 CHAPTER XV Showing how very fond of Oliver Twist the merry old Jew and Miss Nancy were, in the obscure parlour of a low public house in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill, a dark and gloomy den where a flaring gaslight burnt all day in the wintertime, and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer, the sap brooding over a little cuter measure on a small glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half boots and stockings, whom, even by that dim light, no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. Williams Sykes. 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 cup on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict. Keep quiet, you warmant, keep quiet, said Mr. Sykes, in 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 deliverable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them. It's a 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. Sykes' dog, having faults of temper and common with his owner, and labouring perhaps at this moment under a powerful sense of injury, made no more do but at once fix his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given it a hearty shake, he retired, growling under a form, just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sykes levelled at his head. He would, would you, said Sykes, seizing the poker in one hand, and deliberately opening with the other a large clasp of life that he drew from his pocket. Come here, you born devil! Come here, dear! The dog had no doubt heard, because Mr. Sykes spoke in the very harshest key, from a very harsh voice, but appeared 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. Sykes the more, as 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 the most critical point for one or another when the door suddenly opened, and the dog darted out, leaving Bill Sykes with the poker and the clasp of life in his hand. There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sykes being disappointed of the dog's participation, at once transferred his share of the quarrel to the newcomer. What a devil do you come in between me and my dog for, said Sykes with a fierce gesture. I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know, replied Fagan humbly, for the Jew was a newcomer. You didn't know your white-livered thief growled Sykes, couldn't you hear the noise? Not a sound of it, as of my living man Bill, replied the Jew. Oh, no, you hear nothing, you don't retorted Sykes with a fierce sneer, sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears that you come or go, wish you'd been a dogfagan half a minute ago. Why, inquired the Jew with a forced smile? Because the government that cares for the lives of such men as you as have an after-pluck of cures, that's a man-killer dog how he likes, replied Sykes, 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 of ease, however. Grin away, said Sykes, 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 camp and I've got the upper hand over you, Fagan, and damn 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 have a mutual interest, Bill, a mutual interest. Yeah, said Sykes, as if he thought the interest laid more than 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 Fagan. And this is your share. It's rather more than I thought it ought to be, my dear. But as I know you'll do me a good turn another time and stow that gammon into post the robber impatiently. Where is it? And over. Yes, yes, Bill, give me time. Give me time, replied the Jew, soothing me. Here it is, all safe. As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief in his breast and I'm tying a large knot in one corner due to a small brown paper packet. Sykes, snatching it from him hastily, opened it and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained. That's all there is, inquired Sykes. All replied the Jew. Now look at the parcel and swallow what I too should come along, have you, inquired Sykes, suspiciously. Don't put on an injured look at the question. You've done it many a time. Juck the tip there. These words in plain English conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It was answered by another Jew, younger than Fagan, but nearly as violent repulsive in an appearance. Bill Sykes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding the hint, retired to fill it. Previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagan, 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 Sykes. There was stripping at the moment to tie a boot base, which the dog had torn. Possibly if he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it bolded him no good to him. Is anybody here, Barney, inquired Fagan, speaking now that Sykes was looking on without raising his eyes in the ground. Dr. Shoal replied Barney, whose words, wherever they came from the heart, had not made their way through the nose. Nobody, inquired Fagan in a tone of surprise, which perhaps might mean that Barney was liberty to tell the truth. Nobody but Miss Nunsey, replied Barney. Nunsey exclaimed Sykes, where, strike me blind, if I don't honor that girl for her native talents. She'd been having a plate of bought beef in the bar, replied Barney. Send her ear, said Sykes, pouring out a glass of liquor. Send her ear. Barney looked timidly at Fagan as if for permission. The jewel remaining silent, not lifting his eyes in the ground, he retired and presently returned, ushering in Nancy, who was decorated with a bonnet, apron, basket, and street door key complete. Your honor, sent Ion Nancy, inquired Sykes, 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 Fagan, looking up. Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eyebrows and a half-closing of his deeply set eyes, warned Miss Nunsey that she was supposed 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. Sykes, turned the conversation to other matters. In about 10 minutes' time, Mr. Fagan was seized with a fit of coffee, upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sykes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her. They went away together, followed a little distance by the dog, he slunk out of a backyard as soon as his master was out of sight. The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sykes 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, he seated himself at the table, where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hewn Cry. Meanwhile, Oliver twist, a little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the bookstore. When he got into Clarkinwell, he accidentally turned down a by-street by which it's not exactly in his way. But not discovering the mistake until he got halfway down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it worthwhile to turn back, but so marched on as quickly as he could with the books under his arm. He was walking along, thinking unhappy 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 it hardly looked up to see what the matter was when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck. Don't cry, 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 dorky in her hand. Oh, my gracious, said the young woman, I have found him, oh, Oliver, Oliver, you naughty boy to make me suffer such distress on your account. Come home, dear, come, oh, I have found him, that gracious goodness heavens are 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 that moment asked a butchess boy with a shiny head of hair, anointed with suet, who was also looking on whether he didn't think he'd better run for the doctor. To which the butchess boy, who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition, replied, he thought not. Oh, no, no, never mind, said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand, I'm better now, come home directly, you cruel boy, come. Oh, ma'am, replied the young woman, he ran away near a month ago from his parents with a hard-working and respectable people, and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters. Almost broke his mother's heart. Young wretch, said one woman, go home, do you, little brute, said the other. I am not, Oliver replied, greatly alarmed, I don't know her, I haven't any sister or father or mother either. I'm an orphan, I live at Pentonville. Oh, hear him, how he braves it out, cried the young woman. Why, his Nancy, explained Oliver, who now saw her face for the first time and started back in irrepressible astonishment. You see, he knows me, cried Nancy, appeared to the bystanders. He can't help himself, make him come home this good people, or he'll kill his dear mother and father and break my heart. What a devil's this, said a man bursting out of a beer shop with a white dog at his heels. Young Oliver, come out here, poor mother, you young dog, come home directly. I don't belong to them, I don't know them. 