now, not able to stand 
upright with the pressing of the mob, and dragging him along amongst 'em; I 
can see the people jumping up, one behind another, and snarling with their 
teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his hair and beard, and 
hear the cries with which the women worked themselves into the centre of 
the crowd at the street corner, and swore they'd tear his heart out!"
The horror-stricken witness of this scene pressed his hands upon his ears, 
and with his eyes closed got up and paced violently to and fro, like one 
distracted.
While he was thus engaged,- and the two men sat by in silence with their 
eyes fixed upon the floor, a pattering noise was heard upon the stairs, and 
Sikes's dog bounded into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and 
into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he made no 
attempt to follow them, nor was his master to be seen.
"What's the meaning of this?" said Toby, when they had returned. "He can't 
be coming here. I - I - hope not."
"If he was coming here, he'd have come with the dog," said Kags stooping 
down to examine the animal, who lay panting on the floor. "Here! give us 
some water for him; he has run himself faint."
"He's drunk it all up, every drop," said Chitling, after watching the dog 
some time in silence. "Covered with mud - lame - half-blind - he must have 
come a long way."
"Where can he have come from!" exclaimed Toby. "He's been to the other 
kens, of course, and finding them filled with strangers, come on here, 
where he's been many a time and often. But where can he have come from 
first, and how comes he here alone without the other!"
"He -" (none of them called the murderer by his old name) - "he can't have 
made away with himself. What do you think?" said Chitling.
Toby shook his head.
"If he had," said Kags, "the dog 'ud want to lead us away to where he did 
it. No. I think he's got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He 
must have given him the slip somehow, or he wouldn't be so easy."
This solution, appearing the most probable one, was adopted as the right; 
the dog, creeping under a chair, coiled himself up to sleep, without more 
notice from anybody.
It being now dark, the shutter was closed, and a candle lighted and placed 
upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days, had made a deep 
impression on all three, increased by the danger and uncertainty of their 
own position. They drew their chairs close together, starting at every 
sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as silent and awe-
stricken as if the remains of the murdered woman lay in the next room.
They had sat thus, some time, when suddenly was heard a hurried knocking at 
the door below.
"Young Bates," said Kags, looking angrily round, to check the fear he felt 
himself.
The knocking came again. No, it wasn't he. He never knocked like that.
Crackit went to the window, and, shaking all over, drew in his head. There 
was no need to tell them who it was; his pale face was enough. The dog too 
was on the alert in an instant, and ran whining to the door.
"We must let him in," he said, taking up the candle.
"Isn't there any help for it?" asked the other man, in a hoarse voice.
"None. He must come in."
"Don't leave us in the dark," said Kags, taking down a candle from the 
chimney-piece, and lighting it, with such a trembling hand that the 
knocking was twice repeated before he had finished.
Crackit went down to the door, and returned followed by a man with the 
lower part of his face buried in a handkerchief, and another tied over his 
head under his hat. He drew them softly off. Blanched face, sunken eyes, 
hollow cheeks, beard of three days' growth, wasted flesh, short, thick 
breath; it was the very ghost of Sikes.
He laid his hand upon a chair which stood in the middle of the room, but 
shuddering as he was about to drop into it, and seeming to glance over his 
shoulder, dragged it back close to the wall - as close as it would go - 
ground it against it- and sat down.
Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If 
an eye were furtively raised and met his, it was instantly averted. Then 
his hollow voice broke silence, they all three started. They seemed never 
to have heard its tones before.
"How came that dog here?"
"Alone. Three hours ago."
"Tonight's paper says that Fagin's took. Is it true, or a lie?
"True."
They were silent again.
"Damn you all!" said Sikes, passing his hand across his forehead. "Have you 
nothing to say to me?"
There was an uneasy movement among them, but nobody spoke.
"You that keep this house," said Sikes, turning his face to Crackit, "do 
you mean to sell me, or to let me lie here till the hunt is over?"
"You may stop here, if you think it safe," returned the person addressed, 
after some hesitation.
Sikes carried his eyes slowly up the wall behind him, rather trying to turn 
his head than actually doing it, and said, "Is - it - the body - is it 
buried?"
They shook their heads.
"Why isn't it?" he retorted, with the same glance behind him. "Wot do they 
keep such ugly things above the ground for? - Who's that knocking?"
Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there 
was nothing to fear; and directly came back with Charley Bates behind him. 
Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the' boy entered the room 
he encountered his figure.
"Toby," said the boy, falling back, as Sikes turned his eyes towards him, 
"why didn't you tell me this downstairs?"
There had been something so tremendous in the shrinking off of the three, 
that the wretched man was willing to propitiate even this lad. Accordingly 
he nodded, and made as though he would shake hands with him.
"Let me go into some other room," said the boy, retreating still farther.
"Charley!" said Sikes, stepping forward, "don't you - don't you know me?"
"Don't come near me," answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with 
horror in his eyes, upon the murderer's face. "You monster!"
The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes's eyes 
sank gradually to the ground.
"Witness you three," cried the boy, shaking his clenched fist, and becoming 
more and more excited as he spoke. "Witness you three - I'm not afraid of 
him - if they come here after him I'll give him up; I will. I tell you at 
once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here 
I'll give him up. I'd give him up if he was to be boiled alive. Murder! 
Help! If there's the pluck of a man among you three, you'll help me. 
Murder! Help! Down with him!"
Pouring out these cries, and accompanying them with violent gesticulation, 
the boy actually threw himself, single-handed, upon the strong man, and in 
the intensity of his energy and the suddenness of his surprise, brought him 
heavily to the ground.
The three spectators seemed quite stupefied. They offered no interference, 
and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, heedless of 
the blows that showered upon him, wrenching his hands tighter and tighter 
in the garments about the murderer's breast, and never ceasing to call for 
help with all his might.
The contest, however, was too unequal to last long. Sikes had him down, and 
his knee was on his throat, when Crackit pulled him back with a look of 
alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights gleaming below, voices 
in loud and earnest conversation, the tramp of hurried footsteps - endless 
they seemed in number - crossing the nearest wooden bridge. One man on 
horseback seemed to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of hoofs 
rattling on the uneven pavement. The gleam of lights increased; the 
footsteps came more thickly and noisily on. Then came a loud knocking at 
the door, and then a hoarse murmur from such a multitude of angry voices as 
would have made the boldest quail.
"Help!" shrieked the boy, in a voice that rent the air. "He's here! Break 
down the door!"
"In the king's name," cried the voices without; and the hoarse cry arose 
again, but louder.
"Break down the door!" screamed the boy. "I tell you they'll never open it. 
Run straight to the room where the light is. Break down the door!"
Strokes, thick and heavy, rattled upon the door and lower window-shutters 
as he ceased to speak, and a loud huzzah burst from the crowd, giving the 
listener, for the first time, some adequate idea of its immense extent.
