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

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<h2 id="pgepubid00018">
      CHAPTER XV — SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD
      JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
    </h2>
<p>
      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 gas-light
      burnt all day in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in
      the summer: there sat, brooding over a little pewter measure and a small
      glass, strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen
      coat, drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light
      no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as
      Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who
      occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his master with both eyes at
      the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cut on one side of his mouth,
      which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!’ said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking
      silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the
      dog’s winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his
      reflections that they required all the relief derivable from kicking an
      unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for argument and
      consideration. Whatever was the cause, the effect was a kick and a curse,
      bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
    </p>
<p>
      Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by
      their masters; but Mr. Sikes’s dog, having faults of temper in common with
      his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense
      of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the
      half-boots. Having given in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a
      form; just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his
      head.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You would, would you?’ said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and
      deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew
      from his pocket. ‘Come here, you born devil! Come here! D’ye hear?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key
      of a very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable
      objection to having his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled
      more fiercely than before: at the same time grasping the end of the poker
      between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild beast.
    </p>
<p>
      This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his
      knees, began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from
      right to left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking;
      the man thrust and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was
      reaching a most critical point for one or other; when, the door suddenly
      opening, the dog darted out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the
      clasp-knife in his hands.
    </p>
<p>
      There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr.
      Sikes, being disappointed of the dog’s participation, at once transferred
      his share in the quarrel to the new comer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?’ said Sikes,
      with a fierce gesture.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,’ replied Fagin, humbly; for the
      Jew was the new comer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!’ growled Sikes. ‘Couldn’t you hear
      the noise?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh no! You hear nothing, you don’t,’ retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer.
      ‘Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you
      had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why?’ inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as
      haven’t half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,’ 
      replied Sikes, shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; ‘that’s
      why.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to
      laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease,
      however.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Grin away,’ said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with
      savage contempt; ‘grin away. You’ll never have the laugh at me, though,
      unless it’s behind a nightcap. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin;
      and, d—me, I’ll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of
      me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well, my dear,’ said the Jew, ‘I know all that; we—we—have
      a mutual interest, Bill,—a mutual interest.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Humph,’ said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on the
      Jew’s side than on his. ‘Well, what have you got to say to me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,’ replied Fagin, ‘and this
      is your share. It’s rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I
      know you’ll do me a good turn another time, and—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stow that gammon,’ interposed the robber, impatiently. ‘Where is it? Hand
      over!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,’ replied the Jew, soothingly.
      ‘Here it is! All safe!’ As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton
      handkerchief from his breast; and untying a large knot in one corner,
      produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily
      opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is all, is it?’ inquired Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘All,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You haven’t opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along,
      have you?’ inquired Sikes, suspiciously. ‘Don’t put on an injured look at
      the question; you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It
      was answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and
      repulsive in appearance.
    </p>
<p>
      Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly
      understanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a
      remarkable look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in
      expectation of it, and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the
      action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person.
      It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the
      boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had observed the brief
      interchange of signals, he might have thought that it boded no good to
      him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is anybody here, Barney?’ inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes
      was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dot a shoul,’ replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the
      heart or not: made their way through the nose.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nobody?’ inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean
      that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dobody but Biss Dadsy,’ replied Barney.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nancy!’ exclaimed Sikes. ‘Where? Strike me blind, if I don’t honour that
      ‘ere girl, for her native talents.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She’s bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,’ replied Barney.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Send her here,’ said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. ‘Send her
      here.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining
      silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and
      presently returned, ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet,
      apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?’ inquired Sikes, proffering the
      glass.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, Nancy, dear!’ said Fagin, looking up.
    </p>
<p>
      Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew’s red eye-brows, and a half
      closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to
      be too communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all
      we need care for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself,
      and with several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation
      to other matters. In about ten minutes’ time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a
      fit of coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and
      declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short
      part of her way himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they
      went away together, followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk
      out of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it;
      looked after him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched
      fist; muttered a deep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated
      himself at the table; where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting
      pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
    </p>
<p>
      Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short
      a distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall.
      When he got into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which
      was not exactly in his way; but not discovering his mistake until he had
      got half-way down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he
      did not think it worth while to turn back; and so marched on, as quickly
      as he could, with the books under his arm.
