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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Oliver Twist, by Charles Dickens</title>

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<p>
      Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him by
      the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own pistol
      after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy up.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of fire-arms,
      and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven
      ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused in the
      distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart; and he saw
      or heard no more.
    </p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00027">
      CHAPTER XXIII — WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT
      CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR. BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE
      MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON SOME POINTS
    </h2>
<p>
      The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a hard
      thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways and
      corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which, as if
      expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it savagely up
      in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies, scattered it in
      air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for the well-housed
      and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God they were at home; and
      for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him down and die. Many
      hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare streets, at such times,
      who, let their crimes have been what they may, can hardly open them in a
      more bitter world.
    </p>
<p>
      Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the matron
      of the workhouse to which our readers have been already introduced as the
      birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a cheerful fire in her
      own little room, and glanced, with no small degree of complacency, at a
      small round table: on which stood a tray of corresponding size, furnished
      with all necessary materials for the most grateful meal that matrons
      enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to solace herself with a cup of tea.
      As she glanced from the table to the fireplace, where the smallest of all
      possible kettles was singing a small song in a small voice, her inward
      satisfaction evidently increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs.
      Corney smiled.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well!’ said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking
      reflectively at the fire; ‘I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to be
      grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental
      blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver
      spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin
      tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
    </p>
<p>
      How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The
      black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.
      Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Drat the pot!’ said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on
      the hob; ‘a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What
      use is it of, to anybody! Except,’ said Mrs. Corney, pausing, ‘except to a
      poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more
      resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small
      teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections of
      Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and
      she was overpowered.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I shall never get another!’ said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; ‘I shall never
      get another—like him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is
      uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as
      she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup,
      when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, come in with you!’ said Mrs. Corney, sharply. ‘Some of the old women
      dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there,
      letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing, ma’am, nothing,’ replied a man’s voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, ‘is that Mr.
      Bumble?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘At your service, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside
      to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now
      made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in
      the other. ‘Shall I shut the door, ma’am?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety
      in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble
      taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold himself, shut it
      without permission.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hard, indeed, ma’am,’ replied the beadle. ‘Anti-porochial weather this,
      ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of
      twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very blessed
      afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?’ said the matron, sipping
      her tea.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘When, indeed, ma’am!’ rejoined Mr. Bumble. ‘Why here’s one man that, in
      consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and a good
      pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he grateful? Not a
      copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am, but ask for a few
      coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he says! Coals! What would
      he do with coals? Toast his cheese with ‘em and then come back for more.
      That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give ‘em a apron full of coals
      to-day, and they’ll come back for another, the day after to-morrow, as
      brazen as alabaster.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile;
      and the beadle went on.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I never,’ said Mr. Bumble, ‘see anything like the pitch it’s got to. The
      day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am, and
      I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back (here
      Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door when he has
      got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney.
      As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company very much, our overseer
      sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. “My heart!”
       says the ungrateful villain, “what’s the use of <i>this</i> to me? You
      might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!” “Very good,” says our
      overseer, taking ‘em away again, “you won’t get anything else here.” “Then
      I’ll die in the streets!” says the vagrant. “Oh no, you won’t,” says our
      overseer.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?’ interposed
      the matron. ‘Well, Mr. Bumble?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, ma’am,’ rejoined the beadle, ‘he went away; and he <i>did</i> die
      in the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It beats anything I could have believed,’ observed the matron
      emphatically. ‘But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing,
      any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to know.
      Come.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mrs. Corney,’ said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of
      superior information, ‘out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly
      managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great principle of
      out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want;
      and then they get tired of coming.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear me!’ exclaimed Mrs. Corney. ‘Well, that is a good one, too!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,’ returned Mr. Bumble, ‘that’s the great
      principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases that get
      into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that sick families
      have been relieved with slices of cheese. That’s the rule now, Mrs.
      Corney, all over the country. But, however,’ said the beadle, stopping to
      unpack his bundle, ‘these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken
      of; except, as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves.
