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

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<body class="x-ebookmaker x-ebookmaker-2"><div class="pgmonospaced">                 ‘FIVE GUINEAS REWARD
<br/>
<br/>     ‘Whereas a young boy, named Oliver Twist, absconded, or
<br/>     enticed, on Thursday evening last, from his home, at was
<br/>     Pentonville; and has not since been heard of. The above
<br/>     reward will be paid to any person who will give such
<br/>     information as will lead to the discovery of the said Oliver
<br/>     Twist, or tend to throw any light upon his previous history,
<br/>     in which the advertiser is, for many reasons, warmly
<br/>     interested.’ 
<br/></div>
<p>
      And then followed a full description of Oliver’s dress, person,
      appearance, and disappearance: with the name and address of Mr. Brownlow
      at full length.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble opened his eyes; read the advertisement, slowly and carefully,
      three several times; and in something more than five minutes was on his
      way to Pentonville: having actually, in his excitement, left the glass of
      hot gin-and-water, untasted.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is Mr. Brownlow at home?’ inquired Mr. Bumble of the girl who opened the
      door.
    </p>
<p>
      To this inquiry the girl returned the not uncommon, but rather evasive
      reply of ‘I don’t know; where do you come from?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble no sooner uttered Oliver’s name, in explanation of his errand,
      than Mrs. Bedwin, who had been listening at the parlour door, hastened
      into the passage in a breathless state.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come in, come in,’ said the old lady: ‘I knew we should hear of him. Poor
      dear! I knew we should! I was certain of it. Bless his heart! I said so
      all along.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Having heard this, the worthy old lady hurried back into the parlour
      again; and seating herself on a sofa, burst into tears. The girl, who was
      not quite so susceptible, had run upstairs meanwhile; and now returned
      with a request that Mr. Bumble would follow her immediately: which he did.
    </p>
<p>
      He was shown into the little back study, where sat Mr. Brownlow and his
      friend Mr. Grimwig, with decanters and glasses before them. The latter
      gentleman at once burst into the exclamation:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A beadle. A parish beadle, or I’ll eat my head.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Pray don’t interrupt just now,’ said Mr. Brownlow. ‘Take a seat, will
      you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble sat himself down; quite confounded by the oddity of Mr.
      Grimwig’s manner. Mr. Brownlow moved the lamp, so as to obtain an
      uninterrupted view of the beadle’s countenance; and said, with a little
      impatience, ‘Now, sir, you come in consequence of having seen the
      advertisement?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And you <i>are</i> a beadle, are you not?’ inquired Mr. Grimwig.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am a porochial beadle, gentlemen,’ rejoined Mr. Bumble proudly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course,’ observed Mr. Grimwig aside to his friend, ‘I knew he was. A
      beadle all over!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Brownlow gently shook his head to impose silence on his friend, and
      resumed:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you know where this poor boy is now?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No more than nobody,’ replied Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, what <i>do</i> you know of him?’ inquired the old gentleman. ‘Speak
      out, my friend, if you have anything to say. What <i>do</i> you know of
      him?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You don’t happen to know any good of him, do you?’ said Mr. Grimwig,
      caustically; after an attentive perusal of Mr. Bumble’s features.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble, catching at the inquiry very quickly, shook his head with
      portentous solemnity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You see?’ said Mr. Grimwig, looking triumphantly at Mr. Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Brownlow looked apprehensively at Mr. Bumble’s pursed-up countenance;
      and requested him to communicate what he knew regarding Oliver, in as few
      words as possible.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bumble put down his hat; unbuttoned his coat; folded his arms;
      inclined his head in a retrospective manner; and, after a few moments’ 
      reflection, commenced his story.
    </p>
<p>
      It would be tedious if given in the beadle’s words: occupying, as it did,
      some twenty minutes in the telling; but the sum and substance of it was,
      that Oliver was a foundling, born of low and vicious parents. That he had,
      from his birth, displayed no better qualities than treachery, ingratitude,
      and malice. That he had terminated his brief career in the place of his
      birth, by making a sanguinary and cowardly attack on an unoffending lad,
      and running away in the night-time from his master’s house. In proof of
      his really being the person he represented himself, Mr. Bumble laid upon
      the table the papers he had brought to town. Folding his arms again, he
      then awaited Mr. Brownlow’s observations.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I fear it is all too true,’ said the old gentleman sorrowfully, after
      looking over the papers. ‘This is not much for your intelligence; but I
      would gladly have given you treble the money, if it had been favourable to
      the boy.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      It is not improbable that if Mr. Bumble had been possessed of this
      information at an earlier period of the interview, he might have imparted
      a very different colouring to his little history. It was too late to do it
      now, however; so he shook his head gravely, and, pocketing the five
      guineas, withdrew.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Brownlow paced the room to and fro for some minutes; evidently so much
      disturbed by the beadle’s tale, that even Mr. Grimwig forbore to vex him
      further.