    </p>
<p>
      He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel;
      and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who,
      starved and beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he
      was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud. ‘Oh, my dear
      brother!’ And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter was, when he
      was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t,’ cried Oliver, struggling. ‘Let go of me. Who is it? What are you
      stopping me for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the
      young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a
      street-door key in her hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh my gracious!’ said the young woman, ‘I have found him! Oh! Oliver!
      Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your
      account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank gracious
      goodness heavins, I’ve found him!’ With these incoherent exclamations, the
      young woman burst into another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully
      hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a
      butcher’s boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet, who was also
      looking on, whether he didn’t think he had better run for the doctor. To
      which, the butcher’s boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent
      disposition: replied, that he thought not.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, no, no, never mind,’ said the young woman, grasping Oliver’s hand;
      ‘I’m better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, ma’am,’ replied the young woman, ‘he ran away, near a month ago, from
      his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and
      joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother’s
      heart.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Young wretch!’ said one woman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Go home, do, you little brute,’ said the other.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am not,’ replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. ‘I don’t know her. I haven’t
      any sister, or father and mother either. I’m an orphan; I live at
      Pentonville.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only hear him, how he braves it out!’ cried the young woman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, it’s Nancy!’ exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first
      time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You see he knows me!’ cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. ‘He can’t
      help himself. Make him come home, there’s good people, or he’ll kill his
      dear mother and father, and break my heart!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What the devil’s this?’ said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a
      white dog at his heels; ‘young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you
      young dog! Come home directly.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help! help!’ cried Oliver,
      struggling in the man’s powerful grasp.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
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<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0098.jpg.id-8299893227629215364.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-8299893227629215364" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      ‘Help!’ repeated the man. ‘Yes; I’ll help you,
      you young rascal! What books 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 him on the head.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s right!’ cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. ‘That’s the only
      way of bringing him to his senses!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To be sure!’ cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at
      the garret-window.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’ll do him good!’ said the two women.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And he shall have it, too!’ rejoined the man, administering another blow,
      and seizing Oliver by the collar. ‘Come on, you young villain! Here,
      Bull’s-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the
      attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of
      the man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really
      was the hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor
      child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was
      near; resistance was useless. In another moment he was dragged into a
      labyrinth of dark narrow courts, and was forced along them at a pace which
      rendered the few cries he dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It
      was of little moment, indeed, whether they were intelligible or no; for
      there was nobody to care for them, had they been ever so plain.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<p>
      The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open
      door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were
      any traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly,
      in the dark parlour, with the watch between them.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00019">
      CHAPTER XVI — RELATES WHAT BECAME OF OLIVER TWIST, AFTER HE HAD BEEN
      CLAIMED BY NANCY
    </h2>
<p>
      The narrow streets and courts, at length, terminated in a large open
      space; scattered about which, were pens for beasts, and other indications
      of a cattle-market. Sikes slackened his pace when they reached this spot:
      the girl being quite unable to support any longer, the rapid rate at which
      they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, he roughly commanded him to
      take hold of Nancy’s hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you hear?’ growled Sikes, as Oliver hesitated, and looked round.
    </p>
<p>
      They were in a dark corner, quite out of the track of passengers.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver saw, but too plainly, that resistance would be of no avail. He held
      out his hand, which Nancy clasped tight in hers.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Give me the other,’ said Sikes, seizing Oliver’s unoccupied hand. ‘Here,
      Bull’s-Eye!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The dog looked up, and growled.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The dog growled again; and licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were
      anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s as willing as a Christian, strike me blind if he isn’t!’ said Sikes,
      regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. ‘Now, you
      know what you’ve got to expect, master, so call away as quick as you like;
      the dog will soon stop that game. Get on, young’un!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Bull’s-eye wagged his tail in acknowledgment of this unusually endearing
      form of speech; and, giving vent to another admonitory growl for the
      benefit of Oliver, led the way onward.
    </p>
<p>
      It was Smithfield that they were crossing, although it might have been
      Grosvenor Square, for anything Oliver knew to the contrary. The night was
      dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarecely struggle through
      the heavy mist, which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and
      houses in gloom; rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver’s
      eyes; and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing.
    </p>
<p>
      They had hurried on a few paces, when a deep church-bell struck the hour.