      This is the port wine, ma’am, that the board ordered for the infirmary;
      real, fresh, genuine port wine; only out of the cask this forenoon; clear
      as a bell, and no sediment!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test
      its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers;
      folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully
      in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,’ said the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It blows, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, ‘enough
      to cut one’s ears off.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving
      towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her
      good-night, bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a
      cup of tea?
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and
      stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly
      seated himself, he looked at the lady. She fixed her eyes upon the little
      teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
    </p>
<p>
      Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat
      down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she
      coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr.
      Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Sweet? Mr. Bumble?’ inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs.
      Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was
      that beadle at that moment.
    </p>
<p>
      The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble, having spread a
      handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the
      splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these amusements,
      occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had no injurious
      effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather seemed to
      facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You have a cat, ma’am, I see,’ said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in
      the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; ‘and kittens too, I
      declare!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,’ replied the matron.
      ‘They’re <i>so</i> happy, <i>so</i> frolicsome, and <i>so</i> cheerful,
      that they are quite companions for me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very nice animals, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; ‘so very
      domestic.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, yes!’ rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; ‘so fond of their home
      too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mrs. Corney, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with
      his teaspoon, ‘I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that
      could live with you, ma’am, and <i>not</i> be fond of its home, must be a
      ass, ma’am.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, Mr. Bumble!’ remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,’ said Mr. Bumble, slowly
      flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him
      doubly impressive; ‘I would drown it myself, with pleasure.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then you’re a cruel man,’ said the matron vivaciously, as she held out
      her hand for the beadle’s cup; ‘and a very hard-hearted man besides.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hard-hearted, ma’am?’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘Hard?’ Mr. Bumble resigned his
      cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney’s little finger as she took
      it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat, gave a
      mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the
      fire.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting
      opposite each other, with no great space between them, and fronting the
      fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from the fire, and
      still keeping at the table, increased the distance between himself and
      Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers will doubtless be
      disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr.
      Bumble’s part: he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and
      opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings, which however
      well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless, do seem
      immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of
      parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public
      functionaries, but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity
      of a beadle: who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most
      inflexible among them all.
    </p>
<p>
      Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were of
      the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked,
      that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair
      by little and little, soon began to diminish the distance between himself
      and the matron; and, continuing to travel round the outer edge of the
      circle, brought his chair, in time, close to that in which the matron was
      seated.
    </p>
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<p>
      Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.
    </p>
<p>
      Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been
      scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr.
      Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt foreseeing these
      consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr.
      Bumble another cup of tea.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?’ said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and
      looking up into the matron’s face; ‘are <i>you</i> hard-hearted, Mrs.
      Corney?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear me!’ exclaimed the matron, ‘what a very curious question from a
      single man. What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;
      whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed
      the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mr. Bumble!’ cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so
      great, that she had quite lost her voice, ‘Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!’ 
      Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm
      round the matron’s waist.
    </p>
<p>
      As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would
      have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was
      rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door: which was no sooner
      heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles, and
      began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded
      who was there.
    </p>
<p>
      It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of
      a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that her
      voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If you please, mistress,’ said a withered old female pauper, hideously
      ugly: putting her head in at the door, ‘Old Sally is a-going fast.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, what’s that to me?’ angrily demanded the matron. ‘I can’t keep her
      alive, can I?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no, mistress,’ replied the old woman, ‘nobody can; she’s far beyond
      the reach of help. I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great
      strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming, well enough. But she’s
      troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s
      not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got
      something to tell, which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you
      come, mistress.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of
      invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely
      annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she
      hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she came
      back, lest anything particular should occur. Bidding the messenger walk
      fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she followed her from
      the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He
      opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs, closely
      inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal,
      and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat
      corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the
      table.
    </p>
<p>
      Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the
      cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his back
      towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of
      the furniture.