"Open the door of some place where I can lock this screeching hell-babe," 
cried Sikes fiercely, running to and fro, and dragging the boy, now, as 
easily as if he were an empty sack. "That door. Quick!" He flung him in, 
bolted it, and turned the key. "Is the downstairs door fast?"
"Double-locked and chained," replied Crackit, who, with the other two men, 
still remained quite helpless and bewildered.
"The panels - are they strong?"
"Lined with sheet-iron."
"And the windows too?"
"Yes, and the windows."
"Damn you!" cried the desperate ruffian, throwing up the sash and menacing 
the crowd. "Do your worst! I'll cheat you yet!"
Of all the terrific yells that ever fell on mortal ears, none could exceed 
the cry of the infuriated throng. Some shouted to those who were nearest to 
set the house on fire; others roared to the officers to shoot him dead. 
Among them all, none showed such fury as the man on horseback, who, 
throwing himself out of the saddle, and bursting through the crowd as if he 
were parting water, cried, beneath the window, in a voice that rose above 
all others, "Twenty guineas to the man who brings a ladder!"
The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds echoed it. Some called for 
ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with torches to and fro as if to 
seek them, and still came back and roared again; some spent their breath in 
impotent curses and execrations; some pressed forward with the ecstasy of 
madmen, and thus impeded the progress of those below; some among the 
boldest attempted to climb up by the water-spout and crevices in the wall; 
and all waved to and fro, in the darkness beneath, like a field of corn 
moved by an angry wind, and joined from time to time in one loud furious 
roar.
"The tide," cried the murderer, as he staggered back into the room, and 
shut the faces out - "the tide was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long 
rope. They're all in front. I may drop into the Folly Ditch, and clear off 
that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more murders and kill 
myself."
The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the 
murderer, hastily selecting the longest and strongest cord, hurried up to 
the house-top.
All the windows in the rear of the house had been long ago bricked up, 
except one small trap in the room where the boy was locked, and that was 
too small even for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had 
never ceased to call on those without to guard the back; and thus, when the 
murderer emerged at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud 
shout proclaimed the fact to those in front, who immediately began to pour 
round, pressing upon each other in an unbroken stream.
He planted a board, which he had carried up with him for the purpose, so 
firmly against the door, that it must be matter of great difficulty to open 
it from the inside; and creeping over the tiles, looked over the low 
parapet.
The water was out, and the ditch a bed of mud.
The crowd had been hushed during these few moments, watching his motions 
and doubtful of his purpose, but the instant they perceived it and knew it 
was defeated, they raised a cry of triumphant execration to which all their 
previous shouting had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who 
were at too great a distance to know its meaning, took up the sound; it 
echoed and re-echoed; it seemed as though the whole city had poured its 
population out to curse him.
On pressed the people from the front - on, on, on, in a strong, struggling 
current of angry faces, with here and there a glaring torch to light them 
up, and show them out in all their wrath and passion. The houses on the 
opposite side of the ditch had been entered by the mob; sashes were thrown 
up, or torn bodily out; there were tiers and tiers of faces in every 
window; cluster upon cluster of people clinging to every house-top. Each 
little bridge (and there were three in sight) bent beneath the weight of 
the crowd upon it. Still the current poured on to find some nook or hole 
from which to vent their shouts, and only for an instant see the wretch.
"They have him now," cried a man on the nearest bridge. "Hurrah!"
The crowd grew light with uncovered heads; and again the shout uprose.
"I will give fifty pounds," cried an old gentleman from the same quarter, 
"to the man who takes him alive. I will remain here, till he comes to ask 
for it."
There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the crowd 
that the door was forced at last, and that he who had first called for the 
ladder had mounted into the room. The stream abruptly turned, as this 
intelligence ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, seeing 
those upon the bridges pouring back, quitted their stations, and, running 
into the street, joined the concourse that now thronged pell-mell to the 
spot they had left; each man crushing and striving with his neighbour, and 
all panting with impatience to get near the door, and look upon the 
criminal as the officers brought him out. The cries and shrieks of those 
who were pressed almost to suffocation, or trampled down and trodden under 
foot in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow ways were completely 
blocked up; and at this time, between the rush of some to regain the space 
in front of the house, and the unavailing struggles of others to extricate 
themselves from the mass, the immediate attention was distracted from the 
murder, although the universal eagerness for his capture was, if possible, 
increased.
The man had shrunk down, thoroughly quelled by the ferocity of the crowd, 
and the impossibility of escape; but seeing this sudden change with no less 
rapidity than it had occurred, he sprang upon his feet, determined to make 
(one last effort for his life by dropping into the ditch, and, at the risk 
of being stifled, endeavouring to creep away in the darkness and confusion.
Roused into new strength and energy, and stimulated by the noise within the 
house which announced that an entrance had really been effected, he set his 
foot against the stack of chimneys, fastened one end of the rope tightly 
and firmly round it, and with the other made a strong running-noose by the 
aid of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He could let himself down by 
the cord to within a less distance of the ground than his own height, and 
had his knife ready in his hand to cut it then and drop.
At the very instant when he brought the loop over his head previous to 
slipping it beneath his arm-pits, and when the old gentleman before 
mentioned (who had clung so tight to the railing of the bridge as to resist 
the force of the crowd, and retain his position) earnestly warned those 
about him that the man was about to lower himself down - at that very 
instant the murderer, looking behind him on the roof, threw his arms above 
his head, and uttered a yell of terror.
"The eyes again!" he cried, in an unearthly screech.
Staggering as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over 
the parapet. The noose was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as 
a bowstring, and swift as the arrow it speeds. He fell for five-and-thirty 
feet. There was a sudden jerk, a terrific convulsion of the limbs; and 
there he hung, with the open knife clenched in his stiffening hand.
The old chimney quivered with the shock, but stood it bravely. The murderer 
swung lifeless against the wall; and the boy, thrusting aside the dangling 
body which obscured his view, called to the people to come and take him 
out, for God's sake.
A dog, which had lain concealed till now, ran backwards and forwards on the 
parapet, with a dismal howl, and, collecting himself for a spring, jumped 
for the dead man's shoulders. Missing his aim, he fell into the ditch, 
turning completely over as he went; and striking his head against a stone, 
dashed out his brains.



Chapter 51

Affording an explanation of more mysteries than one, and comprehending a 
proposal of marriage with no word of settlement or pin-money.

The events narrated in the last chapter were yet but two days old, when 
Oliver found himself, at three o'clock in the afternoon, in a travelling 
carriage rolling fast towards his native town. Mrs. Maylie, and Rose, and 
Mrs. Bedwin, and the good doctor, were with him; and Mr. Brownlow followed 
in a post-chaise, accompanied by one other person whose name had not been 
mentioned.