      With its first stroke, his two conductors stopped, and turned their heads
      in the direction whence the sound proceeded.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Eight o’ clock, Bill,’ said Nancy, when the bell ceased.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the good of telling me that; I can hear it, can’t I!’ replied
      Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I wonder whether <i>they</i> can hear it,’ said Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course they can,’ replied Sikes. ‘It was Bartlemy time when I was
      shopped; and there warn’t a penny trumpet in the fair, as I couldn’t hear
      the squeaking on. Arter I was locked up for the night, the row and din
      outside made the thundering old jail so silent, that I could almost have
      beat my brains out against the iron plates of the door.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Poor fellow!’ said Nancy, who still had her face turned towards the
      quarter in which the bell had sounded. ‘Oh, Bill, such fine young chaps as
      them!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes; that’s all you women think of,’ answered Sikes. ‘Fine young chaps!
      Well, they’re as good as dead, so it don’t much matter.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With this consolation, Mr. Sikes appeared to repress a rising tendency to
      jealousy, and, clasping Oliver’s wrist more firmly, told him to step out
      again.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what good would that do?’ inquired the unsentimental Mr. Sikes.
      ‘Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope,
      you might as well be walking fifty mile off, or not walking at all, for
      all the good it would do me. Come on, and don’t stand preaching there.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl burst into a laugh; drew her shawl more closely round her; and
      they walked away. But Oliver felt her hand tremble, and, looking up in her
      face as they passed a gas-lamp, saw that it had turned a deadly white.
    </p>
<p>
      They walked on, by little-frequented and dirty ways, for a full half-hour:
      meeting very few people, and those appearing from their looks to hold much
      the same position in society as Mr. Sikes himself. At length they turned
      into a very filthy narrow street, nearly full of old-clothes shops; the
      dog running forward, as if conscious that there was no further occasion
      for his keeping on guard, stopped before the door of a shop that was
      closed and apparently untenanted; the house was in a ruinous condition,
      and on the door was nailed a board, intimating that it was to let: which
      looked as if it had hung there for many years.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘All right,’ cried Sikes, glancing cautiously about.
    </p>
<p>
      Nancy stooped below the shutters, and Oliver heard the sound of a bell.
      They crossed to the opposite side of the street, and stood for a few
      moments under a lamp. A noise, as if a sash window were gently raised, was
      heard; and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr. Sikes then seized
      the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony; and all three
      were quickly inside the house.
    </p>
<p>
      The passage was perfectly dark. They waited, while the person who had let
      them in, chained and barred the door.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Anybody here?’ inquired Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ replied a voice, which Oliver thought he had heard before.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is the old ‘un here?’ asked the robber.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ replied the voice, ‘and precious down in the mouth he has been.
      Won’t he be glad to see you? Oh, no!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let’s have a glim,’ said Sikes, ‘or we shall go breaking our necks, or
      treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stand still a moment, and I’ll get you one,’ replied the voice. The
      receding footsteps of the speaker were heard; and, in another minute, the
      form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore
      in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.
    </p>
<p>
      The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition
      upon Oliver than a humourous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the
      visitors to follow him down a flight of stairs. They crossed an empty
      kitchen; and, opening the door of a low earthy-smelling room, which seemed
      to have been built in a small back-yard, were received with a shout of
      laughter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, my wig, my wig!’ cried Master Charles Bates, from whose lungs the
      laughter had proceeded: ‘here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look
      at him! Fagin, do look at him! I can’t bear it; it is such a jolly game, I
      cant’ bear it. Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself
      flat on the floor: and kicked convulsively for five minutes, in an ectasy
      of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet, he snatched the cleft stick
      from the Dodger; and, advancing to Oliver, viewed him round and round;
      while the Jew, taking off his nightcap, made a great number of low bows to
      the bewildered boy. The Artful, meantime, who was of a rather saturnine
      disposition, and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with
      business, rifled Oliver’s pockets with steady assiduity.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
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</div>
<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0102.jpg.id-8356174294383809612.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-8356174294383809612" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      ‘Look at his togs, Fagin!’ said Charley, putting the light so close to his