    </p>
<p>
      At length he stopped, and rang the bell violently.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mrs. Bedwin,’ said Mr. Brownlow, when the housekeeper appeared; ‘that
      boy, Oliver, is an imposter.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It can’t be, sir. It cannot be,’ said the old lady energetically.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I tell you he is,’ retorted the old gentleman. ‘What do you mean by can’t
      be? We have just heard a full account of him from his birth; and he has
      been a thorough-paced little villain, all his life.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I never will believe it, sir,’ replied the old lady, firmly. ‘Never!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You old women never believe anything but quack-doctors, and lying
      story-books,’ growled Mr. Grimwig. ‘I knew it all along. Why didn’t you
      take my advise in the beginning; you would if he hadn’t had a fever, I
      suppose, eh? He was interesting, wasn’t he? Interesting! Bah!’ And Mr.
      Grimwig poked the fire with a flourish.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He was a dear, grateful, gentle child, sir,’ retorted Mrs. Bedwin,
      indignantly. ‘I know what children are, sir; and have done these forty
      years; and people who can’t say the same, shouldn’t say anything about
      them. That’s my opinion!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This was a hard hit at Mr. Grimwig, who was a bachelor. As it extorted
      nothing from that gentleman but a smile, the old lady tossed her head, and
      smoothed down her apron preparatory to another speech, when she was
      stopped by Mr. Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Silence!’ said the old gentleman, feigning an anger he was far from
      feeling. ‘Never let me hear the boy’s name again. I rang to tell you that.
      Never. Never, on any pretence, mind! You may leave the room, Mrs. Bedwin.
      Remember! I am in earnest.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There were sad hearts at Mr. Brownlow’s that night.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver’s heart sank within him, when he thought of his good friends; it
      was well for him that he could not know what they had heard, or it might
      have broken outright.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00021">
      CHAPTER XVIII — HOW OLIVER PASSED HIS TIME IN THE IMPROVING SOCIETY
      OF HIS REPUTABLE FRIENDS
    </h2>
<p>
      About noon next day, when the Dodger and Master Bates had gone out to
      pursue their customary avocations, Mr. Fagin took the opportunity of
      reading Oliver a long lecture on the crying sin of ingratitude; of which
      he clearly demonstrated he had been guilty, to no ordinary extent, in
      wilfully absenting himself from the society of his anxious friends; and,
      still more, in endeavouring to escape from them after so much trouble and
      expense had been incurred in his recovery. Mr. Fagin laid great stress on
      the fact of his having taken Oliver in, and cherished him, when, without
      his timely aid, he might have perished with hunger; and he related the
      dismal and affecting history of a young lad whom, in his philanthropy, he
      had succoured under parallel circumstances, but who, proving unworthy of
      his confidence and evincing a desire to communicate with the police, had
      unfortunately come to be hanged at the Old Bailey one morning. Mr. Fagin
      did not seek to conceal his share in the catastrophe, but lamented with
      tears in his eyes that the wrong-headed and treacherous behaviour of the
      young person in question, had rendered it necessary that he should become
      the victim of certain evidence for the crown: which, if it were not
      precisely true, was indispensably necessary for the safety of him (Mr.
      Fagin) and a few select friends. Mr. Fagin concluded by drawing a rather
      disagreeable picture of the discomforts of hanging; and, with great
      friendliness and politeness of manner, expressed his anxious hopes that he
      might never be obliged to submit Oliver Twist to that unpleasant
      operation.
    </p>
<p>
      Little Oliver’s blood ran cold, as he listened to the Jew’s words, and
      imperfectly comprehended the dark threats conveyed in them. That it was
      possible even for justice itself to confound the innocent with the guilty
      when they were in accidental companionship, he knew already; and that
      deeply-laid plans for the destruction of inconveniently knowing or
      over-communicative persons, had been really devised and carried out by the
      Jew on more occasions than one, he thought by no means unlikely, when he
      recollected the general nature of the altercations between that gentleman
      and Mr. Sikes: which seemed to bear reference to some foregone conspiracy
      of the kind. As he glanced timidly up, and met the Jew’s searching look,
      he felt that his pale face and trembling limbs were neither unnoticed nor
      unrelished by that wary old gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew, smiling hideously, patted Oliver on the head, and said, that if
      he kept himself quiet, and applied himself to business, he saw they would
      be very good friends yet. Then, taking his hat, and covering himself with
      an old patched great-coat, he went out, and locked the room-door behind
      him.