They had not talked much upon the way; for Oliver was in a flutter of 
agitation and uncertainty which deprived him of the power of collecting his 
thoughts, and almost of speech, and appeared to have scarcely less effect 
on his companions, who shared it, in at least an equal degree. He and the 
two ladies had been very carefully made acquainted by Mr. Brownlow with the 
nature of the admissions which had been forced from Monks; and although 
they knew that the object of their present journey was to complete the work 
which had been so well begun, still the whole matter was enveloped in 
enough of doubt and mystery to leave them in endurance of the most intense 
suspense.
The same kind friend had, with Mr. Losberne's assistance, cautiously 
stopped all channels of communication through which they could receive 
intelligence of the dreadful occurrences that had so recently taken place. 
"It was quite true," he said, "that they must know them before long, but it 
might be at a better time than the present, and it could not be at a 
worse." So they travelled on in silence; each busied with reflections on 
the object which had brought them together; and no one disposed to give 
utterance to the thoughts which crowded upon all.
But if Oliver, under these influences, had remained silent while they 
journeyed towards his birth-place by a road he had never seen, how the 
whole current of his recollections ran back to old times, and what a crowd 
of emotions were awakened up in his breast, when they turned into that 
which he had traversed on foot, a poor, houseless, wandering boy, without a 
friend to help him, or a roof to shelter his head.
"See there, there!" cried Oliver, eagerly clasping the hand of Rose, and 
pointing out of the carriage window; "that's the stile I came over; there 
are the hedges I crept behind for fear any one should overtake me and force 
me back! Yonder is the path across the fields, leading to the old house 
where I was a little child! Oh, Dick, Dick, my dear old friend, if I could 
only see you now!"
"You will see him soon," replied Rose, gently taking his folded hands 
between her own. "You shall tell him how happy you are, and how rich you 
have grown, and that in all your happiness you have none so great as the 
coming back to make him happy too."
"Yes, yes," said Oliver, "and we'll - we'll take him away from here, and 
have him clothed and taught, and send him to some quiet country place where 
he may grow strong and well - shall we?"
Rose nodded yes, for the boy was smiling through such happy tears that she 
could not speak.
"You will be kind and good to him, for you are to every one," said Oliver. 
"It will make you cry, I know, to hear what he can tell; but never mind, 
never mind, it will be all over, and you will smile again - I know that too 
- to think how changed he is; you did the same with me. He said ' God bless 
you ' to me when I ran away," cried the boy, with a burst of affectionate 
emotion; "and I will say ' God bless you ' now, and show him how I love him 
for it!"
As they approached the town, and at length drove through its narrow 
streets, it became matter of no small difficulty to restrain the boy within 
reasonable bounds. There was Sowerberry's the undertaker's just as it used 
to be, only smaller and less imposing in appearance than he remembered it - 
there were all the well-known shops and houses, with almost every one of 
which he had some slight incident connected - there was Gamfield's cart, 
the very cart he used to have, standing at the old public-house door - 
there was the workhouse, the dreary prison of his youthful days, with its 
dismal windows frowning on the street - there was the same lean porter 
standing at the gate, at sight of whom Oliver involuntarily shrank back, 
and then laughed at himself for being so foolish, then cried, then laughed 
again - there were scores of faces at the doors and windows that he knew 
quite well - there was nearly everything as if he had left it but 
yesterday, and all his recent life had been a happy dream.
But it was pure, earnest joyful reality. They drove straight to the door of 
the chief hotel (which Oliver used to stare up at, with awe, and think a 
mighty palace, but which had somehow fallen off in grandeur and size); and 
here was Mr. Grimwig all ready to receive them, kissing the young lady, and 
the old one too, when they got out of the coach, as if he were the 
grandfather of the whole party, all smiles and kindness, and not offering 
to eat his head - no, not once; not even when he contradicted a very old 
postboy about the nearest road to London, and maintained he knew it best, 
though he had only come that way once, and that time fast asleep. There was 
dinner prepared, and there were bedrooms ready, and everything was arranged 
as if by magic.
Notwithstanding all this, when the hurry of the first half-hour was over, 
the same silence and constraint prevailed that had marred their journey 
down. Mr. Brownlow did not join them at dinner, but remained in a separate 
room. The two other gentlemen hurried in and out with anxious faces, and, 
during the short intervals when they were present, conversed apart. Once, 
Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, 
returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and 
Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They 
sat wondering, in silence; or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in 
whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices.
At length when nine o'clock had come, and they began to think they were to 
hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, 
followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with 
surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it was the same 
man he had met at the market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the 
window of his little room. Monks cast a look of hate, which, even then, he 
could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. 
Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table near which Rose and 
Oliver were seated.
"This is a painful task," said he, "but these declarations, which have been 
signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. 
I would have spared you the degradation, but we must hear them from your 
own lips before we part, and you know why."
"Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. "Quick. I have 
almost done enough, I think. Don't keep me here."
"This child," said Mr. Brownlow, drawing Oliver to him, and laying his hand 
upon his head, "is your half-brother; the illegitimate son of your father, 
my dear friend Edwin Leeford, by poor young Agnes Fleming, who died in 
giving him birth."
"Yes," said Monks, scowling at the trembling boy, the beating of whose 
heart he might have heard. "That is their bastard child."
"The term you use," said Mr. Brownlow sternly, "is a reproach to those who 
have long since passed beyond the feeble censure of the world. It reflects 
disgrace on no one living, except you who use it. Let that pass. He was 
born in this town."
"In the workhouse of this town," was the sullen reply. "You have the story 
there." He pointed impatiently to the papers as he spoke.
"I must have it here, too," said Mr. Brownlow, looking round upon the 
listeners.
"Listen then! You!" returned Monks. "His father being taken ill at Rome, 
was joined by his wife, my mother, from whom he had been long separated, 
who went from Paris, and took me with her - to look after his property, for 
what I know, for she had no great affection for him, nor he for her. He 
knew nothing of us, for his senses were gone, and he slumbered on till next 
day, when he died. Among the papers in his desk, were two, dated on the 
night his illness first came on, directed to yourself;" he addressed 
himself to Mr. Brownlow; "and inclosed in a few short lines to you, with an 
intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till 
after he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes; the 
other a will."
"What of the letter?" asked Mr. Brownlow.
"The letter? - A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again, with a penitent 
confession, and prayers to God to help her. He had palmed a tale on the 
girl that some secret mystery - to be explained one day - prevented his 
marrying her just then; and so she had gone on, trusting patiently in him, 
until she trusted too far, and lost what none could ever give her back. She 
was, at that time, within a few months of her confinement. He told her all 
he had meant to do, to hide her shame, if he had lived, and prayed her, if 
he died, not to curse his memory, or think the consequences of their sin 
would be visited on her or their young child; for all the guilt was his. He 
reminded her of the day he had given her the little locket and the ring 
with her Christian name engraved upon it, and a blank left for that which 
he hoped one day to have bestowed upon her - prayed her yet to keep it, and 
wear it next her heart, as she had done before- and then ran on, wildly, in 
the same words, over and over again, as if he had gone distracted. I 
believe he had."