      new jacket as nearly to set him on fire. ‘Look at his togs! Superfine
      cloth, and the heavy swell cut! Oh, my eye, what a game! And his books,
      too! Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Delighted to see you looking so well, my dear,’ said the Jew, bowing with
      mock humility. ‘The Artful shall give you another suit, my dear, for fear
      you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn’t you write, my dear, and say
      you were coming? We’d have got something warm for supper.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At his, Master Bates roared again: so loud, that Fagin himself relaxed,
      and even the Dodger smiled; but as the Artful drew forth the five-pound
      note at that instant, it is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery
      awakened his merriment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hallo, what’s that?’ inquired Sikes, stepping forward as the Jew seized
      the note. ‘That’s mine, Fagin.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘Mine, Bill, mine. You shall have the
      books.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If that ain’t mine!’ said Bill Sikes, putting on his hat with a
      determined air; ‘mine and Nancy’s that is; I’ll take the boy back again.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew started. Oliver started too, though from a very different cause;
      for he hoped that the dispute might really end in his being taken back.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come! Hand over, will you?’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is hardly fair, Bill; hardly fair, is it, Nancy?’ inquired the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Fair, or not fair,’ retorted Sikes, ‘hand over, I tell you! Do you think
      Nancy and me has got nothing else to do with our precious time but to
      spend it in scouting arter, and kidnapping, every young boy as gets
      grabbed through you? Give it here, you avaricious old skeleton, give it
      here!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sikes plucked the note from between the
      Jew’s finger and thumb; and looking the old man coolly in the face, folded
      it up small, and tied it in his neckerchief.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s for our share of the trouble,’ said Sikes; ‘and not half enough,
      neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If you ain’t,
      sell ‘em.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They’re very pretty,’ said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had
      been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; ‘beautiful writing,
      isn’t is, Oliver?’ At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver
      regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense
      of the ludicrous, fell into another ectasy, more boisterous than the
      first.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They belong to the old gentleman,’ said Oliver, wringing his hands; ‘to
      the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me
      nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send
      him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray,
      pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them
      who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon
      me, and send them back!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The boy’s right,’ remarked Fagin, looking covertly round, and knitting
      his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. ‘You’re right, Oliver, you’re right;
      they <i>will</i> think you have stolen ‘em. Ha! ha!’ chuckled the Jew,
      rubbing his hands, ‘it couldn’t have happened better, if we had chosen our
      time!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course it couldn’t,’ replied Sikes; ‘I know’d that, directly I see him
      coming through Clerkenwell, with the books under his arm. It’s all right
      enough. They’re soft-hearted psalm-singers, or they wouldn’t have taken
      him in at all; and they’ll ask no questions after him, fear they should be
      obliged to prosecute, and so get him lagged. He’s safe enough.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver had looked from one to the other, while these words were being
      spoken, as if he were bewildered, and could scarecely understand what
      passed; but when Bill Sikes concluded, he jumped suddenly to his feet, and
      tore wildly from the room: uttering shrieks for help, which made the bare
      old house echo to the roof.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Keep back the dog, Bill!’ cried Nancy, springing before the door, and
      closing it, as the Jew and his two pupils darted out in pursuit. ‘Keep
      back the dog; he’ll tear the boy to pieces.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Serve him right!’ cried Sikes, struggling to disengage himself from the
      girl’s grasp. ‘Stand off from me, or I’ll split your head against the
      wall.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t care for that, Bill, I don’t care for that,’ screamed the girl,
      struggling violently with the man, ‘the child shan’t be torn down by the
      dog, unless you kill me first.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Shan’t he!’ said Sikes, setting his teeth. ‘I’ll soon do that, if you
      don’t keep off.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the matter here!’ said Fagin, looking round.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The girl’s gone mad, I think,’ replied Sikes, savagely.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, she hasn’t,’ said Nancy, pale and breathless from the scuffle; ‘no,
      she hasn’t, Fagin; don’t think it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then keep quiet, will you?’ said the Jew, with a threatening look.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, I won’t do that, neither,’ replied Nancy, speaking very loud. ‘Come!