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 stealing them, haven't you? Give them here. With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp and struck him on the head. That's right, cried a locker on from the garret window. It'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, air bullseye, mind him, boy, mind him. Weak with recent illness, stupefied by the blows of 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, 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 with a pace which rendered the few cries he dared give utterance to unintelligible. It was a little moment indeed, whether they were intelligible or no, for there was nobody to care for them, they'd 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 20 times to see if there were any traces of Oliver and still the two old gentlemen sat perseveringly in the dark parlor with a watch between them. End of chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 16 relates to what became of Oliver Twist after he'd been claimed by Nancy. The narrow streets and courts at length were terminated in a large open space, scattered about which were pens for beasts and other indications of a cattle market. Sykes 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 Sykes as Oliver hesitated and looked around? 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 Sykes, seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. Ear bullseye! The dog looked up and growled. See, ear boy, said Sykes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat. If he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him, dear mind. The dog growled again, and licking his lips, eyed Oliver, as if he were anxious, to a-chatch himself to his windpipe without delay. He says, willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he ain't, says Sykes, 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 man. Bullseye wagged his tail in acknowledgement that this unusually endearing form of speech, a 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 grove in a square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The light 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 than Oliver's eyes, making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. It hurried on a few places when a deep church bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, the 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 coming, I replied, Sykes. I wonder if they can hear it, said Nancy. Of course they can, replied Sykes. It was by telling me time when I was shopped and there weren't a penny trumpet at the fair as I could hear the squeaking on. After I was locked up from the night, the rowan did outside, made the thundering old jail so silent that I'd almost beat my brains out against the iron plates in the door. Poor fellow, said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the quarter in which the bell had sounded. Oh, Bill, such fine young chapses then. Yes, or you wouldn't think of us, said Sykes. Fine young chaps, we're as good as dead, so it don't much matter. With this consolation, Mr. Sykes appeared to repress a rising tendency to jealousy. The 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 hadn't a shawl to cover me. And what good would that do, inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sykes. Unless you could pitch over a file and 20 yards of good stout rope, you might as well be walking 50 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, threw her shawl more closely around her, and they walked away, but Oliver felt her hand tremble, and looking up at 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 as much the same position in society as Mr. Sykes 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 cover, stood before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted. The house was in a ruinous condition, and on the door was an elderboard intimating that it was to let, which looked as if it had hung there for many years. All right, cried Sykes, glancing cautiously about. Nancy stooped below the shutters and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed 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. Sykes then seized the terrified boy with a 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 them in chained and barred the door. Anybody here, cried Sykes. No, replied the voice which Oliver thought he'd heard before. Is he old and here, asked the robber. Yes, replied the voice, and precious down in a mouth he's 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 glimpse, said Sykes, or we should go break in our necks or tread in on the dog, look after your legs if you do. 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 tello 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 backyard. We're received with a shout of laughter. Oh my wig, my wig, cried Master Charles Batesman, whose lungs the laughter had proceeded. Here he is, oh cry, here he is, oh faggot, look at him. Faggot, do look at him, I can't bear it. Such a jolly game, I can't bear it. Hold me somebody while I laugh it out. With this irrepressible ebolution 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, snatched the cleft stick from the dodger and advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round. While the Jew taking off his nightcap made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The artful meantime, who was of a rather such an iron disposition and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, rifled Oliver's pockets with a steady acidity. Look at his tugs, Faggot, said Charlie, putting the light so close to his new jacket is likely to set him on fire. Look at his tugs, super fine cloth and every swell cup. Oh my, what a game, and his box too. Nothing but a gentleman, Faggot. Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear, I 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 Faggot himself relaxed, and even the dodger smiled. But as the artful drew forth the five-pound note of that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. Oh, what's that, inquired Psyche, stepping forward as the Jew sees the note? That's mine, Faggot. No, no, my dear, said the Jew, mine, Bill, mine, you shall have the books. If that ain't mine, he said, Bill, Psyche, 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, for the very different cause, before he hoped that the dispute might really end and his being taken back. Come on and over, will you, said Psyche? This is oddly fair, Bill. Oddly fair is it Nancy, inquired the Jew. Fair or not, retorted Psyche, and over, I'll tell you. Do you think that Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time, but to spend it in scouting after and kidnapping every young boy gets grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skillet, and give it here. With this gentle reminiscence, Mr. Psyche's plucked the note from between the Jews' 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 trouble, said Psyche, and not often, either. You may keep your books if you find a reading if you ain't sell them. They're very pretty, said Charlie Bate, who with sundry grimaces had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question. Beautiful writing, isn't it, Oliver? At the sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tall mentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ecstasy, more boisterous than the first. They belonged to the old gentleman, said Oliver, wringing its hands, to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house and had me nursed when I was near dying of fever. Oh, pray send them back, send him back with books and money. Keep me here all my life long, but pray, pray, send them back. We'll think I stole them, the old lady, all of them who were so kind to me. We'll think I stole them. Do have mercy upon me and send them back. With these words, which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet and beat his hands together in perfect desperation. The boy's right, remarked Fagan, looking covertly round and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. Oliver, you're right. They will think you have stolen them. Ha, ha, chuckled the tune rubbing his hands. He couldn't have happened better if we had chosen our time. Of course it couldn't, replied Sykes. I know that. Directly I see him coming through the clock and while with the books under his arm, it's all right enough. A