    </p>
<p>
      And so Oliver remained all that day, and for the greater part of many
      subsequent days, seeing nobody, between early morning and midnight, and
      left during the long hours to commune with his own thoughts. Which, never
      failing to revert to his kind friends, and the opinion they must long ago
      have formed of him, were sad indeed.
    </p>
<p>
      After the lapse of a week or so, the Jew left the room-door unlocked; and
      he was at liberty to wander about the house.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a very dirty place. The rooms upstairs had great high wooden
      chimney-pieces and large doors, with panelled walls and cornices to the
      ceiling; which, although they were black with neglect and dust, were
      ornamented in various ways. From all of these tokens Oliver concluded that
      a long time ago, before the old Jew was born, it had belonged to better
      people, and had perhaps been quite gay and handsome: dismal and dreary as
      it looked now.
    </p>
<p>
      Spiders had built their webs in the angles of the walls and ceilings; and
      sometimes, when Oliver walked softly into a room, the mice would scamper
      across the floor, and run back terrified to their holes. With these
      exceptions, there was neither sight nor sound of any living thing; and
      often, when it grew dark, and he was tired of wandering from room to room,
      he would crouch in the corner of the passage by the street-door, to be as
      near living people as he could; and would remain there, listening and
      counting the hours, until the Jew or the boys returned.
    </p>
<p>
      In all the rooms, the mouldering shutters were fast closed: the bars which
      held them were screwed tight into the wood; the only light which was
      admitted, stealing its way through round holes at the top: which made the
      rooms more gloomy, and filled them with strange shadows. There was a
      back-garret window with rusty bars outside, which had no shutter; and out
      of this, Oliver often gazed with a melancholy face for hours together; but
      nothing was to be descried from it but a confused and crowded mass of
      housetops, blackened chimneys, and gable-ends. Sometimes, indeed, a
      grizzly head might be seen, peering over the parapet-wall of a distant
      house; but it was quickly withdrawn again; and as the window of Oliver’s
      observatory was nailed down, and dimmed with the rain and smoke of years,
      it was as much as he could do to make out the forms of the different
      objects beyond, without making any attempt to be seen or heard,—which
      he had as much chance of being, as if he had lived inside the ball of St.
      Paul’s Cathedral.
    </p>
<p>
      One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening,
      the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some
      anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (to do him justice, this
      was by no means an habitual weakness with him); and, with this end and
      aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet,
      straightway.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some
      faces, however bad, to look upon; too desirous to conciliate those about
      him when he could honestly do so; to throw any objection in the way of
      this proposal. So he at once expressed his readiness; and, kneeling on the
      floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot
      in his laps, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated
      as ‘japanning his trotter-cases.’ The phrase, rendered into plain English,
      signifieth, cleaning his boots.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
<img alt="0112m " src="1646223070011777107_0112m.jpg" style="width:100%;" id="id-9042569261639244709"/><br/>
</div>
<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0112.jpg.id-1857377909091226676.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-1857377909091226676" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational
      animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude
      smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his
      boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken
      them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his
      reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed
      the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his
      thoughts; he was evidently tinctured, for the nonce, with a spice of
      romance and enthusiasm, foreign to his general nature. He looked down on
      Oliver, with a thoughtful countenance, for a brief space; and then,
      raising his head, and heaving a gentle sign, said, half in abstraction,
      and half to Master Bates:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said Master Charles Bates; ‘he don’t know what’s good for him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe: as did Charley Bates. They
      both smoked, for some seconds, in silence.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?’ said the Dodger
      mournfully.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I think I know that,’ replied Oliver, looking up. ‘It’s a the—;
      you’re one, are you not?’ inquired Oliver, checking himself.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am,’ replied the Dodger. ‘I’d scorn to be anything else.’ Mr. Dawkins
      gave his hat a ferocious cock, after delivering this sentiment, and looked
      at Master Bates, as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying
      anything to the contrary.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am,’ repeated the Dodger. ‘So’s Charley. So’s Fagin. So’s Sikes. So’s
      Nancy. So’s Bet. So we all are, down to the dog. And he’s the downiest one
      of the lot!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And the least given to peaching,’ added Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box, for fear of committing
      himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without
      wittles for a fortnight,’ said the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a bit of it,’ observed Charley.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s a rum dog. Don’t he look fierce at any strange cove that laughs or
      sings when he’s in company!’ pursued the Dodger. ‘Won’t he growl at all,
      when he hears a fiddle playing! And don’t he hate other dogs as ain’t of
      his breed! Oh, no!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s an out-and-out Christian,’ said Charley.