      What do you think of that?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Fagin was sufficiently well acquainted with the manners and customs of
      that particular species of humanity to which Nancy belonged, to feel
      tolerably certain that it would be rather unsafe to prolong any
      conversation with her, at present. With the view of diverting the
      attention of the company, he turned to Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So you wanted to get away, my dear, did you?’ said the Jew, taking up a
      jagged and knotted club which lay in a corner of the fireplace; ‘eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver made no reply. But he watched the Jew’s motions, and breathed
      quickly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wanted to get assistance; called for the police; did you?’ sneered the
      Jew, catching the boy by the arm. ‘We’ll cure you of that, my young
      master.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew inflicted a smart blow on Oliver’s shoulders with the club; and
      was raising it for a second, when the girl, rushing forward, wrested it
      from his hand. She flung it into the fire, with a force that brought some
      of the glowing coals whirling out into the room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I won’t stand by and see it done, Fagin,’ cried the girl. ‘You’ve got the
      boy, and what more would you have?—Let him be—let him be—or
      I shall put that mark on some of you, that will bring me to the gallows
      before my time.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl stamped her foot violently on the floor as she vented this
      threat; and with her lips compressed, and her hands clenched, looked
      alternately at the Jew and the other robber: her face quite colourless
      from the passion of rage into which she had gradually worked herself.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, Nancy!’ said the Jew, in a soothing tone; after a pause, during
      which he and Mr. Sikes had stared at one another in a disconcerted manner;
      ‘you,—you’re more clever than ever to-night. Ha! ha! my dear, you
      are acting beautifully.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Am I!’ said the girl. ‘Take care I don’t overdo it. You will be the worse
      for it, Fagin, if I do; and so I tell you in good time to keep clear of
      me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There is something about a roused woman: especially if she add to all her
      other strong passions, the fierce impulses of recklessness and despair;
      which few men like to provoke. The Jew saw that it would be hopeless to
      affect any further mistake regarding the reality of Miss Nancy’s rage;
      and, shrinking involuntarily back a few paces, cast a glance, half
      imploring and half cowardly, at Sikes: as if to hint that he was the
      fittest person to pursue the dialogue.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Sikes, thus mutely appealed to; and possibly feeling his personal
      pride and influence interested in the immediate reduction of Miss Nancy to
      reason; gave utterance to about a couple of score of curses and threats,
      the rapid production of which reflected great credit on the fertility of
      his invention. As they produced no visible effect on the object against
      whom they were discharged, however, he resorted to more tangible
      arguments.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean by this?’ said Sikes; backing the inquiry with a very
      common imprecation concerning the most beautiful of human features: which,
      if it were heard above, only once out of every fifty thousand times that
      it is uttered below, would render blindness as common a disorder as
      measles: ‘what do you mean by it? Burn my body! Do you know who you are,
      and what you are?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, yes, I know all about it,’ replied the girl, laughing hysterically;
      and shaking her head from side to side, with a poor assumption of
      indifference.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, then, keep quiet,’ rejoined Sikes, with a growl like that he was
      accustomed to use when addressing his dog, ‘or I’ll quiet you for a good
      long time to come.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl laughed again: even less composedly than before; and, darting a
      hasty look at Sikes, turned her face aside, and bit her lip till the blood
      came.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’re a nice one,’ added Sikes, as he surveyed her with a contemptuous
      air, ‘to take up the humane and gen—teel side! A pretty subject for
      the child, as you call him, to make a friend of!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘God Almighty help me, I am!’ cried the girl passionately; ‘and I wish I
      had been struck dead in the street, or had changed places with them we
      passed so near to-night, before I had lent a hand in bringing him here.
      He’s a thief, a liar, a devil, all that’s bad, from this night forth.
      Isn’t that enough for the old wretch, without blows?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come, come, Sikes,’ said the Jew appealing to him in a remonstratory
      tone, and motioning towards the boys, who were eagerly attentive to all
      that passed; ‘we must have civil words; civil words, Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Civil words!’ cried the girl, whose passion was frightful to see. ‘Civil
      words, you villain! Yes, you deserve ‘em from me. I thieved for you when I
      was a child not half as old as this!’ pointing to Oliver. ‘I have been in
      the same trade, and in the same service, for twelve years since. Don’t you
      know it? Speak out! Don’t you know it?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well,’ replied the Jew, with an attempt at pacification; ‘and, if
      you have, it’s your living!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Aye, it is!’ returned the girl; not speaking, but pouring out the words
      in one continuous and vehement scream. ‘It is my living; and the cold,
      wet, dirty streets are my home; and you’re the wretch that drove me to
      them long ago, and that’ll keep me there, day and night, day and night,
      till I die!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I shall do you a mischief!’ interposed the Jew, goaded by these
      reproaches; ‘a mischief worse than that, if you say much more!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The girl said nothing more; but, tearing her hair and dress in a transport
      of passion, made such a rush at the Jew as would probably have left signal
      marks of her revenge upon him, had not her wrists been seized by Sikes at
      the right moment; upon which, she made a few ineffectual struggles, and
      fainted.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She’s all right now,’ said Sikes, laying her down in a corner. ‘She’s
      uncommon strong in the arms, when she’s up in this way.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew wiped his forehead: and smiled, as if it were a relief to have the
      disturbance over; but neither he, nor Sikes, nor the dog, nor the boys,
      seemed to consider it in any other light than a common occurance
      incidental to business.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s the worst of having to do with women,’ said the Jew, replacing his
      club; ‘but they’re clever, and we can’t get on, in our line, without ‘em.
