Chapter-3
Hearing the uproar Oliver ran away from there. He reached the stile at which the bypath terminated, and once more gained the high road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.
The stone by which he was seated bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind. London!—that great large place !—nobody—not even Mr Bumble could ever find him there! He jumped upon his feet and again walked forward.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day, and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage doors by the roadside. When the night came, he turned into a meadow and, creeping close under a hayrick, determined to lie there till morning.
He felt cold and stiff when he got up next morning, and had walked no more than twelve miles when night closed in again. His feet were sore and his legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning, he could hardly crawl along.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up, warning all persons who begged within the district that they would be sent to jail. In fact, if it had not been for a good hearted turnpike man and a benevolent old lady, Oliver would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway, but the old lady took pity upon the poor orphan and gave him what little she could afford.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window shutters were closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day.
Oliver crouched, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a doorstep for some time till he was roused by a boy who was surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, commonfaced boy enough, and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see, but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short for his age, with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck lightly on the top of his head. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves.
‘Hello, my friend! What’s the row?’ said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.
‘I am very hungry and tired,’ replied Oliver, the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke, ‘I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days.’
‘Walking for seven days!’ said the young gentleman, ‘Oh, I see. Beak’s order, oh? he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, But come,’ said the young gentleman, ‘you want grub, and you shall have it.’
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quarter loaf. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth, and Oliver made a long and hearty meal.
‘Going to London?’ said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
‘Yes.’
‘Got any lodgings?’
‘No.’
‘Money?’
‘No.’
The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as the big coat sleeves would let them go.
‘Do you live in London?’ inquired Oliver.
‘Yes, I do, when I’m at home,’ replied the boy, ‘I suppose you want some place to sleep in tonight, don’t you?’
‘I do indeed,’ answered Oliver, ‘I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.’
‘Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,’ said the young gentleman, ‘I’ve got to be in London tonight; and I know a respectable old genelman as lives there, who’ll give you lodgings for nothing.’
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted and led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue, from which Oliver discovered that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of the ‘Artful Dodger’.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John’s Road, struck down the small street which terminated at Sadler’s Wells Theatre, through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row, down the little court by the side of the workhouse, across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole, thence into Little Saffron Hill, and so into Saffron Hill the Great, along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Oliver could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. He was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill and his conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane, and drawing him into the passage closed it behind them.
‘Now, then!’ cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.
‘Plummy and slam!’ was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right, for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage, and a man’s face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
‘There’s two of you,’ said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shading his eyes with his hand. ‘Who’s the other one?’
‘A new pal,’ replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
‘Where did he come from?’
‘Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?’
‘Yes, he’s sorting the wipes. Up with you!’ The candle was drawn back and the face disappeared.
Oliver ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken stairs. His conductor threw open the door of a back room and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candle stuck in a ginger beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them with a toasting fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying pan and a clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds, made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew, and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew, toasting fork in hand.
‘This is him, Fagin,’ said Jack Dawkins, ‘my friend Oliver Twist.’
The Jew grinned and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance.
‘We are very glad to see you, Oliver’ said the Jew, ‘Dodger, take off the sausages, and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver.’
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin-and-water, telling him he must drink it off directly because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted onto one of the sacks, and then he sunk into a deep sleep.
It was late next morning when Oliver awoke from a sound, long sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round with an iron spoon.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep yet he was not thoroughly awake. He saw the Jew with his half-closed eyes, heard his low whistling, and recognized the sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan sides; and yet when the Jew looked at Oliver, and called him by his name, the boy did not answer, and was to all appearance asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the door, which he fastened. He then drew forth-as it seemed to Oliver, from some trap in the floor—a small box which he placed carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid and looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down and took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels, besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent materials and costly workmanship that Oliver had no idea even of their names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another, so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. At length he put it down as if despairing of success, and leaned back in his chair, muttering.
His bright dark eyes fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on him in mute curiosity; and although the recognition was only for an instant—for the briefest space of time than could possibly be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed.
‘Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?’ said the Jew, laying his hand upon the box after a short pause.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning rather pale, ‘They—they’re mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser, that’s all.’
Oliver cast a deferential look at the Jew and asked if he might get up.
‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ replied the old gentleman, ‘Bring me that pitcher of water in the corner by the door and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.’
Oliver got up, walked across the room, and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
He had scarcely washed himself when the Dodger returned, accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formerly introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down to breakfast on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham, which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat.
When the breakfast was cleared away, the merry old gentleman and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in this way: The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt, buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets any hour in the day.
Sometimes he stopped at the fireplace, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring with all his might into shop windows. At such times he would look constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face. All this time, the two boys followed him closely round, getting out of his sight so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to follow their motions. At last the Dodger trod upon his toes or ran upon his boot accidentally, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind; and in that one moment, they took from him, with the most extraordinary rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin, pocket handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentleman felt a hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the game began all over again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young ladies called to see the young gentlemen, one of whom was named Bet, and the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were not exactly pretty.
These visitors stopped a long time. At length Dodger and Chancy and the two young ladies went away together, having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend.
‘There, my dear,’ said Fagin, ‘That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They have gone out for the day.
‘Have they done work, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
‘Yes,’ said the Jew, ‘that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across any, when they are out; and they won’t neglect it if they do, my dear, depend upon it. Make them your models, Is my handkerchief hanging out of my pocket, my dear?’ said the Jew, stopping short.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Oliver.
‘See if you can take it out without my feeling it, as you saw them do when we were at play this morning.’
Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the other.
‘Is it gone?’ cried the Jew.
‘Here it is, sir,’ said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
‘You’re a clever boy, my dear,’ said the playful old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head approvingly, ‘I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a shilling for you. If you go on in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks out of the handkerchiefs.
Oliver was soon deeply involved in his new study.
For many days Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of the pocket handkerchiefs (of which a great number were brought home), and sometimes taking part in the game already described which the two boys and the Jew played regularly every morning. At length he began to languish for fresh air and entreated the old gentleman to let him go out to work with his two companions.
One morning, Oliver obtained the permission to go out he had so eagerly sought. The three boys sallied out, the Dodger with his coat sleeves tucked up, and his hat cocked as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going, and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in first.
The pace at which they went was such a very lazy, illlooking saunter that Oliver soon began to think that his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman by not going to work at all.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called by some strange perversion of terms, ‘The Green’, when the Dodger made a sudden stop and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back, with the greatest caution and circumspection.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Oliver.
‘Hush!’ replied the Dodger, ‘Do you see that old cove at the bookstall?’
‘The old gentleman over the way?’ said Oliver, ‘Yes I see him.’
‘He’ll do,’ said the Dodger.
‘A prime plant,’ observed Master Charley Bates.
Oliver stood looking on in silent amazement.
The old gentleman was a very respectable looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar, wore white trousers and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow—chair in his own study.
What was Oliver’s honour and alarm as he stood a few paces off; looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they could possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket and draw from thence a handkerchief; to see him hand the same to Chancy Bates, and finally to behold them both, running away round the corner at full speed!
In an instant the whole mystery of the handkerchief and the watches and the jewels and the Jew rushed upon the boy’s mind. He stood, for a moment, and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and shouting ‘Stop thief!’ with all his might, made off after him, with book in hand.