"The will," said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver's tears fell fast."
Monks was silent.
"The will," said Mr. Brownlow, speaking for him, "was in the same spirit as 
the letter. He talked of miseries which his wife had brought upon him; of 
the rebellious disposition, vice, malice, and premature bad passions of you 
his only son, who had been trained to hate him; and left you, and your 
mother, each an annuity of eight hundred pounds. The bulk of his property 
he divided into two equal portions - one for Agnes Fleming, and the other 
for their child, if it should be born alive, and ever come of age. If it 
were a girl, it was to inherit the money unconditionally; but if a boy, 
only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never have stained 
his name with any public act of dishonour, meanness, cowardice, or wrong. 
He did this, he said, to mark his confidence in the mother, and his 
conviction - only strengthened by approaching death- that the child would 
share her gentle heart, and noble nature. If he were disappointed in this 
expectation, then the money was to come to you; for then, and not till 
then, when both children were equal, would he recognise your prior claim 
upon his purse, who had none upon his heart, but had from an infant, 
repulsed him with coldness and aversion."
"My mother," said Monks, in a louder tone, "did what a woman should have 
done. She burned this will. The letter never reached its destination; but 
that, and other proofs, she kept, in case they ever tried to lie away the 
blot. The girl's father had the truth from her with every aggravation that 
her violent hate - I love her for it now - could add. Goaded by shame and 
dishonour he fled with his children into a remote corner of Wales, changing 
his very name that his friends might never know of his retreat; and here, 
no great while afterwards, he was found dead in his bed. The girl had left 
her home, in secret, some weeks before; he had searched for her, on foot, 
in every town and village near; it was on the night when he returned home, 
assured that she had destroyed herself? to hide her shame and his, that his 
old heart broke."
There was a short silence here, until Mr. Brownlow took up the thread of 
the narrative.
"Years after this," he said, "this man's - Edward Leeford's - mother came 
to me. He had left her, when only eighteen; robbed her of jewels and money; 
gambled, squandered, forged, and fled to London, where for two years he had 
associated with the lowest outcasts. She was sinking under a painful and 
incurable disease, and wished to recover him before she died. Inquiries 
were set on foot, and strict searches made. They were unavailing for a long 
time, but ultimately successful; and he went back with her to France."
"There she died," said Monks, "after a lingering illness; and, on her 
deathbed, she bequeathed these secrets to me, together with her 
unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved - though she need 
not have left me that, for I had inherited it long before. She would not 
believe that the girl had destroyed herself, and the child too, but was 
filled with the impression that a male child had been born, and was alive. 
I swore to her, if ever it crossed my path, to hunt it down; never to let 
it rest; to pursue it with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity; to 
vent upon it the hatred that I deeply felt, and to spit upon the empty 
vaunt of that insulting will by dragging it, if I could, to the very 
gallows-foot. She was right. He came in my way at last. I began well; and, 
but for babbling drabs, I would have finished as I began!"
As the villain folded his arms tight together, and muttered curses on 
himself in the impotence of baffled malice, Mr. Brownlow turned to the 
terrified group beside him, and explained that the Jew, who had been his 
old accomplice and confidant, had a large reward for keeping Oliver 
ensnared, of which some part was to be given up, in the event of his being 
rescued, and that a dispute on this head had led to their visit to the 
country houses for the purpose of identifying hum.
"The locket and ring?" said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Monks.
"I bought them from the man and woman I told you of, who stole them from 
the nurse, who stole them from the corpse," answered Monks, without raising 
his eyes. "You know what became of them."
Mr. Brownlow merely nodded to Mr. Grimwig, who disappearing with great 
alacrity, shortly returned, pushing in Mrs. Bumble, and dragging her 
unwilling consort after him.
"Do my hi's deceive me!" cried Mr. Bumble, with ill - feigned enthusiasm, 
"or is that little Oliver? Oh, Oliver, if you know'd how I've been a-
grieving for you -"
"Hold your tongue, fool," murmured Mrs. Bumble.
"Isn't natur', natur', Mrs. Bumble?" remonstrated the workhouse master. 
"Can't I be supposed to feel - I as brought him up porochially - when I see 
him a-setting here among ladies and gentlemen of the very affablest 
description! I always loved that boy as if he'd been my - my - my own 
grandfather," said Mr. Bumble, halting for an appropriate comparison. 
"Master Oliver, my dear, you remember the blessed gentleman in the white 
waistcoat? Ah! he went to heaven last week, in a oak coffin with plated 
handles, Oliver."
"Come, sir," said Mr. Grimwig tartly; "suppress your feelings.
"I will do my endeavours, sir," replied Mr. Bumble. "How do you do, sir? I 
hope you are very well"
This salutation was addressed to Mr. Brownlow, who had stepped up to within 
a short distance of the respectable couple. He inquired, as he pointed to 
Monks:
"Do you know that person?"
"No," replied Mrs. Bumble flatly.
"Perhaps you don't?" said Mr. Brownlow, addressing her spouse.
"I never saw him in all my life," said Mr. Bumble.
"Nor sold him anything, perhaps?"
"No," replied Mr. Bumble.
"You never had, perhaps, a certain gold locket and ring?" said Mr. 
Brownlow.
"Certainly not," replied the matron. "Why are we brought here to answer to 
such nonsense as this?"
Again Mr. Brownlow nodded to Mr. Grimwig; and again that gentleman limped 
away with extraordinary readiness. But not again did he return with a stout 
man and wife; for this time, he led in two palsied women, who shook and 
tottered as they walked.
"You shut the door the night old Sally died," said the foremost one, 
raising her shrivelled hand, "but you couldn't shut out the sound, nor stop 
the chinks."
"No, no," said the other, looking round her and wagging her toothless jaw. 
"No, no, no."
"We heard her try to tell you what she'd done, and saw you take a paper 
from her hand, and watched you too, next day, to the pawnbroker's shop," 
said the first.
"Yes," added the second, "and it was a ' locket and gold ring.' We found 
out that, and saw it given you. We were by. Oh! we were by."
"And we knew more than that," resumed the first, "for she told us often, 
long ago, that the young mother had told her that, feeling she should never 
get over it, she was on her way, at the time that she was taken ill, to die 
near the grave of the father of the child."
"Would you like to see the pawnbroker himself?" asked Mr. Grimwig, with a 
motion towards the door.
"No," replied the woman; "if he" - she pointed to Monks - "has been coward 
enough to confess, as I see he has, and you have sounded all these hags 
till you have found the right ones, I have nothing more to say. I did sell 
them, and they're where you'll never get them. What then?"
"Nothing," replied Mr. Brownlow, "except that it remains for us to take 
care that neither of you is employed in a situation of trust again. You may 
leave the room."
"I hope," said Mr. Bumble, looking about him with great ruefulness, as Mr. 
Grimwig disappeared with the two old woman - "I hope that this unfortunate 
little circumstance will not deprive me of my porochial office?"