      Charley, show Oliver to bed.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I suppose he’d better not wear his best clothes tomorrow, Fagin, had he?’ 
      inquired Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Certainly not,’ replied the Jew, reciprocating the grin with which
      Charley put the question.
    </p>
<p>
      Master Bates, apparently much delighted with his commission, took the
      cleft stick: and led Oliver into an adjacent kitchen, where there were two
      or three of the beds on which he had slept before; and here, with many
      uncontrollable bursts of laughter, he produced the identical old suit of
      clothes which Oliver had so much congratulated himself upon leaving off at
      Mr. Brownlow’s; and the accidental display of which, to Fagin, by the Jew
      who purchased them, had been the very first clue received, of his
      whereabout.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Put off the smart ones,’ said Charley, ‘and I’ll give ‘em to Fagin to
      take care of. What fun it is!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      The noise of Charley’s laughter, and the voice of Miss Betsy, who
      opportunely arrived to throw water over her friend, and perform other
      feminine offices for the promotion of her recovery, might have kept many
      people awake under more happy circumstances than those in which Oliver was
      placed. But he was sick and weary; and he soon fell sound asleep.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00020">
      CHAPTER XVII — OLIVER’S DESTINY CONTINUING UNPROPITIOUS, BRINGS A
      GREAT MAN TO LONDON TO INJURE HIS REPUTATION
    </h2>
<p>
      It is the custom on the stage, in all good murderous melodramas, to
      present the tragic and the comic scenes, in as regular alternation, as the
      layers of red and white in a side of streaky bacon. The hero sinks upon
      his straw bed, weighed down by fetters and misfortunes; in the next scene,
      his faithful but unconscious squire regales the audience with a comic
      song. We behold, with throbbing bosoms, the heroine in the grasp of a
      proud and ruthless baron: her virtue and her life alike in danger, drawing
      forth her dagger to preserve the one at the cost of the other; and just as
      our expectations are wrought up to the highest pitch, a whistle is heard,
      and we are straightway transported to the great hall of the castle; where
      a grey-headed seneschal sings a funny chorus with a funnier body of
      vassals, who are free of all sorts of places, from church vaults to
      palaces, and roam about in company, carolling perpetually.
    </p>
<p>
      Such changes appear absurd; but they are not so unnatural as they would
      seem at first sight. The transitions in real life from well-spread boards
      to death-beds, and from mourning-weeds to holiday garments, are not a whit
      less startling; only, there, we are busy actors, instead of passive
      lookers-on, which makes a vast difference. The actors in the mimic life of
      the theatre, are blind to violent transitions and abrupt impulses of
      passion or feeling, which, presented before the eyes of mere spectators,
      are at once condemned as outrageous and preposterous.
    </p>
<p>
      As sudden shiftings of the scene, and rapid changes of time and place, are
      not only sanctioned in books by long usage, but are by many considered as
      the great art of authorship: an author’s skill in his craft being, by such
      critics, chiefly estimated with relation to the dilemmas in which he
      leaves his characters at the end of every chapter: this brief introduction
      to the present one may perhaps be deemed unnecessary. If so, let it be
      considered a delicate intimation on the part of the historian that he is
      going back to the town in which Oliver Twist was born; the reader taking
      it for granted that there are good and substantial reasons for making the
      journey, or he would not be invited to proceed upon such an expedition.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble emerged at early morning from the workhouse-gate, and walked
      with portly carriage and commanding steps, up the High Street. He was in
      the full bloom and pride of beadlehood; his cocked hat and coat were
      dazzling in the morning sun; he clutched his cane with the vigorous
      tenacity of health and power. Mr. Bumble always carried his head high; but
      this morning it was higher than usual. There was an abstraction in his
      eye, an elevation in his air, which might have warned an observant
      stranger that thoughts were passing in the beadle’s mind, too great for
      utterance.