soft-hearted psalm singer thought he wouldn't have taken him in at all. And they'll ask no questions after him. Feel they should be obliged to prosecute and so get him lagged is safe enough. Oliver had looked from one to the other while these words were being spoken as if he were bewildered, could scarcely understand what passed. But when Bill Sykes concluded, he jumped suddenly up 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 started out in pursuit. Keep back the dog, he'll tear the boys to pieces. Serve him right, cried Sykes, 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 she kill me first. Sharp me, said Sykes, setting his teeth. I'll soon do that if you don't keep off. The housebreaker flung the girl from him to the further end of the room, just as the Jew and the two boys returned, dragging Oliver among them. What's the matter here, said Fagan, looking round. Girls got mad, I think, replied Sykes savagely. No, she hasn't said Nancy pale and breathless on the scuffle. No, she hasn't, Fagan, don't think it. Then keep quiet, will you? Said the Jew with a threatening look. No, I won't do that either, replied Nancy, speaking very loud. Come, what do you think of that? Mr. Fagan 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 a view of diverting the attention of a company. He turned to Oliver. So you want to get away, my dear, did you? Said the Jew, taking up a, which lay in a corner in a fireplace. Eh, I'll have her make 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. Would cure you of that, my young master? The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver's shoulders with a club and was raising it for a second when the girl rushing forward rested it from his hand. She flung it into the fire with a force that brought some of the glowing coals whirling out into the room. I won't stand by and see it done, Fagan, quite a girl. You've got the boy, for 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 thread. 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. Well, Nancy said the Jew in a soothing tone after a pause during which he and Mr. Sykes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner. You're more clever than ever tonight. My dear, you're acting beautifully. Am I, said the girl? Take care, I don't know if I do it. You'll be the worst for it, Fagan, if I do. So I tell you a 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 shrink him violently back a few paces cast a glance, half imploring, half cowardly at Sykes as if to hint that he was the fittest person to pursue the dialogue. Mr. Sykes 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 scores and curses and threats, the rapid production of which reflected a great credit on the fertility of his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against whom they were discharged, however, he resulted to more tangible arguments. What do you mean by this, said Sykes backing the common implication concerning the most beautiful of human features which if it were heard above only once out of every 50,000 times and 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, and shaking her head from side to side with a poor assumption of indifference. Well then, keep quiet, matured Sykes, 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 Sykes, turned her face aside and bit her lip till the blood came. You're a nice one, added Sykes as he surveyed her with a contentious air. To take up her humane and gentile side, a pretty subject for the child as you'd call him to make a friend of, God almighty help me, I am crying to go passionately, and I wish I had been struck dead in this or a changed places with them we pass so near to tonight before I lend a hand to bringing him here. He's a thief, a liar, devil, all that's bad from this night forth, isn't it enough for the old wretch without blows? Come, come, Sykes, said the Jew, appealing to him in a remonstrate of each own, 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 them from me. I thieved for you when I was a child, not half as old as this, according to Oliver. I've been in the same trade and in the same service for 12 years. 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. I, it is, returned the girl, not speaking, but pouring out the words in one continuous and vehement scream. It's my living and the cold, wet, dirty streets of 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 should do you a mischief in depose the Jew goaded by these reproaches, a mischief worse than that if you say much more. The girl said nothing more, but tearing her hair and dress in a transport of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as probably had left signal marks of her revenge upon him, had not a risk been seized by Sykes at the right moment, upon which she made a few ineffectual struggles and fainted. She's all right now, said Sykes, laying her down in the 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. Neither he nor Sykes, 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 deal with women, said the Jew, replacing his club. But they're clever and we can't get on in our line without them. Charlie, show all over to bed. I suppose he better not wear his best clothes to morphegan Addy, inquired Charlie Bates. Certainly not, replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which Charlie 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 the Fagan by the Jew had purchased them had been in the very first clue received of his whereabouts. Put off the smart ones, said Charlie. Well, I'll give him the Fagan 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 Charlie's laughter and the voice of Miss Betsy, who opportunally arrived to throw water over her friend and perform among the feminine offices for the promotion of a 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. End of chapter 16. Chapter 17 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. 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 comic scenes in as a 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 of 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 prowl and ruthless barren. The virtue and her life are like our own 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 straight away transported to the great hall of the castle. We're a grey-headed sentinel, 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, caroling perpetually. Such changes appear absurd, but they are not so unnatural as they would seem at first sight. Transitions in real life from well-spread boards to deathbeds and from mourning weeds to holiday garments are not a bit less startling. 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 passions 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, and 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. So let it be considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian, that he's going back to the town in which Oliver Twisp was born. The reader taking it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the journey, for he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition. Mr. Bumble emerged early morning from the workhouse gate and walked with portly courage and commanding steps up the high street. He was in the full bloom and pride of beadle-hood. His cocked hat and coat were dazzling in the morning sun. He clutched his cane with a 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 ear 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 shopkeepers and others who spoke to him, deferentially as he passed along. He merely returned their salutations with a wave in his hand and relaxed not in his dignified pace until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the infant paupers with parochial care. Drap that beadle, said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the garden gate. If it isn't him this time of morning, look, 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 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 other common jack and apes would, letting himself down gradually and slowly into a chair. Mrs. Mann, ma'am, good morning. Well, good morning to you, sir, replied Mrs. Mann with many smiles and hoping to find yourself well, sir. So, so, Mrs. Mann, replied the beadle, parochial life is not a bed of roses, Mrs. Mann. Ah, that it is indeed Mr. Bumble rejoined the lady, and all the infant paupers might have caused the rejoinder with great propriety if they had heard it. The parochial life, ma'am, continued Mr. Bumble striking the table with his cane, is a life of warren vexation and hardyhood. 