"Indeed it will," replied Mr. Brownlow. "You may make up your mind to that, 
and think yourself well off besides."
"It was all Mrs. Bumble. - She would do it," urged Mr. Bumble, first 
looking round to ascertain that his partner had left the room.
"That is no excuse," replied Mr. Brownlow. "You were present on the 
occasion of the destruction of these trinkets, and indeed are the more 
guilty of the two, in the eye of the law; for the law supposes that your 
wife acts under your direction."
"If the law supposes that," said Mr. Bumble, squeezing his hat emphatically 
in both hands, "the law is a ass - a idiot. If that's the eye of the law, 
the law is a bachelor; and the worst I wish the law is, that his eye may be 
opened by experience - by experience."
Laying great stress on the repetition of these two words, Mr. Bumble fixed 
his hat on very tight, and putting his hands in his pockets, followed his 
helpmate downstairs.
"Young lady," said Mr. Brownlow, turning to Rose, "give me your hand. Do 
not tremble. You need not fear to hear the few remaining words I have to 
say."
"If they have - I do not know how they can, but if they have any reference 
to me," said Rose, "pray let me hear them at some other time. I have not 
strength or spirits now."
"Nay," returned the old gentleman, drawing her arm through his; "you have 
more fortitude than this, I am sure. Do you know this young lady, sir?"
"Yes," replied Monks.
"I never saw you before," said Rose faintly.
"I have seen you often," returned Monks.
"The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters," said Mr. Brownlow. 
"What was the fate of the other - the child?"
"The child," replied Monks, "when her father died in a strange place, in a 
strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the 
faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced - the child 
was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own."
"Go on," said Mr. Brownlow, sighing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. "Go on!"
"You couldn't find the spot to which these people had repaired," said 
Monks, "but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My 
mother found it, after a year of cunning search - ay, and found the child."
"She took it, did she?"
"No. The people were poor and began to sicken - at least the man did - of 
their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present 
of money which would not last long, and promising more, which she never 
meant to send. She didn't quite rely, however, on their discontent and 
poverty for the child's unhappiness, but told the history of her sister's 
shame, with such alterations as suited her; bade them take good heed of the 
child, for she came of bad blood; and told them she was illegitimate, and 
sure to go wrong at one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all 
this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence, 
miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing, then, at 
Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was 
some cursed spell, I think, against us; for in spite of all our efforts she 
remained there and was happy. I lost sight of her, two or three years ago, 
and saw her no more until a few months back."
"Do you see her now?"
"Yes. Leaning on your arm."
"But not the less my niece," cried Mrs. Maylie, folding the fainting girl 
in her arms; "not the less my dearest child. I would not lose her now, for 
all the treasures of the world. My sweet companion, my own dear girl!"
"The only friend I ever had," cried Rose, clinging to her. "The kindest, 
best of friends. My heart will burst, I cannot bear all this."
"You have borne more, and have been through all, the best and gentlest 
creature that ever shed happiness on every one she knew," said Mrs. Maylie, 
embracing her tenderly. "Come, come, my love, remember who this is who 
waits to clasp you in his arms, poor child! See here - look, look, my 
dear!"
"Not aunt," cried Oliver, throwing his arms about her neck; "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!"
Let the tears which fell, and the broken words which were exchanged in the 
long, close embrace between the orphans, be sacred. A father, sister, and 
mother, were gained, and lost, in that one moment. Joy and grief were 
mingled in the cup; but there were no bitter tears; for even grief itself 
arose so softened, and clothed in such sweet and tender recollections, that 
it became a solemn pleasure, and lost all character of pain.
They were a long, long time alone. A soft tap at the door, at length 
announced that some one was without. Oliver opened it, glided away, and 
gave place to Harry Maylie.
"I know it all," he said, taking a seat beside the lovely girl. "Dear Rose, 
I know it all."
"I am not here by accident," he added, after a lengthened silence; "nor 
have I heard all this tonight, but I knew it yesterday - only yesterday. Do 
you guess that I have come to remind you of a promise?"
"Stay," said Rose. "You do know all."
"All. You gave me leave, at any time within a year, to renew the subject of 
our last discourse."
"I did."
"Not to press you to alter your determination," pursued the young man, "but 
to hear you repeat it, if you would. I was to lay whatever of station or 
fortune I might possess at your feet, and if you still adhered to your 
former determination, I pledged myself, by no word or act, to seek to 
change it."
"The same reasons which influenced me then, will influence me now," said 
Rose firmly. "If I ever owed a strict and rigid duty to her, whose goodness 
saved me from a life of indigence and suffering, when should I ever feel 
it, as I should tonight? It is a struggle," said Rose, "but one I am proud 
to make; it is a pang, but one my heart shall bear."
"The disclosure of tonight -" Harry began.
"The disclosure of tonight," replied Rose softly, "leaves me in the same 
position, with reference to you, as that in which I stood before."
"You harden your heart against me, Rose," urged her lover.
"Oh, Harry, Harry," said the young lady, bursting into tears; "I wish I 
could, and spare myself this pain."
"Then why inflict it on yourself?" said Harry, taking her hand. "Think, 
dear Rose, think what you have heard tonight."
"And what have I heard? What have I heard?" cried Rose. "That a sense of 
his deep disgrace so worked upon my own father that he shunned all There, 
we have said enough, Harry, we have said enough."
"Not yet, not yet," said the young man, detaining her as she rose. "My 
hopes, my wishes, prospects, feeling - every thought in life except my love 
for you - have undergone a change. I offer you, now, no distinction among a 
bustling crowd; no mingling with a world of malice and detraction where the 
blood is called into honest cheeks by aught but real disgrace and shame; 
but a home - a heart and home - yes, dearest Rose, and those, and those 
alone, are all I have to offer."
"What do you mean?" she faltered.
"I mean but this - that when I left you last, I left you, with a firm 
determination to level all fancied barriers between yourself and me; 
resolved that if my world could not be yours, I would make yours mine; that 
no pride of birth should curl the lip at you, for I would turn from it. 
This I have done. Those who have shrunk from me because of this, have 
shrunk from you, and proved you so far right. Such power and patronage, 
such relatives of influence and rank, as smiled upon me then, look coldly 
now; but there are smiling fields and waving trees in England's richest 
county; and by one village church - mine, Rose, my own! - there stands a 
rustic dwelling which you can make me prouder of, than all the hopes I have 
renounced, measured a thousandfold. This is my rank and station now, and 
here I lay it down!"
"It's a trying time waiting supper for lovers," said Mr. Grimwig, waking 
up, and pulling his pocket-handkerchief from over his head.
Truth to tell, the supper had been waiting a most unreasonable time. 
Neither Mrs. Maylie, nor Harry, nor Rose (who all came in together), could 
offer a word in extenuation.