    </p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00028">
      CHAPTER XXIV — TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT. BUT IS A SHORT ONE,
      AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY
    </h2>
<p>
      It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the
      matron’s room. Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy;
      her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the grotesque
      shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.
    </p>
<p>
      Alas! How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their
      beauty! The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them
      as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions sleep, and have
      lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave
      Heaven’s surface clear. It is a common thing for the countenances of the
      dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to subside into the
      long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and settle into the very
      look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again, that those
      who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin’s side in awe,
      and see the Angel even upon earth.
    </p>
<p>
      The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering
      some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at length
      compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand, and
      remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble superior
      made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end.
      There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish apothecary’s
      apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Cold night, Mrs. Corney,’ said this young gentleman, as the matron
      entered.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very cold, indeed, sir,’ replied the mistress, in her most civil tones,
      and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You should get better coals out of your contractors,’ said the
      apothecary’s deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty
      poker; ‘these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They’re the board’s choosing, sir,’ returned the matron. ‘The least they
      could do, would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard
      enough.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh!’ said the young man, turning his face towards the bed, as if he had
      previously quite forgotten the patient, ‘it’s all U.P. there, Mrs.
      Corney.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is, is it, sir?’ asked the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,’ said the
      apothecary’s apprentice, intent upon the toothpick’s point. ‘It’s a
      break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the
      affirmative.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,’ said
      the young man. ‘Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile, to intimate
      that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she resumed her
      seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The
      mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl,
      and sat at the foot of the bed.
    </p>
<p>
      The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the
      toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it
      for ten minutes or so: when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs.
      Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.
    </p>
<p>
      When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from
      the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to
      catch the heat. The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces,
      and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position, they began
      to converse in a low voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?’ inquired the
      messenger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a word,’ replied the other. ‘She plucked and tore at her arms for a
      little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn’t
      much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an
      old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?’ demanded the
      first.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I tried to get it down,’ rejoined the other. ‘But her teeth were tight
      set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to
      get it back again. So I drank it; and it did me good!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard, the
      two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I mind the time,’ said the first speaker, ‘when she would have done the
      same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ay, that she would,’ rejoined the other; ‘she had a merry heart. ‘A many,
      many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old
      eyes have seen them—ay, and those old hands touched them too; for I
      have helped her, scores of times.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature
      shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket, brought
      out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook a few
      grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few more into
      her own. While they were thus employed, the matron, who had been
      impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor,
      joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not long, mistress,’ replied the second woman, looking up into her face.
      ‘We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience! He’ll be
      here soon enough for us all.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!’ said the matron sternly. ‘You,
      Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Often,’ answered the first woman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But will never be again,’ added the second one; ‘that is, she’ll never
      wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Long or short,’ said the matron, snappishly, ‘she won’t find me here when
      she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for nothing.
      It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I
      won’t—that’s more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you
      make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned
      towards the bed, caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself
      upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Who’s that?’ she cried, in a hollow voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush, hush!’ said one of the women, stooping over her. ‘Lie down, lie
      down!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll never lie down again alive!’ said the woman, struggling. ‘I <i>will</i>
      tell her! Come here! Nearer! Let me whisper in your ear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the
      bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of the
      two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Turn them away,’ said the woman, drowsily; ‘make haste! make haste!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous
      lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends;
      and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her,
      when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned
      to the bedside. On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone, and
      cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not
      unlikely; since, in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the
      apothecary, she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of
      gin-and-water which had been privily administered, in the openness of
      their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now listen to me,’ said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great
      effort to revive one latent spark of energy. ‘In this very room—in
      this very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’, that was
      brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all
      soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me
      think—what was the year again!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never mind the year,’ said the impatient auditor; ‘what about her?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ay,’ murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state,
      ‘what about her?—what about—I know!’ she cried, jumping
      fiercely up: her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head—‘I
      robbed her, so I did! She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold,
      when I stole it!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stole what, for God’s sake?’ cried the matron, with a gesture as if she
      would call for help.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>It</i>!’ replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth.