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 inside. Ah, well, you may 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 going to London. Look, Mr. Bumble cried, Mrs. Mann, starting back. To London, man, resumed the inflexible beadle. By coach, I am too paupers, Mrs. Mann. A legal action is coming on about a settlement, and the board has appointed me, me, Mrs. Mann, to dispose of the matter before the quarter sessions at Clarkingwell. And I very much questioned, had it Mr. Bumble drawing himself up, whether the Clarkingwell 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 Clarkingwell sessions have brought in upon themselves, man, replied Mr. Bumble. And if the Clarkingwell sessions find that they come off rather worse than they expected, the Clarkingwell 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. And 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 their real Mrs. Mann said to me, 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 them than to bury them. And as if we could throw them upon another parish, which I think we should be able to do if they don't die upon the road, the spiders. When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the cocked hat and he became brave. We are forgetting business, man, said the beetle. Here is your parochial stipend for the month. Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled in paper from his pocketbook 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'm very much obliged to you, I'm sure. Mr. Bumble nodded blandly at acknowledgement of Mrs. Mann's curtsy and required how the children were. Bless their dear little heart, said Mrs. Mann with emotion. There as well as can be the deers, of course, except the two that died last week, and little Dick. Isn't that boy, I know, better, inquired Mr. Bumble? Mrs. Mann shook her head. He's an ill-conditioned, vicious, bad, disposed parochial child, that, said Mr. Bumble, angry. 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 beetle. 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 beetle's voice. Can't you look at the gentleman, your obstinate voice, said Mrs. Mann? The child meekly raised his eyes and encountered those of Mr. Bumble. What's the matter with you, parochial Dick, inquired Mr. Bumble with well-timed jocularity? Nothing, sir, replied the child faintly. What do you think, not, said Mrs. Mann, who had, of course, laughed very much Mr. Bumble's humour. You want for nothing, I'm sure. I should like, faulted the child. Hey, day, imposed, Mrs. Mann. I suppose you're going to say, you do want for something, no? Why, you little wretch? Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop, said the beetle, raising his hand with a shell of authority. Like what, sir, hey? I should like, faulted the child. 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'm laid in the ground. What does the boy mean, exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earliest manor? And one aspect of the child had made some impression. A customer 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 let him know how often I've 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 or perhaps if I had lived to be a man and had grown old, my little sister who was 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 an indescribable astonishment. And turning to his companion, said, they're all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That audacious Oliver has demagoguised the whore. Couldn't have believed it, sir, said Mrs. Mann, holding up her hands and looking malignantly at Dick. I never see to to harm the little wretch. Take him away, ma'am, said Mr. Bumble, empirically. This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann. I hope the gentleman will understand that it is my fault, said Mrs. Mann, whimpering, pathetically. They shall understand, ma'am, that they shall be acquainted with the true state of the case, said Mr. Bumble. There, take him away, I can't bear the sight of him. Dick was immediately taken away and locked up in the call 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 purse in a blue greatcoat with a cape to it, took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the criminals who 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 behavior of the two paupers who persisted in shivering and complaining of the cold, in a manner in which Mr. Bumble declared, caused his teeth to chatter and his head, made him feel quite uncomfortable, although he had a great coat 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 please. He drew his chair to the fire with sundry moral reflections on the two prevalence 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 guinea's reward, whereas a young boy named Oliver Twist absconded or was enticed on Thursday evening last from his home in Pentonville and has not since been heard on. 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 and read the advertisement slowly and carefully through 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 and quite Mr. Bumble of a 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 and Mrs. Bedwin would be 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, said so all along. Having heard 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 and roll upstairs meanwhile and now returned with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately, which he did. He was shown into the little backstudy 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 beetle, a parish beetle or leap 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 removed the lamp so as to obtain an uninterrupted view of the beetle's countenance and then said with a little impatience, now, sir, you've come in consequence of having seen the advertisement. Yes, sir, said Mr. Bumble. And you are a beetle, are you not, acquired Mr. Grimwig? I'm a parochial beetle, gentlemen. Can you join Mr. Bumble, proudly? Of course, observed Mr. Grimwig to his friend. I know he was, a beetle 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. 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? He said Mr. Grimwig caustically, after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble's features. Mr. Bumble, catching up the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with a pretentious solemnity. You see, he 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 Beatles' words, occupying as it did some 20 minutes in the telling, that 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 a place of his birth by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack upon an unoffending lad and running away in the night time from his master's house. In proof of his really being the person that he represented himself, it's to Bumble laid upon the table the papers he had bought to town. Folding his arms again, he then 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 of 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 been part of the very different colouring to his little history. It's too late to do it now, however, so he shook his head gravely and pocketed him the five guineas with drool. Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes, evidently so much disturbed by the beagle's tail, that even Mr. Grimwe forebore to vex him further. The lengthy stop to rain the bell violently. This is Bedwin, said Mr. Brownlow when the housekeeper appeared. That boy Oliver is an impostor. Can't be served, 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 the full account of him from his birth, and he's been a thorough paced little villain all his life. I never will believe it, sir, replied the old lady firmly, never. Your women never believe anything but quack doctors and lying storybooks, growled Mr. Grimwe. I know it all along. Why don't you take my advice in the beginning, and you wouldn't have had a fever, I suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn't he? Interesting, bleh! And Mr. Grimwe 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 40 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. Grimwe, who was a bachelor. I said, he storted nothing from that gentleman but a smile. The old lady tossed her head, smoothed down her apron, proprietary to another speech when she was stopped by Mr. Brownlow. Silence, said the old gentleman, feigning 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 pretense, mind. You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin. Remember, I am in earnest. There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow that night. Oliver's heart sank within him when he thought of his good friends. It was as well for him, but he could not know what they had heard, or it might have broken him out light. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18. How Oliver passed his time in the improving society of his reputable friends. About noon next day, when the Dodger and Masterbase had gone out to pursue their customy avocations, Mr. Fagan 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 willfully absenting himself at the society of his anxious friends, and still more in endeavouring to escape for them after so much trouble and expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagan laid great stress on the fact that his having taken Oliver in, 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 suckered under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of his confidence, had a convincing desire to communicate with the police, had unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagan did not seek to conceal his share of the catastrophe, but lamented with tears in his eyes that the long-headed and treacherous behaviour of the young person in question had rendered it necessary that he should become the victim of a certain evidence for the crown, which, if it were not precisely true, was indispensable necessary for the safety of him, Mr. Fagan, and a few select friends. Mr. Fagan concluded by drawing a rather disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging, and with great friendliness and politeness of manner, he expressed his anxious hopes that he might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to the 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. Though it was possible, even for justice itself, to confound the innocent with the guilty when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already that deeply laid plants with a destruction of inconveniently knowing or over-communicative persons had been really devised and carried up by the 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. Sykes, 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 weary old gentleman. The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head and said that he kept himself quiet and applied himself to business. He saw they would be very good friends yet, and taking his hat and covering himself with an old patched gray coat, 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 that they must have long ago formed of him, was 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 pummeled walls and cornices to the ceiling, 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 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 of 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 a 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 and 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 stops, blackened chimneys and gable ends. Sometimes indeed, a grizzly head might be seen peering over the parapet wall of a distant house, but it was quickly withdrawn again as the window of Oliver's observatory was nailed down and dimmed with the rain and smoke of the 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 avenge some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person. To do him justice, this was by no means an habitual weakness with him, and with this end in aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet, straight away. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful, too happy to have some faces however bad to look upon, 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 laps. He applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as japanning his trotter cases. The phrase rendered into plain English signifies cleaning his boot. 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 troubles 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 ticked for the nonce with a spice of romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver with thoughtful countenance for a brief space, then raising his head and heaving a gentle sigh, he said, half an abstraction and half the master baits. What a pity he had in 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 Charlie 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 the, your one, are you not, been quiet, Oliver, checking himself? I am, replied the Dodger. I'd squint 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 Charlie, so's Fagan, so's Sykes, so's Nancy, so's Bepp. We all are, down to the dog, and he's the downiest one of the lot. And the least given to Peachy, though, the Charlie Bates. He wouldn't so much as bark in a witness box for fear of committing himself. No, not if you tied him up in one and left him there without wills for a fortnight, said the Dodger. Not a bit of it, observed Charlie. He's a rum dog, doesn'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 ate other dogs as ate his breed? Oh, no. He's an out-and-out Christian, said Charlie. This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal's abilities, but it was an appropriate remark in another sense. 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. Sykes Dogg, there exist strong and singular points of resemblance. Well, well, said the Dodger, recurring to the point for which they had strayed with that mindfulness of his profession, which influenced all his proceedings. He's ain't got anything to do with young green here. No more it as, said Charlie. Won't he put yourself under Faye and Oliver? I'll make you fortunate, and replied the Dodger with a grin. And so be able to retire on your property and do the gentile as I meet and do in the very next leap year. But for the ever comes, and the 42nd Tuesday in Trinity week, said Charlie Bates. I don't like it, rejoined Oliver Timothy. I wish they would let me go. I would rather go. And Fagan would rather not rejoin Charlie. 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, explained the Dodger. Why, where's your spirit? Don't you take any pride in yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends? Oh, blow that, said Master Bates, drawing two or three silk-hound retrieves from his pocket, 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 could leave your friends though, said Oliver, with half a smile, and a lot of them be punished for what you did. That, rejoined the Dodger with a wave of his pipe. That was all out of consideration for Fagan, because the traps know that we worked together and he might have gone into trouble if we hadn't made our lucky, and that was a move, wasn't it, Charlie? Master Bates nodded ascent and would have spoken, but the recollection of Oliver's flight came so subtly upon him that the smoke he was inhaling got entangled with a laugh, and it 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 hate leaves. Here's a jolly life. What's the odds where it comes from? Here, catch old. 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, and quite, Charlie Bates? Here come to be scragged, won't he? I don't know what that means, replied Oliver. Something in this way, old furlough, said Charlie, as he said it, Master Bates called up an end of his neck a-chief, 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 expression that scragging and hanging were one of the same thing. That's what it means, said Charlie. Look how he stares, Jack. I never did see such prime company as that there boy, who'd be the death of me. I know he will, Master Charlie Bates, having laughed heartily again, resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes. You've been bought up, Brad, said the Dodger, surveying his boots with much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. Fagal will make something of you, though all you'll be the first he ever had that turned out unprofitable. You better begin at once, or you'll come at a trade long before you think of it. 