Stories from Dickens Page 3

  *II. OLIVER FALLS FROM BAD TO WORSE*

  It was seventy miles to London, and the poor boy made his way thitheronly with great difficulty. Begging was not allowed in many of thevillages, and nearly everybody viewed him with doubt, or else shut thedoor in his face.

  Early on the seventh morning of his flight Oliver limped slowly into thelittle town of Barnet, near the outskirts of London. Thewindow-shutters were closed, the street was empty, and the boy sank downwith bleeding feet and covered with dust upon a door-step.

  By degrees the shutters were opened, the window-blinds were drawn up,and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliverfor a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by;but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he camethere. He had no heart to beg, and there he sat.

  He had been crouching on the step for some time when he was roused byobserving that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before,had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the oppositeside of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boyremained in the same attitude of close observation so long that Oliverraised his head and returned his steady look. Upon this the boy crossedover, and, walking close up to Oliver, said:

  "Hullo! my covey, what's the row?"

  The boy who addressed this inquiry was about his own age, but one of thequeerest-looking fellows Oliver had ever seen. He was a snub-nosed,flat-browed, common-faced boy enough, and as dirty as one would wish tosee; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He wasshort of his age, with rather bow legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes.He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turnedthe cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of thesleeves, apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into thepockets of his corduroy trousers, for there he kept them. He wasaltogether as swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six,or something less, in his shoes.

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

  "I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver, the tears standing in hiseyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking theseseven days."

  The boy looked at him narrowly, and asked him some questions. He tookOliver for a vagrant or worse, but led him into a small tavern, and gavehim a feast of ham and bread; and Oliver, falling to at his new friend'sbidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which thestrange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.

  "Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at lengthconcluded.

  "Yes."

  "Got any lodgings?"

  "No."

  "Money?"

  "No."

  The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far asthe big coat-sleeves would let them go.

  "Do you live in London?" asked Oliver.

  "Yes, I do when I'm at home," replied the strange boy. "Want to goalong with me? I know an old gen'elman as lives there wot'll give youlodgings for nothink."

  The unexpected offer was too tempting to be resisted, especially whenOliver was told that the old gentleman would doubtless get him a goodplace without loss of time. This led to a more friendly andconfidential chat, in which Oliver learned that his new friend's namewas Jack Dawkins, commonly called "The Artful Dodger."

  As Dawkins objected to entering London before nightfall, it was nearlyeleven o'clock before he piloted Oliver down some of the worst streetsof the city's worst section. Finally they entered a tumbledownbuilding, and groped their way up a rickety stairway. Then Dawkinsthrew open the door of a back room and drew Oliver in after him.

  The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age anddirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candlestuck in a bottle, some pewter pots, bread and butter. Several roughbeds were huddled side by side upon the floor. Seated around the tablewere four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long claypipes and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. But thechief figure was an old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous face was offsetby a mass of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown,and was busily at work frying sausages over a fire.

  The boys crowded around Dawkins as he whispered a few words in the earof the Jew. Then they all turned, as did the Jew, and grinned at Oliver.

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

  The Jew made a low bow to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped heshould have the honor of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, theyoung gentlemen with the pipes came round him, and shook both his handsvery hard--especially the one in which he held his little bundle. Oneyoung gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and anotherwas so obliging as to put his hands in Oliver's pockets, in order that,as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying themhimself when he went to bed.

  "We are very glad to see you, Oliver--very," said the Jew. "Dodger,take off the sausages, and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver."

  Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin andwater, telling him he must drink it off directly, because anothergentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired.Immediately afterwards, he felt himself gently lifted on to one of thesacks, and then he sank into a deep sleep.

  The next morning, Oliver watched the Jew, Dawkins, and Charley Bates,another of the boys, play a curious game. The old man would place apurse and other valuables in his pockets, whereupon the boys would tryto slip them out without his knowledge.

  Oliver didn't understand in the least what it was all about, even whenFagin gave him some lessons in the same game. But he was to learn witha shock, a few days later, when Bates and Dawkins took him with them fora walk about town.

  They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open squarein Clerkenwell, when the Dodger made a sudden stop, and, laying hisfinger on his lip, drew his companions back again with the greatestcaution.

  "What's the matter?" demanded Oliver.

  "Hush!" replied the Dodger. "Do you see that old cove at thebook-stall?"

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

  "He'll do," said the Dodger.

  "A prime plant," observed Master Charley Bates.

  Oliver looked from one to the other with surprise, but he was notpermitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthilyacross the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman. Oliverwalked a few paces after them, and, not knowing whether to advance orretire, stood looking on in silent amazement.