    </p>
<p>
      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 of his hand, and relaxed not in his
      dignified pace, until he reached the farm where Mrs. Mann tended the
      infant paupers with parochial care.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Drat that beadle!’ said Mrs. Mann, hearing the well-known shaking at the
      garden-gate. ‘If it isn’t him at this time in the morning! Lauk, Mr.
      Bumble, only think of its being you! Well, dear me, it <i>is</i> a
      pleasure, this is! Come into the parlour, sir, please.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The first sentence was addressed to Susan; and the exclamations of delight
      were uttered to Mr. Bumble: as the good lady unlocked the garden-gate: and
      showed him, with great attention and respect, into the house.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mrs. Mann,’ said Mr. Bumble; not sitting upon, or dropping himself into a
      seat, as any common jackanapes would: but letting himself gradually and
      slowly down into a chair; ‘Mrs. Mann, ma’am, good morning.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, and good morning to <i>you</i>, sir,’ replied Mrs. Mann, with many
      smiles; ‘and hoping you find yourself well, sir!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So-so, Mrs. Mann,’ replied the beadle. ‘A porochial life is not a bed of
      roses, Mrs. Mann.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, that it isn’t indeed, Mr. Bumble,’ rejoined the lady. And all the
      infant paupers might have chorused the rejoinder with great propriety, if
      they had heard it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A porochial life, ma’am,’ continued Mr. Bumble, striking the table with
      his cane, ‘is a life of worrit, and vexation, and hardihood; but all
      public characters, as I may say, must suffer prosecution.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mrs. Mann, not very well knowing what the beadle meant, raised her hands
      with a look of sympathy, and sighed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah! You may well sigh, Mrs. Mann!’ said the beadle.
    </p>
<p>
      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,
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mrs. Mann, I am going to London.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lauk, Mr. Bumble!’ cried Mrs. Mann, starting back.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To London, ma’am,’ resumed the inflexible beadle, ‘by coach. I and two
      paupers, Mrs. Mann! A legal action is a coming on, about a settlement; and
      the board has appointed me—me, Mrs. Mann—to dispose to the
      matter before the quarter-sessions at Clerkinwell.
    </p>
<p>
      And I very much question,’ added Mr. Bumble, drawing himself up, ‘whether
      the Clerkinwell Sessions will not find themselves in the wrong box before
      they have done with me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! you mustn’t be too hard upon them, sir,’ said Mrs. Mann, coaxingly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The Clerkinwell Sessions have brought it upon themselves, ma’am,’ replied
      Mr. Bumble; ‘and if the Clerkinwell Sessions find that they come off
      rather worse than they expected, the Clerkinwell Sessions have only
      themselves to thank.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There was so much determination and depth of purpose about the menacing
      manner in which Mr. Bumble delivered himself of these words, that Mrs.
      Mann appeared quite awed by them. At length she said,
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’re going by coach, sir? I thought it was always usual to send them
      paupers in carts.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s when they’re ill, Mrs. Mann,’ said the beadle. ‘We put the sick
      paupers into open carts in the rainy weather, to prevent their taking
      cold.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Mann.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The opposition coach contracts for these two; and takes them cheap,’ said
      Mr. Bumble. ‘They are both in a very low state, and we find it would come
      two pound cheaper to move ‘em than to bury ‘em—that is, if we can
      throw ‘em upon another parish, which I think we shall be able to do, if
      they don’t die upon the road to spite us. Ha! ha! ha!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      When Mr. Bumble had laughed a little while, his eyes again encountered the
      cocked hat; and he became grave.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We are forgetting business, ma’am,’ said the beadle; ‘here is your
      porochial stipend for the month.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble produced some silver money rolled up in paper, from his
      pocket-book; and requested a receipt: which Mrs. Mann wrote.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s very much blotted, sir,’ said the farmer of infants; ‘but it’s
      formal enough, I dare say. Thank you, Mr. Bumble, sir, I am very much
      obliged to you, I’m sure.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble nodded, blandly, in acknowledgment of Mrs. Mann’s curtsey; and
      inquired how the children were.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bless their dear little hearts!’ said Mrs. Mann with emotion, ‘they’re as
      well as can be, the dears! Of course, except the two that died last week.