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. He dispersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he could do would be to secure Fagan's favour without more delay by the means by which themselves had employed to gain it. I'd always put this in your pipe, Nolly, said the Dodger, as the Jew was heard unlocking the door above. If you don't take foals and tickers, what's the good of talking in that way in post-Master Bates? He don't know what you mean. If you don't take pocket anchors and watches, said the Dodger, reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver's capacity. Some other coves will, so the coves that lose them will be all the worse and you'll be all the worse too. And nobody half of eight need a better, except perhaps the chaps what 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. He understands the cataclysm 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 from the Jew had returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy and the gentleman whom Oliver had never seen before, but he was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitney and who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallant treats with the lady, now made his appearance. Mr. Chitney was older in years in the Dodger, having perhaps in number 18 winters, but there was a decree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional requirements. He had small twinkling eyes and a pop-marked face or a fur cap, 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. Chitney added with strong remarks of irritation that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal and constitutional, 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 had to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitney wound up his observations by stating that he did not touch the drop of anything for 42 moral long, hard working days, and that he wished he might be busted if he weren't as dry as a lime basket. Where do you think this gentleman has come from, Oliver? inquired the tube with a grin as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table. I don't know, sir, replied Oliver. Who's that? inquired Tom Chitney, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver. A young friend of mine, my dear, replied the tube. He's in Lutland, said the young man with a meaning look at Fagan. Never mind where I come from, young man, you'll find your way there soon enough. I'll bet a crown. At this sully, the boys laughed after some more jokes on the same subject. They exchanged a few short whispers with Fagan and withdrew. After some words apart between the last comer and Fagan, they drew their chairs towards the fire and the Jew telling Oliver to come and sit by him led the conversation to the topic most calculate to interest his hearers. These were great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of the Dodger, the amyability of Charlie Bates and the liberality of the Jew himself. At length, these subjects displayed signs being thoroughly exhausted and Mr. Chitney did the same for the House of Correction becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Mr. Betsy accordingly withdrew and left the party for their repose. On this day, Oliver was seldom left alone. He 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 all of us. Mr. Fagan 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 toys. Having prepared his mind by solitude and gloom, he preferred any society to the companionship of his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place. He was now slowly instilling into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it and change its hue forever. CHAPTER XIX In which a notable plan is discussed and determined on. It was a chill, damp, windy night when the Jew, butting his greatcoat tight round his shriveled body and pulling the collar up over his ears so as to completely obscure the lower part of his face and merge 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, slumped down the street as quickly as he could. The house to which Oliver had been conveyed was in the neighborhood of Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street and the guards seemed suspiciously round, crossed the road and struck off in the direction of Spittlefields. 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 are bound in that close and densely populated quarter. The Jew was evidently too familiar with the background he told 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, hovering, 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, my dear, said the Jew looking in. Bring in your body then, said Sykes. Lie down, you stupid brute. Don't you know the devil when he's got a great coat on? Apparently the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagan's outer garment, for as the Jew unbuttoned it and threw it over the back of a chair, he retired to the corner for which he had risen. Waying his tail as he went, to show that he was well satisfied as it was in his nature to be. Well, said Sykes. 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. But Mr. Fagan and his young friend had not met since she had interfered on behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's behavior. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagan draw up his without saying more about it, for it was a cold night and no mistake. His cold, Nancy dear, said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the fire. It seems to go right through one, out of the old man touching his side. It must be a piercer if it finds its way through your heart, said Mr. Sykes. 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 an 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. Sykes pouring out a glass of brandy and bade the Jew drink it off. Quite enough quiet, thanky Bill, replied the Jew, putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it. What you're afraid of are getting a better of you are, you inquired Sykes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. With a horse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sykes seized the glass and threw the remainder of his contents into the ashes, as a preparatory ceremony to filling him again for himself, which he did so at once. The Jew glanced round the room as his companion tossed down the second glass full, not in curiosity, for he'd 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 and two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner and a life preserver that hung over the chimneypiece. There, said Sykes, now I'm ready. For business, inquired the Jew. For business, replied Sykes, so say what you've got to say. About the crib at Chertseyville, said the Jew, drawing his chair forward and speaking in a very low voice. Yeah, what about it, inquired Sykes. Oh, 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. Sykes, 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, and hence, if you weren't the very first that thought about this robbery, what do you mean? Usch, Bill, usch, said the Jew, in a vain attempt to stop the burst of indignation. Somebody will hear us, my dear, somebody will hear us. Let them hear us, said Sykes. I don't care. As Mr. Sykes did care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words and grew calmer. They're there, said the Jew, coaxingly. There's only my caution, nothing more now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey. When it's to be done, Bill, hey, 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, said Sykes coldly. Not to be done at all, echoed the Jew leaning back in his chair. No, not at all, retorting Sykes. 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, retorting Sykes, who are you that's not to be told? I'll tell you that Toby Cracker has been hanging about the place for a fortnight and he can't get one of the servants in 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 Sykes. The old lady has had them these 25 years and if you were to give them 500 pounds, they wouldn't be in it. But do you mean to say, my dear, and remonstrated to June, that the women can't be got over? Not a bit of it, replied Sykes. Not by flash Toby Cracker, said the Jew, incredulously, think what women are, Bill? No, not even by flash Toby Crackett, replied Sykes. He says he's worn sham whiskers. Can every waist go? The whole blessed time he's been lodging there and it's all of no use. He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear, said the Jew. So he did rejoin Sykes. There were one of no more use than the other plant. The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chimp's hung on his breast, he raised his head and said with a deep sigh that if flash Toby Crackett reported all right, he feared the game was up. And yet, said the old man, dropping his hands upon his knees, it's a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had to sell our arts upon it. So it is, said Mr Sykes, worse luck. A long silence ensued, during which the Jew was plunged into deep thought with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy, perfectly demonaical. Sykes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housekeeper, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire as if she had been deaf to all that passed. Fagan, says Sykes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed. Is it worth 50 shinders extra if it's safely done from the outside? Yes, said the Jew, suddenly rousing himself. Is it a bargain, inquired Sykes? 