    </p>
<p>
      This was merely intended as a tribute to the animal’s abilities, but it
      was an appropriate remark in another sense, if Master Bates had only known
      it; for there are a good many ladies and gentlemen, claiming to be
      out-and-out Christians, between whom, and Mr. Sikes’ dog, there exist
      strong and singular points of resemblance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well,’ said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had
      strayed: with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his
      proceedings. ‘This hasn’t go anything to do with young Green here.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No more it has,’ said Charley. ‘Why don’t you put yourself under Fagin,
      Oliver?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And make your fortun’ out of hand?’ added the Dodger, with a grin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And so be able to retire on your property, and do the gen-teel: as I mean
      to, in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the
      forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week,’ said Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t like it,’ rejoined Oliver, timidly; ‘I wish they would let me go.
      I—I—would rather go.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And Fagin would <i>rather</i> not!’ rejoined Charley.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver knew this too well; but thinking it might be dangerous to express
      his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his
      boot-cleaning.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Go!’ exclaimed the Dodger. ‘Why, where’s your spirit?’ Don’t you take any
      pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, blow that!’ said Master Bates: drawing two or three silk
      handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, ‘that’s
      too mean; that is.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>I</i> couldn’t do it,’ said the Dodger, with an air of haughty
      disgust.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You can leave your friends, though,’ said Oliver with a half smile; ‘and
      let them be punished for what you did.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That,’ rejoined the Dodger, with a wave of his pipe, ‘That was all out of
      consideration for Fagin, ‘cause the traps know that we work together, and
      he might have got into trouble if we hadn’t made our lucky; that was the
      move, wasn’t it, Charley?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Master Bates nodded assent, and would have spoken, but the recollection of
      Oliver’s flight came so suddenly upon him, that the smoke he was inhaling
      got entangled with a laugh, and went up into his head, and down into his
      throat: and brought on a fit of coughing and stamping, about five minutes
      long.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Look here!’ said the Dodger, drawing forth a handful of shillings and
      halfpence. ‘Here’s a jolly life! What’s the odds where it comes from?
      Here, catch hold; there’s plenty more where they were took from. You
      won’t, won’t you? Oh, you precious flat!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s naughty, ain’t it, Oliver?’ inquired Charley Bates. ‘He’ll come to
      be scragged, won’t he?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know what that means,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Something in this way, old feller,’ said Charly. As he said it, Master
      Bates caught up an end of his neckerchief; and, holding it erect in the
      air, dropped his head on his shoulder, and jerked a curious sound through
      his teeth; thereby indicating, by a lively pantomimic representation, that
      scragging and hanging were one and the same thing.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s what it means,’ said Charley. ‘Look how he stares, Jack!
    </p>
<p>
      I never did see such prime company as that ‘ere boy; he’ll be the death of
      me, I know he will.’ Master Charley Bates, having laughed heartily again,
      resumed his pipe with tears in his eyes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’ve been brought up bad,’ said the Dodger, surveying his boots with
      much satisfaction when Oliver had polished them. ‘Fagin will make
      something of you, though, or you’ll be the first he ever had that turned
      out unprofitable. You’d better begin at once; for you’ll come to the trade
      long before you think of it; and you’re only losing time, Oliver.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Master Bates backed this advice with sundry moral admonitions of his own:
      which, being exhausted, he and his friend Mr. Dawkins launched into a
      glowing description of the numerous pleasures incidental to the life they
      led, interspersed with a variety of hints to Oliver that the best thing he
      could do, would be to secure Fagin’s favour without more delay, by the
      means which they themselves had employed to gain it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And always put this in your pipe, Nolly,’ said the Dodger, as the Jew was
      heard unlocking the door above, ‘if you don’t take fogels and tickers—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the good of talking in that way?’ interposed Master Bates; ‘he
      don’t know what you mean.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If you don’t take pocket-handkechers and watches,’ said the Dodger,
      reducing his conversation to the level of Oliver’s capacity, ‘some other
      cove will; so that the coves that lose ‘em will be all the worse, and
      you’ll be all the worse, too, and nobody half a ha’p’orth the better,
      except the chaps wot gets them—and you’ve just as good a right to
      them as they have.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To be sure, to be sure!’ said the Jew, who had entered unseen by Oliver.