"I had serious thoughts of eating my head tonight," said Mr. Grimwig, "for 
I began to think I should get nothing else. I'll take the liberty, if 
you'll allow me, of saluting the bride that is to be."
Mr. Grimwig lost no time in carrying this notice into effect upon the 
blushing girl; and the example, being contagious, was followed both by the 
doctor and Mr. Brownlow. Some people affirm that Harry Maylie had been 
observed to set it, originally, in a dark room adjoining; but the best 
authorities consider this downright scandal, he being young and a 
clergyman.
"Oliver, my child," said Mrs. Maylie, "where have you been, and why do you 
look so sad? There are tears stealing down your face at this moment. What 
is the matter?"
It is a world of disappointment - often to the hopes we most cherish, and 
hopes that do our nature the greatest honour.
Poor Dick was dead!



Chapter 52

Fagin's Last Night Alive

The court was paved, from floor to roof, with human faces. Inquisitive and 
eager eyes peered from every inch of space. From the rail before the dock, 
away into the sharpest angle of the smallest corner in the galleries, all 
looks were fixed upon one man - Fagin. Before him and behind - above, 
below, on the right and on the left - he seemed to stand surrounded by a 
firmament, all bright with gleaming eyes.
He stood there, in all this glare of living light, with one hand resting on 
the wooden slab before him, the other held to his ear, and his head thrust 
forward to enable him to catch with greater distinctness every word that 
fell from the presiding judge, who was delivering his charge to the jury. 
At times, he turned his eyes sharply upon them to observe the effect of the 
slightest featherweight in his favour; and when the points against him were 
stated with terrible distinctness, looked towards his counsel, in mute 
appeal that he would, even then, urge something in his behalf. Beyond these 
manifestations of anxiety, he stirred not hand or foot. He had scarcely 
moved since the trial began; and now that the judge ceased to speak, he 
still remained in the same strained attitude of close attention, with his 
gaze bent on him, as though he listened still.
A slight bustle in the court, recalled him to himself. Looking round, he 
saw that the jurymen had turned together to consider of their verdict. As 
his eyes wandered to the gallery, he could see the people rising above each 
other to see his face - some hastily applying their glasses to their eyes- 
and others whispering to their neighbours with looks expressive of 
abhorrence. A few there were, who seemed unmindful of him, and looked only 
to the jury, in impatient wonder how they could delay. But in no one face - 
not even among the women, of whom there were many there - could he read the 
faintest sympathy with himself, or any feeling by one of all-absorbing 
interest that he should be condemned.
As he saw all this in one bewildered glance, the death-like stillness came 
again, and looking back, he saw that the jurymen had turned towards the 
judge. Hush!
They only sought permission to retire.
He looked wistfully into their faces, one by one, when they passed out, as 
though to see which way the greater number leaned; but that was fruitless. 
The Jailer touched him on the shoulder. He followed mechanically to the end 
of the dock, and sat down on a chair. The man pointed it out, or he would 
not have seen it.
He looked up into the gallery again. Some of the people were eating, and 
some fanning themselves with handkerchiefs; for the crowded place was very 
hot. There was one young man sketching his face in a little note-book. He 
wondered whether it was like, and looked on when the artist broke his 
pencil-point, and made another with his knife, as any idle spectator might 
have done.
In the same way, when he turned his eyes towards the judge, his mind began 
to busy itself with the fashion of his dress, and what it cost, and how he 
put it on. There was an old fat gentleman on the bench, too, who had gone 
out, some half an hour before, and now come back. He wondered within 
himself whether this man had been to get his dinner, what he had had, and 
where he had had it; and pursued this train of careless thought until some 
new object caught his eye and roused another.
Not that, all this time, his mind was, for an instant, free from one 
oppressive overwhelming sense of the grave that opened at his feet; it was 
ever present to him, but in a vague and general way, and he could not fix 
his thoughts upon it. Thus, even while he trembled, and turned burning hot 
at the idea of speedy death, he fell to counting the iron spikes before 
him, and wondering how the head of one had been broken off and whether they 
would mend it, or leave it as it was. Then he thought of all the horrors of 
the gallows and the scaffold- and stopped to watch a man sprinkling the 
floor to cool it - and then went on to think again.
At length there was a cry of silence, and a breathless look from all 
towards the door. The jury returned, and passed him close.
He could glean nothing from their faces; they might as well have been of 
stone. Perfect stillness ensued - not a rustle - not a breath - Guilty.
The building rang with a tremendous shout, and another, and another, and 
then it echoed loud groans, that gathered strength as they swelled out, 
like angry thunder. It was a peal of joy from the populace outside, 
greeting the news that he would die on Monday.
The noise subsided, and he was asked if he had anything to say why sentence 
of death should not be passed upon him. He had resumed his listening 
attitude, and looked intently at his questioner while the demand was made; 
but it was twice repeated before he seemed to hear it, and then he only 
muttered that he was an old man - an old man - an old man - and so, 
dropping into a whisper, was silent again.
The judge assumed the black cap, and the prisoner still stood with the same 
air and gesture. A woman in the gallery uttered some exclamation, called 
forth by this dread solemnity; he looked hastily up as if angry at the 
interruption, and bent forward yet more attentively. The address was solemn 
and impressive; the sentence fearful to hear. But he stood, like a marble 
figure, without the motion of a nerve. His haggard face was still thrust 
forward, his underjaw hanging down, and his eyes staring out before him, 
when the jailer put his hand upon his arm, and beckoned him away. He gazed 
stupidly about him for an instant, and obeyed.
They led him through a paved room under the court, where some prisoners 
were waiting till their turns came, and others were talking to their 
friends, who crowded round a grate which looked into the open yard. There 
was nobody there to speak to him; but, as he passed, the prisoners fell 
back to render him more visible to the people who were clinging to the 
bars; and they assailed him with opprobrious names, and screeched and 
hissed. He shook his fist, and would have spat upon them; but his 
conductors hurried him on, through a gloomy passage lighted by a few dim 
lamps, into the interior of the prison.
Here he was searched, that he might not have about him the means of 
anticipating the law; this ceremony performed, they led him to one of the 
condemned cells, and left him there - alone.
He sat down on a stone bench opposite the door, which served for seat and 
bedstead; and casting his bloodshot eyes upon the ground, tried to collect 
his thoughts. After a while, he began to remember a few disjointed 
fragments of what the judge had said; though it had seemed to him, at the 
time, that he could not hear a word. These gradually fell into their proper 
places, and by degrees suggested more; so that in a little time he had the 
whole, almost as it was delivered. To be hanged by the neck, till he was 
dead- that was the end. To be hanged by the neck - till he was dead.
As it came on very dark, he began to think of all the men he had known who 
had died upon the scaffold; some of them through his means. They rose up, 
in such quick succession, that he could hardly count them. He had seen some 
of them die- and had joked too, because they died with prayers upon their 
lips. With what a rattling noise, the drop went down; and how suddenly they 
changed, from strong vigorous men to dangling heaps of clothes!