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 Sykes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand with some disdain, let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden wall the night before last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. Cribs barred up at night like a jail, but as one part we can crack safely and softly. Which part is that bill whilst the Jew eagerly? Why, whispered Sykes, as you crossed a lawn, yes, said the Jew, bending his head forward with his eyes almost starting out of it. Cried Sykes, stopping short as the girl scarcely moved ahead. Looked suddenly round and pointed for an instant at the Jew's face. Never mind which 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, replied the Jew, is there no help wanted but yours and Toby's? None, said Sykes, except to send a bit and a boy. The first we both got, the second you must find us. A boy, explained the Jew. Oh, then it's a panel, eh? Never mind what it is, replied Sykes. I want a boy and he must be a bigon. Lord, said Mr. Sykes, reflectively. If I'd only got that young boy of Ned the Chimbly Sweepers, he kept him small on purpose and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged and then the juvenile delinquents society comes and takes the boy away from the trade. Where he was earning money, teaches him a read and write, and at time makes apprentice of him. And so they go on, said Mr. Sykes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs. And so they go on, even if they got money enough, which is a providence that 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 the speech and had only caught the last sentence. Bill, what now, inquired Sykes. The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire, and intimated by a sign that he would have told her to leave the room. Sykes 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 compositely. Tell you I do, replied Sykes. Nonsense rejoined the girl coolly. Go on, Fagan, I know what he's going to say. Bill, you needn't mind me. The Jew still hesitated. Sykes looked from one to the other in some surprise. Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagan, the arse of length? You've known her long enough to trust her, all the devils in it. She ain't want the blabber eye, Nancy. I should think not, replied the young lady, drawing a chair up to the table and putting her elbows upon it. No, no, my dear, I know you're not, said the Jew, but, again, the old man paused. I don't know whether she might be perhaps out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night, replied the Jew. At this confession, Miss Nancy burst out 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. Sykes, likewise. Now Fagan said Nancy with a laugh. Tell Billet once about Oliver. You're the 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. What about him, demanded Sykes. 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 Sykes. Having Bill said Nancy, I would if I was in your place, he might be so much up as any of the others, but that's not what you want. He's only to open a door for you, pen upon it, he's the safe one, Bill. I know he is, rejoined Fagan, he's been in good training in his last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread, besides the others are all too big. Well, is he just as size I want, said Mr Sykes, and ruminating? And we'll do everything you want, Bill, my dear, in opposed to Jew. He can't help himself, that is, if you frighten him enough. Frighten him, echoed Sykes. It'll be no sham frightening, my Jew. 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, Fagan. Think of that before you send him. Mark my words, said the robber, poisoning a crowbar which he had drawn, put under the bedstead. I've thought of it all, said the Jew with energy. I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close, close. Once I didn't feel that he's one of us, once filled his mind with the idea that he's been a thief in his hours, hours for his life. Oh, 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 Sykes, yours, you mean. Perhaps I'll do my dear, said the Jew with a shrill chuckle. Mine, if you like, Bill. And what, said Sykes, scouring fiercely on his agreeable friend, what makes you take so much pains about one short-faced kid, when you know there are 50 boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from? Because there'll have no use to me, my dear, replied the Jew with some confusion, not worth the taking. There looks convict him, and they get into trouble, and I lose them all. With this boy properly managed my dears, I could do what I couldn't do with 20 of them. Besides, said the Jew, recovering his self-possession. He has us now, if only he could give us a leg bail again. And he might be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there. It's quite enough for my power over him, he was in a robbery. That's all I want. Now, how much better this is than being obliged, put a poor little boy out of the way, which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides. When's it to be done, asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sykes, expresses of the disgust with which he received fagans affectation of humanity. Ah, to be sure, said the Jew. When is it to be done, Bill? I plan with Toby the night after tomorrow, rejoined Sykes in a surly voice. If he heard nothing from me to the contrary. Good, said the Jew, there's no moon. Sykes nodded. And about. I saw planned, rejoined Sykes interrupting him. Never mind in particular, she'd better bring the boy here tomorrow night, I shall get off the stone, an hour after daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting pot ready. 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 Jews 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 than willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered on his behalf than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sykes, and further, that the said Sykes should deal with him as he thought fit, and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him, it being understood that to render the compact of this respective binding, any representations made by Mr. Sykes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated in all important particulars by the testimony of Flash Toby Crackett. These preliminaries adjusted Mr. Sykes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner, yelling forth at the same time the most unmusical snatches of a song, mingled with wild excreations 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, and 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 scrutinized her narrowly. It was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackett himself could be. The Jew again bade her good night, and bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sykes 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 very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling, and the best of them is that it never lasts. I'm the man against the child, for a bag of gold. Beguiling the time of these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagan wended his way through mud and mire to his gloomy abode, where the Dodger was sitting up impatiently awaiting his return. His only bird of 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 a shroud in a 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, 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. End of chapter 19 Chapter 20 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20 Where an Oliver is delivered over to Mr William Sykes When Oliver awoke in the morning he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, his strong thick soles have been placed in his bedside, and that his old shoes have 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 Sykes that night. Just to stop there, sir, asked Oliver anxiously. No, no, my dear, not to stop there, replied the Jew. You shouldn't like to lose, you don't be afraid, Oliver. You shall come back to us again, and how 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 banded 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 bills for, eh, my dear? Oliver culled involuntarily to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts, but boldly said, yes, he did want to know. What do you think, and quite fake, and parrying the question? Indeed, I don't know, sir, replied Oliver. Said the Jew, turning away with the disappointed countenance, from a close perusal of the boy's face. Wait till Bill tells you then. The Jew seemed very 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 coming of Fagan'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 at the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so, and as he placed the candle stick upon the table, he saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him with a 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 that's real purpose and meaning. He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sykes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagan. 