      ‘It all lies in a nutshell my dear; in a nutshell, take the Dodger’s word
      for it. Ha! ha! ha! He understands the catechism of his trade.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The old man rubbed his hands gleefully together, as he corroborated the
      Dodger’s reasoning in these terms; and chuckled with delight at his
      pupil’s proficiency.
    </p>
<p>
      The conversation proceeded no farther at this time, for the Jew had
      returned home accompanied by Miss Betsy, and a gentleman whom Oliver had
      never seen before, but who was accosted by the Dodger as Tom Chitling; and
      who, having lingered on the stairs to exchange a few gallantries with the
      lady, now made his appearance.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered
      eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment
      towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself
      conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional
      aquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pock-marked face; wore a
      fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron.
      His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself
      to the company by stating that his ‘time’ was only out an hour before; and
      that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he
      had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr.
      Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of
      fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt
      holes in them, and there was no remedy against the County. The same remark
      he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which
      he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations
      by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two moral
      long hard-working days; and that he ‘wished he might be busted if he
      warn’t as dry as a lime-basket.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?’ inquired the
      Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I—I—don’t know, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Who’s that?’ inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at
      Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A young friend of mine, my dear,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s in luck, then,’ said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin.
      ‘Never mind where I came from, young ‘un; you’ll find your way there, soon
      enough, I’ll bet a crown!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At this sally, the boys laughed. After some more jokes on the same
      subject, they exchanged a few short whispers with Fagin; and withdrew.
    </p>
<p>
      After some words apart between the last comer and Fagin, they drew their
      chairs towards the fire; and the Jew, telling Oliver to come and sit by
      him, led the conversation to the topics most calculated to interest his
      hearers. These were, the great advantages of the trade, the proficiency of
      the Dodger, the amiability of Charley Bates, and the liberality of the Jew
      himself. At length these subjects displayed signs of being thoroughly
      exhausted; and Mr. Chitling did the same: for the house of correction
      becomes fatiguing after a week or two. Miss Betsy accordingly withdrew;
      and left the party to their repose.
    </p>
<p>
      From this day, Oliver was seldom left alone; but was placed in almost
      constant communication with the two boys, who played the old game with the
      Jew every day: whether for their own improvement or Oliver’s, Mr. Fagin
      best knew. At other times the old man would tell them stories of robberies
      he had committed in his younger days: mixed up with so much that was droll
      and curious, that Oliver could not help laughing heartily, and showing
      that he was amused in spite of all his better feelings.
    </p>
<p>
      In short, the wily old Jew had the boy in his toils. Having prepared his
      mind, by solitude and gloom, to prefer any society to the companionship of
      his own sad thoughts in such a dreary place, he was now slowly instilling
      into his soul the poison which he hoped would blacken it, and change its
      hue for ever.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00022">
      CHAPTER XIX — IN WHICH A NOTABLE PLAN IS DISCUSSED AND DETERMINED ON
    </h2>
<p>
      It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his great-coat
      tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up over his ears
      so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face: emerged from his
      den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and chained behind him;
      and having listened while the boys made all secure, and until their
      retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down the street as
      quickly as he could.
    </p>
<p>
      The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of
      Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the street;
      and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck off in the
      direction of the Spitalfields.
    </p>
<p>
      The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets;
      the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the
      touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a being as the Jew
      to be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter
      of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome
      reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved:
      crawling forth, by night, in search of some rich offal for a meal.
    </p>
<p>
      He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he
      reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon
      became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in
      that close and densely-populated quarter.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at
      all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of
      the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length
      turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the farther end. At the
      door of a house in this street, he knocked; having exchanged a few
      muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked upstairs.
