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

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<h2 id="pgepubid00008">
      CHAPTER VI — OLIVER, BEING GOADED BY THE TAUNTS OF NOAH, ROUSES INTO
      ACTION, AND RATHER ASTONISHES HIM
    </h2>
<p>
      The month’s trial over, Oliver was formally apprenticed. It was a nice
      sickly season just at this time. In commercial phrase, coffins were
      looking up; and, in the course of a few weeks, Oliver acquired a great
      deal of experience. The success of Mr. Sowerberry’s ingenious speculation,
      exceeded even his most sanguine hopes. The oldest inhabitants recollected
      no period at which measles had been so prevalent, or so fatal to infant
      existence; and many were the mournful processions which little Oliver
      headed, in a hat-band reaching down to his knees, to the indescribable
      admiration and emotion of all the mothers in the town. As Oliver
      accompanied his master in most of his adult expeditions too, in order that
      he might acquire that equanimity of demeanour and full command of nerve
      which was essential to a finished undertaker, he had many opportunities of
      observing the beautiful resignation and fortitude with which some
      strong-minded people bear their trials and losses.
    </p>
<p>
      For instance; when Sowerberry had an order for the burial of some rich old
      lady or gentleman, who was surrounded by a great number of nephews and
      nieces, who had been perfectly inconsolable during the previous illness,
      and whose grief had been wholly irrepressible even on the most public
      occasions, they would be as happy among themselves as need be—quite
      cheerful and contented—conversing together with as much freedom and
      gaiety, as if nothing whatever had happened to disturb them. Husbands,
      too, bore the loss of their wives with the most heroic calmness. Wives,
      again, put on weeds for their husbands, as if, so far from grieving in the
      garb of sorrow, they had made up their minds to render it as becoming and
      attractive as possible. It was observable, too, that ladies and gentlemen
      who were in passions of anguish during the ceremony of interment,
      recovered almost as soon as they reached home, and became quite composed
      before the tea-drinking was over. All this was very pleasant and improving
      to see; and Oliver beheld it with great admiration.
    </p>
<p>
      That Oliver Twist was moved to resignation by the example of these good
      people, I cannot, although I am his biographer, undertake to affirm with
      any degree of confidence; but I can most distinctly say, that for many
      months he continued meekly to submit to the domination and ill-treatment
      of Noah Claypole: who used him far worse than before, now that his
      jealousy was roused by seeing the new boy promoted to the black stick and
      hatband, while he, the old one, remained stationary in the muffin-cap and
      leathers. Charlotte treated him ill, because Noah did; and Mrs. Sowerberry
      was his decided enemy, because Mr. Sowerberry was disposed to be his
      friend; so, between these three on one side, and a glut of funerals on the
      other, Oliver was not altogether as comfortable as the hungry pig was,
      when he was shut up, by mistake, in the grain department of a brewery.
    </p>
<p>
      And now, I come to a very important passage in Oliver’s history; for I
      have to record an act, slight and unimportant perhaps in appearance, but
      which indirectly produced a material change in all his future prospects
      and proceedings.
    </p>
<p>
      One day, Oliver and Noah had descended into the kitchen at the usual
      dinner-hour, to banquet upon a small joint of mutton—a pound and a
      half of the worst end of the neck—when Charlotte being called out of
      the way, there ensued a brief interval of time, which Noah Claypole, being
      hungry and vicious, considered he could not possibly devote to a worthier
      purpose than aggravating and tantalising young Oliver Twist.
    </p>
<p>
      Intent upon this innocent amusement, Noah put his feet on the table-cloth;
      and pulled Oliver’s hair; and twitched his ears; and expressed his opinion
      that he was a ‘sneak’; and furthermore announced his intention of coming
      to see him hanged, whenever that desirable event should take place; and
      entered upon various topics of petty annoyance, like a malicious and
      ill-conditioned charity-boy as he was. But, making Oliver cry, Noah
      attempted to be more facetious still; and in his attempt, did what many
      sometimes do to this day, when they want to be funny. He got rather
      personal.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Work’us,’ said Noah, ‘how’s your mother?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She’s dead,’ replied Oliver; ‘don’t you say anything about her to me!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver’s colour rose as he said this; he breathed quickly; and there was a
      curious working of the mouth and nostrils, which Mr. Claypole thought must
      be the immediate precursor of a violent fit of crying. Under this
      impression he returned to the charge.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What did she die of, Work’us?’ said Noah.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of a broken heart, some of our old nurses told me,’ replied Oliver: more
      as if he were talking to himself, than answering Noah. ‘I think I know
      what it must be to die of that!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tol de rol lol lol, right fol lairy, Work’us,’ said Noah, as a tear
      rolled down Oliver’s cheek. ‘What’s set you a snivelling now?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not <i>you</i>,’ replied Oliver, sharply. ‘There; that’s enough. Don’t
      say anything more to me about her; you’d better not!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Better not!’ exclaimed Noah. ‘Well! Better not! Work’us, don’t be
      impudent. <i>Your</i> mother, too! She was a nice ‘un she was. Oh, Lor!’ 