      ‘The only thing she had. She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to
      eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I
      tell you! Rich gold, that might have saved her life!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Gold!’ echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell
      back. ‘Go on, go on—yes—what of it? Who was the mother? When
      was it?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She charge me to keep it safe,’ replied the woman with a groan, ‘and
      trusted me as the only woman about her. I stole it in my heart when she
      first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps,
      is on me besides! They would have treated him better, if they had known it
      all!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Known what?’ asked the other. ‘Speak!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The boy grew so like his mother,’ said the woman, rambling on, and not
      heeding the question, ‘that I could never forget it when I saw his face.
      Poor girl! poor girl! She was so young, too! Such a gentle lamb! Wait;
      there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no,’ replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as
      they came more faintly from the dying woman. ‘Be quick, or it may be too
      late!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The mother,’ said the woman, making a more violent effort than before;
      ‘the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my
      ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come when
      it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named.
      “And oh, kind Heaven!” she said, folding her thin hands together, “whether
      it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in this troubled world,
      and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!”’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The boy’s name?’ demanded the matron.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They <i>called</i> him Oliver,’ replied the woman, feebly. ‘The gold I
      stole was—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, yes—what?’ cried the other.
    </p>
<p>
      She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back,
      instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting
      posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some
      indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<p>
      ‘Stone dead!’ said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door
      was opened.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And nothing to tell, after all,’ rejoined the matron, walking carelessly
      away.
    </p>
<p>
      The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations
      for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left alone, hovering
      about the body.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00029">
      CHAPTER XXV — WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY
    </h2>
<p>
      While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat in
      the old den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding
      over a dull, smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee, with
      which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful
      action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on
      them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on
      the rusty bars.
    </p>
<p>
      At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr.
      Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against
      Master Bates and Mr. Chitling. The countenance of the first-named
      gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired great additional
      interest from his close observance of the game, and his attentive perusal
      of Mr. Chitling’s hand; upon which, from time to time, as occasion served,
      he bestowed a variety of earnest glances: wisely regulating his own play
      by the result of his observations upon his neighbour’s cards. It being a
      cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom
      within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth, which he
      only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for
      refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready filled with
      gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.
    </p>
<p>
      Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more excitable
      nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that he more
      frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover indulged in
      many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a scientific
      rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close attachment, more
      than once took occasion to reason gravely with his companion upon these
      improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master Bates received in
      extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be ‘blowed,’ or to
      insert his head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned
      witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited
      considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was remarkable
      that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably lost; and that the
      circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him
      the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end
      of every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly game in
      all his born days.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s two doubles and the rub,’ said Mr. Chitling, with a very long
      face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket. ‘I never see such
      a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even when we’ve good cards,
      Charley and I can’t make nothing of ‘em.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very
      ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of
      laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what
      was the matter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Matter, Fagin!’ cried Charley. ‘I wish you had watched the play. Tommy
      Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with him against the
      Artfull and dumb.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ay, ay!’ said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that
      he was at no loss to understand the reason. ‘Try ‘em again, Tom; try ‘em
      again.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No more of it for me, thank ‘ee, Fagin,’ replied Mr. Chitling; ‘I’ve had
      enough. That ‘ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no standing
      again’ him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ha! ha! my dear,’ replied the Jew, ‘you must get up very early in the
      morning, to win against the Dodger.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Morning!’ said Charley Bates; ‘you must put your boots on over-night, and
      have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if
      you want to come over him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and
      offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first picture-card, at a
      shilling at a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by
      this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a
      ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had
      served him in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar
      shrillness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How precious dull you are, Tommy!’ said the Dodger, stopping short when
      there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling. ‘What do you
      think he’s thinking of, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How should I know, my dear?’ replied the Jew, looking round as he plied
      the bellows. ‘About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the
      country that he’s just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a bit of it,’ replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse
      as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. ‘What do <i>you</i> say, Charley?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>I</i> should say,’ replied Master Bates, with a grin, ‘that he was
      uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a
      merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a
      spree!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of
      the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such
      violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor; where
      (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length
      until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position, and began
      another laugh.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never mind him, my dear,’ said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and
      giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows.