  The gentleman was a very respectable-looking person who had taken up abook from the stall and was reading away as hard as if he were in hisown study.

  What was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, lookingon with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see theDodger plunge his hand into the gentleman's pocket, and draw from thencea handkerchief; to see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finallyto behold them both running away round the corner at full speed!

  Oliver saw in a flash that they were pickpockets, and that he would beclassed among them! He turned to run--the worst possible thing todo--for just then the gentleman missed his handkerchief and glancedaround in time to see Oliver scudding away for dear life; and shouting"Stop thief!" made off after him, book in hand.

  He was not alone in the cry, for Bates and Dawkins, willing to divertattention from themselves, also shouted "Stop thief!" and joined in thepursuit like good citizens.

  "Stop thief! Stop thief!" There is a magic in the sound. Thetradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his wagon; the butcherthrows down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; theerrand-boy his parcels; the school-boy his marbles. Away they run,pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash, tearing, yelling, screaming andknocking down the passengers as they turn the corners.

  "Stop thief! Stop thief!"
The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, andthe crowd accumulates at every turning. Away they fly, splashingthrough the mud and rattling along the pavements. Up go the windows,out run the people, and lend fresh vigor to the cry, "Stop thief! Stopthief!"

  Stopped at last! A well-aimed blow laid Oliver upon the pavement. Thena policeman seized him by the collar and he was hustled off for trialbefore a magistrate.

  The magistrate was a surly boor who was in the habit of committingprisoners to jail with the merest pretence of a trial. It did not takehim long to decide that Oliver was a hardened criminal, in spite of theprotests of the kindly old gentleman whose pocket had been picked; andthe boy was, in fact, being carried away in a fainting condition, whenthe bookseller whose shop had been the scene of action and who hadwitnessed the whole thing, rushed in and declared Oliver's innocence.

  The poor child was thereupon released; and the old gentleman--Mr.Brownlow by name--was so sorry for him, and so taken by his frank face,that he took him to his own home and nursed him through a severeillness, the result of all his early privations and recent trouble. Mr.Brownlow even thought of adopting him, and, as soon as he was wellenough, let him have books to read out of his own well-stocked library,greatly to the eager Oliver's delight.

  SIKES HAD HIM BY THE COLLAR.]

  It did indeed seem as though the sky had cleared for the boy, butinstead still darker days were threatening. Fagin the Jew heard ofOliver's escape with fear and anger. He knew that it would never do forthe boy to tell what he knew about the thieves' den. Their one chanceof safety lay in seizing him again and making him a thief likethemselves, so that his mouth would be closed.

  So Fagin called to his aid a burglar, a big, brutal fellow named BillSikes, who always went around with a knotted stick and a surly dog.Nancy, a poor girl of the streets, was also put upon the search, andsoon their united efforts were successful.

  One day after Oliver had begun to grow strong, he was sent by Mr.Brownlow on an errand to a bookshop. He was well dressed in a new suit,and had some books and a five-pound note of Mr. Brownlow's. It was notfar, but he accidentally turned down a by-street that was not exactly inhis way. He started to turn back, when he heard a girl's voicescreaming, "Oh, my dear brother!" And he had hardly looked up to seewhat the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms throwntight around his neck.

  "Don't!" cried Oliver, struggling. "Let go of me! Who is it? What areyou stopping me for?"

  The only reply to this was a great number of loud lamentations from theyoung woman who had embraced him, and who had a little basket and alarge key in her hand.

  "Oh, my gracious!" said the young woman, "I've found him! Oh, Oliver!Oliver! Oh, you naughty boy, to make me suffer sich distress on youraccount! Come home, dear, come! Oh, I've found him! Thank graciousgoodness heavins, I've found him!" With these exclamations the youngwoman burst into another fit of crying.

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

  "Oh, ma'am," replied the girl, "he ran away, near a month ago, from hisparents, who are hard-working and respectable people, and went andjoined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost broke hismother's heart."

  "Young wretch!" said the woman.

  "I'm not," replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. "I don't know her. Ihaven't any sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I liveat Pentonville."

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

  "Why, it's Nancy!" exclaimed Oliver, who had known her at the Jew's, andnow saw her face for the first time.

  "You see he knows me!" cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. "Hecan't help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'llkill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!"

  "What the devil's this?" said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with awhite dog at his heels; "young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother,you young dog! Come home, directly."

  "I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help!" cried Oliver,struggling in the man's powerful grasp.

  "Help!" repeated the man. "Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal! Whatbooks are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here."With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp and struck himon the head.

  "That's right!" cried a looker-on from a garret window. "That's theonly way of bringing him to his senses!"