Some of them might have inhabited that very cell - sat upon that very spot. 
It was very dark; why didn't they bring a light? The cell had been built 
for many years. Scores of men must have passed their last hours there. It 
was like sitting in a vault strewn with dead bodies - the cap, the noose, 
the pinioned arms, the faces that he knew, even beneath that hideous veil. -
 Light, light!
At length, when his hands were raw with beating against the heavy door and 
walls, two men appeared, one bearing a candle, which he thrust into an iron 
candlestick fixed against the wall, the other dragging in a mattress on 
which to pass the night; for the prisoner was to be left alone no more.
Then came night - dark, dismal, silent night. Other watchers are glad to 
hear this church clock strike, for they tell of life and coming day. To him 
they brought despair. The boom of every iron bell came laden with the one, 
deep, hollow sound - Death. What availed the noise and bustle of cheerful 
morning, which penetrated even there, to him? It was another form of knell, 
with mockery added to the warning.
The day passed off - day! There was no day; it was gone as soon as come- 
and night came on again; night so long, and yet so short; long in its 
dreadful silence, and short in its fleeting hours. At one time he raved and 
blasphemed; and at another howled and tore his hair. Venerable men of his 
own persuasion had come to pray beside him, but he had driven them away 
with curses. They renewed their charitable efforts and he beat them o£
Saturday night. He had only one night more to live. And as he thought of 
this, the day broke - Sunday.
It was not until the night of this last awful day, that a withering sense 
of his helpless, desperate state came in its full intensity upon his 
blighted soul; not that he had ever held any defined or positive hope of 
mercy, but that he had never been able to consider more than the dim 
probability of dying so soon. He had spoken little to either of the two 
men, who relieved each other in their attendance upon him; and they, for 
their parts, made no effort to rouse his attention. He had sat there, 
awake, but dreaming. Now, he started up, every minute, and with gasping 
mouth and burning skin, hurried to and fro, in such a paroxysm of fear and 
wrath that even they - used to such sights - recoiled from him with horror. 
He grew so terrible, at last, in all the tortures of his evil conscience, 
that one man could not bear to sit there, eyeing him alone; and so the two 
kept watch together.
He cowered down upon his stone bed, and thought of the past. He had been 
wounded with some missiles from the crowd on the day of his capture, and 
his head was bandaged with a linen cloth. His red hair hung down upon his 
bloodless face; his beard was torn, and twisted into knots; his eyes shone 
with a terrible light; his unwashed flesh crackled with the fever that 
burned him up. Eight - nine - ten. If it was not a trick to frighten him, 
and those were the real hours treading on each other's heels, where would 
he be, when they came round again! Eleven. Another struck, before the voice 
of the previous hour had ceased to vibrate. At eight, he would be the only 
mourner in his own funeral train; at eleven
Those dreadful walls of Newgate, which have hidden so much misery and such 
unspeakable anguish, not only from the eyes, but, too often, and too long, 
from the thoughts, of men, never held so dread a spectacle as that. The few 
who lingered as they passed, and wondered what the man was doing who was to 
be hanged tomorrow, would have slept but ill that night, if they could have 
seen him.
From early in the evening until nearly midnight, little groups of two and 
three presented themselves at the lodge gate, and inquired, with anxious 
faces, whether any reprieve had been received. These being answered in the 
negative, communicated the welcome intelligence to clusters in the street 
who pointed out to one another the door from which he must come out, and 
showed where the scaffold would be built, and walking with unwilling steps 
away, turned back to conjure up the scene. By degrees they fell off, one by 
one; and, for an hour, in the dead of night, the street was left to 
solitude and darkness.
The space before the prison was cleared, and a few strong barriers, painted 
black, had been already thrown across the road to break the pressure of the 
expected crowd, when Mr. Brownlow and Oliver appeared at the wicket, and 
presented an order of admission to the prisoner, signed by one of the 
sheriffs. They were immediately admitted to the lodge.
"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 the child has seen him in 
the full career of his success and villainy, I think it as 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, towards the cells.
"This," said the man, stopping in a gloomy passage where a couple of 
workmen were making some preparations in profound silence - "this is the 
place he passes through. If you step this way, you can see the door he goes 
out at."
He led them into a stone kitchen, fitted with coppers for dressing the 
prison food, and pointed to a door. There was an open grating above it, 
through which came the sound of men's voices, mingled with the noise of 
hammering, and the throwing down of boards. They were putting up the 
scaffold.
From this place, they passed through several strong gates, opened by other 
turnkeys - from the inner side; and, having entered an open yard, ascended 
a flight of narrow steps, and came into a passage with a row of strong 
doors on the left hand. Motioning them to remain where they were, the 
turnkey knocked at one of these with his bunch of keys. The two attendants, 
after a little whispering, came out into the passage, stretching themselves 
as if glad of the temporary relief, and motioned the visitors to follow the 
jailer into the cell. They did so.
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 the 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 Fagin. "Do you hear me, some of you? He has 
been the - the - somehow the cause of all this. It's worth the money to 
bring him up to it - Bolter's throat, Bill; never mind the girl - Bolter's 
throat as deep as you can cut. Saw his head off!"
"Fagin," said the jailer.
"That's me!" cried Fagin, 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 shan't be one long," he replied, 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 Fagin. "I haven't one - not one."
"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow solemnly, "do not say that now, 
upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that 
Sikes is dead; that Monks has confessed; that there is no hope of any 
further gain. Where are those papers?"
"Oliver," cried Fagin, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper to 
you."
"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a low voice, as he relinquished Mr. 
Brownlow's hand.
"The papers," said Fagin, drawing Oliver 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 Fagin, 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 Fagin. "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 Fagin. "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.
It was some time before they left the prison. Oliver nearly swooned after 
this frightful scene, and was so weak that for an hour or more, he had not 
the strength to walk.
Day was dawning when they again emerged. A great multitude had already 
assembled; the windows were filled with people, smoking and playing cards 
to beguile the time; the crowd were pushing, quarrelling, joking. 
Everything told of life and animation, but one dark cluster of objects in 
the centre of all - the black stage, the cross-beam, the rope, and all the 
hideous apparatus of death.



Chapter 53

And Last.

The fortunes of those who have figured in this tale are nearly closed. The 
little that remains to their historian to relate, is told in few and simple 
words.
Before three months had passed, Rose Fleming and Harry Maylie were married 
in the village church which was henceforth to be the scene of the young 
clergyman's labours; on the same day they entered into possession of their 
new and happy home.
Mrs. Maylie took up her abode with her son and daughter-in-law, to enjoy, 
during the tranquil remainder of her days, the greatest felicity that age 
and worth can know - the contemplation of the happiness of those on whom 
the warmest affections and tenderest cares of a well-spent life have been 
unceasingly bestowed.