    </p>
<p>
      A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man’s voice
      demanded who was there.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,’ said the Jew looking in.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bring in your body then,’ said Sikes. ‘Lie down, you stupid brute! Don’t
      you know the devil when he’s got a great-coat on?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin’s outer
      garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a
      chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his tail
      as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his nature
      to be.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well!’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, my dear,’ replied the Jew.—‘Ah! Nancy.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to
      imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not
      met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the
      subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady’s
      behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and
      bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold
      night, and no mistake.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is cold, Nancy dear,’ said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over
      the fire. ‘It seems to go right through one,’ added the old man, touching
      his side.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,’ said Mr.
      Sikes. ‘Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It’s
      enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that
      way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many:
      which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with
      several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the
      Jew drink it off.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Quite enough, quite, thankee, Bill,’ replied the Jew, putting down the
      glass after just setting his lips to it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What! You’re afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?’ inquired
      Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. ‘Ugh!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the
      remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to
      filling it again for himself: which he did at once.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second
      glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a
      restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished
      apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the
      belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more
      suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons
      which stood in a corner, and a ‘life-preserver’ that hung over the
      chimney-piece.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There,’ said Sikes, smacking his lips. ‘Now I’m ready.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘For business?’ inquired the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘For business,’ replied Sikes; ‘so say what you’ve got to say.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?’ said the Jew, drawing his chair
      forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes. Wot about it?’ inquired Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,’ said the Jew. ‘He knows what I mean,
      Nancy; don’t he?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, he don’t,’ sneered Mr. Sikes. ‘Or he won’t, and that’s the same
      thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don’t sit there,
      winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn’t the
      very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d’ye mean?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush, Bill, hush!’ said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this
      burst of indignation; ‘somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear
      us.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let ‘em hear!’ said Sikes; ‘I don’t care.’ But as Mr. Sikes <i>did</i>
      care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew
      calmer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There, there,’ said the Jew, coaxingly. ‘It was only my caution, nothing
      more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done,
      Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!’ said
      the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of
      anticipation.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not at all,’ replied Sikes coldly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not to be done at all!’ echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, not at all,’ rejoined Sikes. ‘At least it can’t be a put-up job, as
      we expected.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then it hasn’t been properly gone about,’ said the Jew, turning pale with
      anger. ‘Don’t tell me!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But I will tell you,’ retorted Sikes. ‘Who are you that’s not to be told?
      I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a
      fortnight, and he can’t get one of the servants in line.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you mean to tell me, Bill,’ said the Jew: softening as the other grew
      heated: ‘that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, I do mean to tell you so,’ replied Sikes. ‘The old lady has had ‘em
      these twenty years; and if you were to give ‘em five hundred pound, they
      wouldn’t be in it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But do you mean to say, my dear,’ remonstrated the Jew, ‘that the women
      can’t be got over?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not a bit of it,’ replied Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not by flash Toby Crackit?’ said the Jew incredulously. ‘Think what women
      are, Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,’ replied Sikes. ‘He says he’s worn
      sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he’s been
      loitering down there, and it’s all of no use.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my
      dear,’ said the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So he did,’ rejoined Sikes, ‘and they warn’t of no more use than the
      other plant.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some
      minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said,
      with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared
      the game was up.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And yet,’ said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, ‘it’s a sad
      thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘So it is,’ said Mr. Sikes. ‘Worse luck!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought,
      with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly
      demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently
      fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the
      fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Fagin,’ said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; ‘is
      it worth fifty shiners extra, if it’s safely done from the outside?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is it a bargain?’ inquired Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, my dear, yes,’ rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every
      muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had
      awakened.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then,’ said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew’s hand, with some disdain,
      ‘let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the
      garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and
      shutters. The crib’s barred up at night like a jail; but there’s one part
      we can crack, safe and softly.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Which is that, Bill?’ asked the Jew eagerly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why,’ whispered Sikes, ‘as you cross the lawn—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes?’ said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost
      starting out of it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Umph!’ cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her
      head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew’s face.
      ‘Never mind which part it is. You can’t do it without me, I know; but it’s
      best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘As you like, my dear, as you like’ replied the Jew. ‘Is there no help
      wanted, but yours and Toby’s?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘None,’ said Sikes. ‘Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we’ve both
      got; the second you must find us.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A boy!’ exclaimed the Jew. ‘Oh! then it’s a panel, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never mind wot it is!’ replied Sikes. ‘I want a boy, and he musn’t be a
      big ‘un. Lord!’ said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, ‘if I’d only got that young
      boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper’s! He kept him small on purpose, and let
      him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile
      Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was
      earning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a
      ‘prentice of him. And so they go on,’ said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising
      with the recollection of his wrongs, ‘so they go on; and, if they’d got
      money enough (which it’s a Providence they haven’t,) we shouldn’t have
      half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No more we should,’ acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering during
      this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. ‘Bill!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What now?’ inquired Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire;
      and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room.
      Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution
      unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch
      him a jug of beer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You don’t want any beer,’ said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her
      seat very composedly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I tell you I do!’ replied Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nonsense,’ rejoined the girl coolly, ‘Go on, Fagin. I know what he’s
      going to say, Bill; he needn’t mind me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some
      surprise.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, you don’t mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?’ he asked at length.
      ‘You’ve known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil’s in it. She
      ain’t one to blab. Are you Nancy?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>I</i> should think not!’ replied the young lady: drawing her chair up
      to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no, my dear, I know you’re not,’ said the Jew; ‘but—’ and again
      the old man paused.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘But wot?’ inquired Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I didn’t know whether she mightn’t p’r’aps be out of sorts, you know, my
      dear, as she was the other night,’ replied the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a
      glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into
      sundry exclamations of ‘Keep the game a-going!’ ‘Never say die!’ and the
      like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for
      the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did
      Mr. Sikes likewise.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now, Fagin,’ said Nancy with a laugh. ‘Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ha! you’re a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!’ said the
      Jew, patting her on the neck. ‘It <i>was</i> about Oliver I was going to
      speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What about him?’ demanded Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s the boy for you, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper;
      laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He!’ exclaimed. Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have him, Bill!’ said Nancy. ‘I would, if I was in your place. He mayn’t
      be so much up, as any of the others; but that’s not what you want, if he’s
      only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he’s a safe one, Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I know he is,’ rejoined Fagin. ‘He’s been in good training these last few
      weeks, and it’s time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others
      are all too big.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, he is just the size I want,’ said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,’ interposed the Jew; ‘he
      can’t help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Frighten him!’ echoed Sikes. ‘It’ll be no sham frightening, mind you. If
      there’s anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a
      penny, in for a pound. You won’t see him alive again, Fagin. Think of
      that, before you send him. Mark my words!’ said the robber, poising a
      crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ve thought of it all,’ said the Jew with energy.
      ‘I’ve—I’ve had my eye upon him, my dears,
      close—close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his
      mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he’s ours! Ours
      for his life. Oho! It couldn’t have come about better!’ The
      old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and
      shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ours!’ said Sikes. ‘Yours, you mean.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Perhaps I do, my dear,’ said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. ‘Mine, if
      you like, Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And wot,’ said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, ‘wot
      makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know
      there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you
      might pick and choose from?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Because they’re of no use to me, my dear,’ replied the Jew, with some
      confusion, ‘not worth the taking. Their looks convict ‘em when they get
      into trouble, and I lose ‘em all. With this boy, properly managed, my
      dears, I could do what I couldn’t with twenty of them. Besides,’ said the
      Jew, recovering his self-possession, ‘he has us now if he could only give
      us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how
      he came there; it’s quite enough for my power over him that he was in a
      robbery; that’s all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being
      obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way—which would be
      dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘When is it to be done?’ asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation
      on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received
      Fagin’s affectation of humanity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, to be sure,’ said the Jew; ‘when is it to be done, Bill?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,’ rejoined Sikes in a
      surly voice, ‘if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good,’ said the Jew; ‘there’s no moon.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ rejoined Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?’ asked the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      Sikes nodded.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And about—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, ah, it’s all planned,’ rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. ‘Never mind
      particulars. You’d better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get
      off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep
      the melting-pot ready, and that’s all you’ll have to do.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was
      decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew’s next evening when the night
      had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing,
      that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more
      willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his
      behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver
      should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly
      consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that
      the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be
      held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be
      necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in
      this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return
      should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important
      particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.
    </p>
<p>
      These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a
      furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling
      forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with
      wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he
      insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no
      sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the
      nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the
      peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon
      the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good-night, Nancy,’ said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good-night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no
      flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as
      Toby Crackit himself could be.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the
      prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Always the way!’ muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. ‘The
      worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some
      long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha!
      ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his
      way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was
      sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,’ was his first remark as they
      descended the stairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hours ago,’ replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. ‘Here he is!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with
      anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like
      death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it
      wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but
      an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had
      time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not now,’ said the Jew, turning softly away. ‘To-morrow. To-morrow.’ 
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
</p>
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