      And little Dick.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Isn’t that boy no better?’ inquired Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      Mrs. Mann shook her head.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s a ill-conditioned, wicious, bad-disposed porochial child that,’ said
      Mr. Bumble angrily. ‘Where is he?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll bring him to you in one minute, sir,’ replied Mrs. Mann. ‘Here, you
      Dick!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      After some calling, Dick was discovered. Having had his face put under the
      pump, and dried upon Mrs. Mann’s gown, he was led into the awful presence
      of Mr. Bumble, the beadle.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      Such was the little being who stood trembling beneath Mr. Bumble’s glance;
      not daring to lift his eyes from the floor; and dreading even to hear the
      beadle’s voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Can’t you look at the gentleman, you obstinate boy?’ said Mrs. Mann.
    </p>
<p>
      The child meekly raised his eyes, and encountered those of Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the matter with you, porochial Dick?’ inquired Mr. Bumble, with
      well-timed jocularity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nothing, sir,’ replied the child faintly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should think not,’ said Mrs. Mann, who had of course laughed very much
      at Mr. Bumble’s humour.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You want for nothing, I’m sure.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should like—’ faltered the child.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hey-day!’ interposed Mrs. Mann, ‘I suppose
      you’re going to say that you <i>do</i> want for something, now?
      Why, you little wretch—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop, Mrs. Mann, stop!’ said the beadle, raising his hand with a show of
      authority. ‘Like what, sir, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should like,’ faltered the child, ‘if somebody that can write, would
      put a few words down for me on a piece of paper, and fold it up and seal
      it, and keep it for me, after I am laid in the ground.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, what does the boy mean?’ exclaimed Mr. Bumble, on whom the earnest
      manner and wan aspect of the child had made some impression: accustomed as
      he was to such things. ‘What do you mean, sir?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should like,’ said the child, ‘to leave my dear love to poor Oliver
      Twist; and to let him know how often I have sat by myself and cried to
      think of his wandering about in the dark nights with nobody to help him.
      And I should like to tell him,’ said the child pressing his small hands
      together, and speaking with great fervour, ‘that I was glad to die when I
      was very young; for, perhaps, if I had lived to be a man, and had grown
      old, my little sister who is in Heaven, might forget me, or be unlike me;
      and it would be so much happier if we were both children there together.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble surveyed the little speaker, from head to foot, with
      indescribable astonishment; and, turning to his companion, said, ‘They’re
      all in one story, Mrs. Mann. That out-dacious Oliver had demogalized them
      all!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I couldn’t have believed it, sir’ said Mrs Mann, holding up her hands,
      and looking malignantly at Dick. ‘I never see such a hardened little
      wretch!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Take him away, ma’am!’ said Mr. Bumble imperiously.
      ‘This must be stated to the board, Mrs. Mann.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope the gentleman will understand that it isn’t my fault, sir?’ said
      Mrs. Mann, whimpering pathetically.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They shall understand that, ma’am; they shall be acquainted with the true
      state of the case,’ said Mr. Bumble. ‘There; take him away, I can’t bear
      the sight on him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Dick was immediately taken away, and locked up in the coal-cellar. Mr.
      Bumble shortly afterwards took himself off, to prepare for his journey.
    </p>
<p>
      At six o’clock next morning, Mr. Bumble: having exchanged his cocked hat
      for a round one, and encased his person in a blue great-coat with a cape
      to it: took his place on the outside of the coach, accompanied by the
      criminals whose settlement was disputed; with whom, in due course of time,
      he arrived in London.
    </p>
<p>
      He experienced no other crosses on the way, than those which originated in
      the perverse behaviour of the two paupers, who persisted in shivering, and
      complaining of the cold, in a manner which, Mr. Bumble declared, caused
      his teeth to chatter in his head, and made him feel quite uncomfortable;
      although he had a great-coat on.
    </p>
<p>
      Having disposed of these evil-minded persons for the night, Mr. Bumble sat
      himself down in the house at which the coach stopped; and took a temperate
      dinner of steaks, oyster sauce, and porter. Putting a glass of hot
      gin-and-water on the chimney-piece, he drew his chair to the fire; and,
      with sundry moral reflections on the too-prevalent sin of discontent and
      complaining, composed himself to read the paper.
    </p>
<p>
      The very first paragraph upon which Mr. Bumble’s eye rested, was the
      following advertisement.
    </p>
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