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 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. There was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals, and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use, hearing red of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold, 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 it 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 jibbit to end their agony, here too he read of men who lying in their beds at the dead of night had been tempted, so 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 it. 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 to heaven to spare him from such deeds, and rather to will that he should die at once rather than be reserved for crimes so fearful and appalling. By degrees he grew more calm and besought in a lone broken voice, and he might be rescued from his present dangers, and if that 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 middle of wickedness and guilt. He had concluded his prayer but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise aroused in. Who'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 ahead. It hurts my eyes. Oliver saw that she was very pale and gently inquired if she were ill. The girl threw herself into her chair with a back towards him and rung her hands but made no reply. Oh, God forgive me she cried after a while. I never thought of this. Has anything happened to us Oliver? Can I help you? I will if I can, I will indeed. She rocked herself to and fro, caught her throat and after uttering a gurgling sound gasp 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 around her and shivered with cold. Oliver stirred the fire drawing the chair close to it. She sat there for a little time without speaking but at the end 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've 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 while you rejoin 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 a reflection occurred to him, he stepped forward and said some not 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'd guessed what had been passing through 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've tried hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. And if ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time. Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up at her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth. Her countenance was white and agitated, and she trembled with very earnestness. I've saved you from being ill used once, and I will again, and I do now continue to go aloud. For those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I promised for your being quiet and silent. And 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. You don't mean to harm you, whatever they make you do is no fault of yours. Hush, every word from you is a blow from 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 someone shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed when they had passed out. A hackney cabralé was waiting, with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in the dressing 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 in his ear the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. It 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 Jews' steps had been directed on the previous evening. 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, and that he had knocked the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone. He was already in the house, and the door was shut. This way said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time. Bill, alone, replied Sykes, 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, and a commonly hearty welcome from a person of Mr Sykes' temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially. Bill's eyes got hung with Tom, observed Sykes as he lighted them up. He'd have been in Hawaii. That's right, rejoined Nancy. So you've got the kids, said Sykes, when they had all reached the room, closing the doors he spoke. Yes, here he is, replied Nancy. Did he come quiet, unquired Sykes? Like a lamb, rejoined Nancy. So I'm glad to hear it, said Sykes, looking grimly at Oliver, for the sake of his young carcass, as was otherwise suffered for it. Come here, young man. Let me read you a lecture, which is as well got over at once. Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr Sykes 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, you know what this is, inquired Sykes, taking up a pocket pistol, which lay on the table. Oliver replied in the affirmative. Well then, look here, continued Sykes. This is powder, and that is a bullet. And this is a little bit of old hat for warden. Oliver Merkman, his comprehension of the different bodies referred to. And Mr Sykes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation. Now it's loaded, said Mr Sykes, when he had finished. Yes, I see it is so, replied Oliver. Well, said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched. At which moment the boy could not repress a star. If you speak the word when you're outdoors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without further 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 Sykes continued. As near as I know, there isn't anybody who would be asking very particularly, aren't you, if you are disposed of. So I won't need to take this devil in all trouble to explain matters to you, if it wasn't for your own good. Do you hear me? The short and long of what you mean, said Nancy, speaking very emphatically and slightly frowning at Oliver as this would bespeak his serious attention to her words, is that if you'll cross by him in this job you have on hand. You'll prevent his ever telling tales afterwards by shooting you 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. In pursuance of this request, Nancy quickly laid the cloth, disappearing for a few minutes she's presently returned with a pot of porter and a dash of sheep's heads, which gave the occasion to several pleasant witticisms on the part of Mr Sykes. Founded upon the singular coincidence of Jemmys being a can name, common to them, and also to an ingenious implement much in use 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. The proof whereof it may be here remarked that he humorously drank all the beer at a draft and did not utter on a rough calculation more than four score oaths during the whole of the progress of the meal. As supper being ended it may be easily conceived that Oliver had no great appetite for it. Mr Sykes disposed of a cup of glasses of spirits and water and threw himself down on the bed, ordering Nancy with many implications in the case of failure to call him at five precisely. Oliver stretched himself in his clothes to command the same authority on a mattress upon the floor, and the girl mending the fire sat before it in readiness to rouse him 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 teethings. Sykes was thrusting various articles into the pockets of his great coat, which hung over the back of a chair. Nancy was busily engaged in preparing breakfast. It was not yet daylight, for the candle was still burning. It was quite dark outside. The sharp rain too was beating against the window panes, and the sky looked black and cloudy. Now then, grilled Sykes as Oliver started up, at past five, look sharp, we'll get no breakfast for as late as it is. Oliver was not long in making his toilet, having taken some breakfast he replied to, which surly inquired from Sykes by saying that he was quite ready. Nancy, scarcely looking at the boy, threw him a handkerchief to tie her under his throat. Sykes gave him a large rough cape to button over his shoulders, thus attired he gave his hand to the robber, who was merely pausing to show him with a menacing gesture that he had the same pistol in the side pocket of his great coat, cast it firmly to his, and exchanged him farewell with Nancy, led him away. Oliver turned for an instant when they reached the door in hope of meeting the look from the girl, but she had resumed her old seat in front of the fire, and sat perfectly motionless before it. End of chapter 20