      ‘Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up to her.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What I mean to say, Fagin,’ replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the face,
      ‘is, that that isn’t anything to anybody here.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No more it is,’ replied the Jew; ‘Charley will talk. Don’t mind him, my
      dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids you, Tom, and
      you will make your fortune.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So I <i>do</i> do as she bids me,’ replied Mr. Chitling; ‘I shouldn’t
      have been milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out a
      good job for you; didn’t it, Fagin! And what’s six weeks of it? It must
      come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don’t
      want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, to be sure, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,’ asked the Dodger, winking
      upon Charley and the Jew, ‘if Bet was all right?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I mean to say that I shouldn’t,’ replied Tom, angrily. ‘There, now. Ah!
      Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nobody, my dear,’ replied the Jew; ‘not a soul, Tom. I don’t know one of
      ‘em that would do it besides you; not one of ‘em, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her; mightn’t I, Fagin?’ 
      angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. ‘A word from me would have done
      it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To be sure it would, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?’ demanded Tom, pouring question upon
      question with great volubility.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no, to be sure,’ replied the Jew; ‘you were too stout-hearted for
      that. A deal too stout, my dear!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Perhaps I was,’ rejoined Tom, looking round; ‘and if I was, what’s to
      laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened to
      assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the
      company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender. But,
      unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never
      more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a
      violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary
      ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who,
      being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time
      so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and
      caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for breath,
      while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hark!’ cried the Dodger at this moment, ‘I heard the tinkler.’ Catching
      up the light, he crept softly upstairs.
    </p>
<p>
      The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in
      darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered Fagin
      mysteriously.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What!’ cried the Jew, ‘alone?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the candle
      with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb show, that
      he had better not be funny just then. Having performed this friendly
      office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew’s face, and awaited his directions.
    </p>
<p>
      The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his
      face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and
      feared to know the worst. At length he raised his head.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where is he?’ he asked.
    </p>
<p>
      The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to leave
      the room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; ‘bring him down. Hush!
      Quiet, Charley! Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was
      softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout,
      when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand, and
      followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a hurried
      glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the
      lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard, unwashed, and
      unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How are you, Faguey?’ said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. ‘Pop that
      shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when
      I cut; that’s the time of day! You’ll be a fine young cracksman afore the
      old file now.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his
      middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘See there, Faguey,’ he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots;
      ‘not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of
      blacking, by Jove! But don’t look at me in that way, man. All in good
      time. I can’t talk about business till I’ve eat and drank; so produce the
      sustainance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the first time these
      three days!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon the
      table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his leisure.
    </p>
<p>
      To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the
      conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently watching
      his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue to the
      intelligence he brought; but in vain.
    </p>
<p>
      He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon
      his features that they always wore: and through dirt, and beard, and
      whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of flash
      Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched every
      morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in
      irrepressible excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with
      the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more; then,
      ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirits and
      water, and composed himself for talking.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said Toby.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, yes!’ interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to declare
      that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the low
      mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his eye, he
      quietly resumed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘First and foremost, Faguey,’ said the housebreaker, ‘how’s Bill?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What!’ screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, you don’t mean to say—’ began Toby, turning pale.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mean!’ cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. ‘Where are they?
      Sikes and the boy! Where are they? Where have they been? Where are they
      hiding? Why have they not been here?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The crack failed,’ said Toby faintly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I know it,’ replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and
      pointing to it. ‘What more?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back, with him
      between us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge and ditch.
      They gave chase. Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon
      us.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The boy!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped to take
      him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were close upon
      our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows! We parted
      company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s
      all I know about him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining his
      hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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