It appeared, on full and careful investigation, that if the wreck of 
property remaining in the custody of Monks (which had never prospered 
either in his hands or in those of his mother) were equally divided between 
himself and Oliver, it would yield, to each, little more than three 
thousand pounds. By the provisions of his father's will, Oliver would have 
been entitled to the whole; but Mr. Brownlow, unwilling to deprive the 
elder son of the opportunity of retrieving his former vices and pursuing an 
honest career, proposed this mode of distribution, to which his young 
charge joyfully acceded.
Monks, still bearing that assumed name, retired with his portion to a 
distant part of the New World; where, having quickly squandered it, he once 
more fell into his old courses, and, after undergoing a long confinement 
for some fresh act of fraud and knavery, at length sank under an attack of 
his old disorder, and died in prison. As far from home, died the chief 
remaining members of his friend Fagin's gang.
Mr. Brownlow adopted Oliver as his son. Removing with him and the old 
housekeeper to within a mile of the parsonage house, where his dear friends 
resided, he gratified the only remaining wish of Oliver's warm and earnest 
heart, and thus linked together a little society, whose condition 
approached as nearly to one of perfect happiness as can ever be known in 
this changing world.
Soon after the marriage of the young people, the worthy doctor returned to 
Chertsey, where, bereft of the presence of his old friends, he would have 
been discontented if his temperament had admitted of such a feeling; and 
would have turned quite peevish if he had known how. For two or three 
months, he contented himself with hinting that he feared the air began to 
disagree with him; then, finding that the place really no longer was, to 
him, what it had been, he settled his business on his assistant, took a 
bachelor's cottage outside the village of which his young friend was 
pastor, and instantaneously recovered. Here, he took to gardening, 
planting, fishing, carpentering, and various other pursuits of a similar 
kind, all undertaken with his characteristic impetuosity, and in each and 
all, he has since become famous throughout the neighbourhood, as a most 
profound authority.
Before his removal, he had managed to contract a strong friendship for Mr. 
Grimwig, which that eccentric gentleman cordially reciprocated. He is 
accordingly visited by Mr. Grimwig a great many times in the course of the 
year. On all such occasions, Mr. Grimwig plants, fishes, and carpenters, 
with great ardour; doing everything in a very singular and unprecedented 
manner, but always maintaining with his favourite asseveration, that his 
mode is the right one On Sundays, he never fails to criticise the sermon to 
the young clergyman's face; always informing Mr. Losberne, in strict 
confidence afterwards, that he considers it an excellent performance, but 
deems it as well not to say so. It is a standing and very favourite joke 
for Mr. Brownlow to rally him on his old prophecy concerning Oliver, and to 
remind him of the night on which they sat with the watch between them, 
waiting his return; but Mr. Grimwig contends that he was right in the main, 
and, in proof thereof, remarks that Oliver did not come beck, after all; 
which always calls forth a laugh on his side, and increases his good-
humour.
Mr. Noah Claypole, receiving a free pardon from the Crown in consequence of 
being admitted approver against Fagin, and considering his profession not 
altogether as safe a one as he could wish, was, for some little time, at a 
loss for the means of a livelihood, not burdened with too much work. After 
some consideration, he went into business as an informer, in which calling 
he realises a genteel subsistence. His plan is to walk out once a week 
during church time attended by Charlotte in respectable attire. The lady 
faints away at the doors of charitable publicans, and the gentleman being 
accommodated with threepennyworth of brandy to restore her, lays an 
information next day, and pockets half the penalty. Sometimes, Mr. Claypole 
faints himself, but the result is the same.
Mr. and Mrs. Bumble, deprived of their situations, were gradually reduced 
to great indigence and misery, and finally became paupers in that very same 
workhouse in which they had once lorded it over others. Mr. Bumble has been 
heard to say, that in this reverse and degradation, he has not even spirits 
to be thankful for being separated from his wife.
As to Mr. Giles and Brittles, they still remain in their old posts, 
although the former is bald, and the last-named boy quite grey. They sleep 
at the parsonage, but divide their attentions so equally among its inmates, 
and Oliver, and Mr. Brownlow, and Mr. Losberne, that to this day the 
villagers have never been able to discover to which establishment they 
properly belong.
Master Charles Bates, appalled by Sikes's crime, fell into a train of 
reflection whether an honest life was not, after all, the best. Arriving at 
the conclusion that it certainly was, he turned his back upon the scenes of 
the past, resolved to amend it in some new sphere of action. He struggled 
hard, and suffered much, for some time; but, having a contented 
disposition, and a good purpose, succeeded in the end; and, from being a 
farmer's drudge, and a carrier's lad, he is now the merriest young grazier 
in all Northamptonshire.
And now, the hand that traces these words, falters, as it approaches the 
conclusion of its task; and would weave, for a little longer space, the 
threads of these adventures.
I would fain linger yet with a few of those among whom I have so long 
moved, and share their happiness by endeavouring to depict it. I would show 
Rose Maylie in all the bloom and grace of early womanhood, shedding on her 
secluded path in life soft and gentle light, that fell on all who trod it 
with her, and shone into their hearts. I would paint her the life and joy 
of the fireside circle and the lively summer group; I would follow her 
through the sultry fields at noon, and hear the low tones of her sweet 
voice in the moonlit evening walk; I would watch her in all her goodness 
and charity abroad, and the smiling, untiring discharge of domestic duties 
at home; I would paint her and her dead sister's child happy in their love 
for one another, and passing whole hours together in picturing the friends 
whom they had so sadly lost; I would summon before me, once again, those 
joyous little faces that clustered round her knee, and listen to their 
merry prattle; I would recall the tones of that clear laugh, and conjure up 
the sympathising tear that glistened in the soft blue eye. These, and a 
thousand looks and smiles, and turns of thought and speech - I would fain 
recall them every one.
How Mr. Brownlow went on, from day to day, filling the mind of his adopted 
child with stores of knowledge, and becoming attached to him, more and 
more, as his nature developed itself, and showed the thriving seeds of all 
he wished him to become - how he traced in him new traits of his early 
friend, that awakened in his own bosom old remembrances, melancholy and yet 
sweet and soothing - how the two orphans, tried by adversity, remembered 
its lessons in mercy to others, and mutual love, and fervent thanks to Him 
who had protected and preserved them - these are all matters which need not 
be told. I have said that they were truly happy; and without strong 
affection and humanity of heart, and gratitude to that Being whose code is 
Mercy, and whose great attribute is Benevolence to all things that breathe, 
happiness can never be attained.
Within the altar of the old village church there stands a white marble 
tablet, which bears as yet but one word: "AGNES." There is no coffin in 
that tomb; and may it be many, many years, before another name is placed 
above it! But, if the spirits of the Dead ever come back to earth, to visit 
spots hallowed by the love - the love beyond the grave - of those whom they 
knew in life, I believe that the shade of Agnes sometimes hovers round that 
solemn nook. I believe it none the less because that nook is in a church, 
and she was weak and erring.