  "To be sure!" cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving lookat the garret window.

  "It'll do him good!" said the woman.

  "And he shall have it, too!" rejoined the man, administering anotherblow, and seizing Oliver by the collar. "Come on, you young villain!Here, Bull's-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!"

  Weak from his recent illness and with no one in the idle crowd tobefriend him, poor Oliver could only suffer himself to be led awaysobbing. Bill Sikes saw his advantage, and pushed him rapidly down thestreet. Then, turning to Oliver, he commanded him to take hold ofNancy's hand.

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

  They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. Heheld out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.

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

  The dog looked up and growled.

  "See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat;"if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind?"

  The dog growled again, and, licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he wereanxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.

  And in this fashion Oliver saw with unspeakable horror that he was beingtaken back to the Jew. What would the trusting Mr. Brownlow think ofhim? What, indeed! The hot tears blinded Oliver's eyes at the barethought.

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

  "Let's have a glim," said Sikes, "or we shall go breaking our necks, ortreading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do! That's all."

  "Stand still a moment, and I'll get you one," replied a voice. Thefootsteps of the speaker were heard, and in another minute the form ofMr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in hisright hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.

  The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognitionupon Oliver than a humorous grin; but, turning away, beckoned thevisitors to follow him. As they entered the low, dingy room, they werereceived with a shout of laughter.

  "Oh, my wig, my wig!" cried Charley Bates; "here he is! oh, cry, here heis! Oh, Fagin, look at him; Fagin, do look at him! I can't bear it; itis such a jolly game, I can't bear it! Hold me, somebody, while I laughit out."

  With this, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor, and kickedconvulsively for five minutes, in an ecstasy of joy. Then jumping tohis feet, he snatched the cleft stick from the Dodger, and, advancing toOliver, viewed him round and round, while the Jew, taking off hisnightcap, made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. TheArtful, meantime, who seldom gave way to merriment when it interferedwith business, rifled Oliver's pockets thoroughly.

  "Look at his togs, Fagin!" said Charley, putting the light so close tohis new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. "Look at histogs,--superfine cloth, and the heavy-swell cut! Oh, my eye, what agame! And his books, too; nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!"

  "Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear," said the Jew, bowingwith mock humility. "The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear,for fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, mydear, and say you were coming? We'd have got something warm forsupper."

  At this Master Bates roared again so loud that Fagin himself relaxed,and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-poundnote at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally or the discoveryawakened his merriment.

  "Hallo! what's that?" inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seizedthe not
e. "That's mine, Fagin."

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

  "They belong to Mr. Brownlow!" cried Oliver, wringing his hands. "Oh,pray send them back! He'll think I stole them!"

  "The boy's right," replied Fagin, with a sly wink. "He _will_ thinkyou've stole them!"

  Oliver saw by his look that all chance of rescue was gone, and shriekingwildly he made a dash for the door. But the dog arrested him with afierce growl, while a blow laid him upon the floor.

  For several days Fagin kept him hid close, for fear of searchingparties. Then, resolving to get the boy deeply into crime as soon aspossible, he forced him to accompany Bill Sikes upon a house-breakingexpedition.

  Accordingly, one raw evening they set forth--Oliver, Sikes, and anotherburglar, Toby Crackit--the ruffians threatening to shoot the boy if heso much as uttered one word. On account of his small size he was chosento creep through a little window of the house which was to be robbed.The opening was about five feet from the ground, and so small that theinmates did not think it worth while to defend it securely. But it waslarge enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless.

  "Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark-lanternfrom his pocket and throwing the glare full in Oliver's face: "I'm goingto put you through there. Take this light and go softly up the stepsstraight afore you, and along the little hall to the street door.Unfasten it and let us in."

  So saying, the burglar boosted Oliver up on his back, and put himthrough the window.

  "You see the stairs, don't you?"

  Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out "Yes." Sikes pointed thepistol at him, and advised him to take notice that he was within shotall the way. Nevertheless, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether hedied in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairsfrom the hall and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advancedat once, but stealthily.

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

  Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and bya loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew notwhether to advance or fly.

  The cry was repeated--a light appeared--a vision of two terrifiedhalf-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes--aflash--a loud noise--a smoke--a crash somewhere, but where he knewnot,--and he staggered back.

  Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again and had him bythe collar before the smoke had cleared away.

  He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating, anddragged the boy up.

  "Clasp your arm tighter," said Sikes, as he drew him through the window."Give me a shawl here. They've hit him. Quick! How the boy bleeds!"

  Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise offirearms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried overuneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused inthe distance. A cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart, and hesaw or heard no more.