      And here, Noah nodded his head expressively; and curled up as much of his
      small red nose as muscular action could collect together, for the
      occasion.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yer know, Work’us,’ continued Noah, emboldened by Oliver’s silence, and
      speaking in a jeering tone of affected pity: of all tones the most
      annoying: ‘Yer know, Work’us, it can’t be helped now; and of course yer
      couldn’t help it then; and I am very sorry for it; and I’m sure we all
      are, and pity yer very much. But yer must know, Work’us, yer mother was a
      regular right-down bad ‘un.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What did you say?’ inquired Oliver, looking up very quickly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A regular right-down bad ‘un, Work’us,’ replied Noah, coolly. ‘And it’s a
      great deal better, Work’us, that she died when she did, or else she’d have
      been hard labouring in Bridewell, or transported, or hung; which is more
      likely than either, isn’t it?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Crimson with fury, Oliver started up; overthrew the chair and table;
      seized Noah by the throat; shook him, in the violence of his rage, till
      his teeth chattered in his head; and collecting his whole force into one
      heavy blow, felled him to the ground.
    </p>
<p>
      A minute ago, the boy had looked the quiet child, mild, dejected creature
      that harsh treatment had made him. But his spirit was roused at last; the
      cruel insult to his dead mother had set his blood on fire. His breast
      heaved; his attitude was erect; his eye bright and vivid; his whole person
      changed, as he stood glaring over the cowardly tormentor who now lay
      crouching at his feet; and defied him with an energy he had never known
      before.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’ll murder me!’ blubbered Noah. ‘Charlotte! missis! Here’s the new boy
      a murdering of me! Help! help! Oliver’s gone mad! Char—lotte!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Noah’s shouts were responded to, by a loud scream from Charlotte, and a
      louder from Mrs. Sowerberry; the former of whom rushed into the kitchen by
      a side-door, while the latter paused on the staircase till she was quite
      certain that it was consistent with the preservation of human life, to
      come further down.
    </p>
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<h5>
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<p>
      ‘Oh, you little wretch!’ screamed Charlotte: seizing Oliver with her
      utmost force, which was about equal to that of a moderately strong man in
      particularly good training. ‘Oh, you little un-grate-ful, mur-de-rous,
      hor-rid villain!’ And between every syllable, Charlotte gave Oliver a blow
      with all her might: accompanying it with a scream, for the benefit of
      society.
    </p>
<p>
      Charlotte’s fist was by no means a light one; but, lest it should not be
      effectual in calming Oliver’s wrath, Mrs. Sowerberry plunged into the
      kitchen, and assisted to hold him with one hand, while she scratched his
      face with the other. In this favourable position of affairs, Noah rose
      from the ground, and pommelled him behind.
    </p>
<p>
      This was rather too violent exercise to last long. When they were all
      wearied out, and could tear and beat no longer, they dragged Oliver,
      struggling and shouting, but nothing daunted, into the dust-cellar, and
      there locked him up. This being done, Mrs. Sowerberry sunk into a chair,
      and burst into tears.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bless her, she’s going off!’ said Charlotte. ‘A glass of water, Noah,
      dear. Make haste!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! Charlotte,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: speaking as well as she could,
      through a deficiency of breath, and a sufficiency of cold water, which
      Noah had poured over her head and shoulders. ‘Oh! Charlotte, what a mercy
      we have not all been murdered in our beds!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah! mercy indeed, ma’am,’ was the reply. I only hope this’ll teach master
      not to have any more of these dreadful creatures, that are born to be
      murderers and robbers from their very cradle. Poor Noah! He was all but
      killed, ma’am, when I come in.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Poor fellow!’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: looking piteously on the charity-boy.
    </p>
<p>
      Noah, whose top waistcoat-button might have been somewhere on a level with
      the crown of Oliver’s head, rubbed his eyes with the inside of his wrists
      while this commiseration was bestowed upon him, and performed some
      affecting tears and sniffs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s to be done!’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry. ‘Your master’s not at
      home; there’s not a man in the house, and he’ll kick that door down in ten
      minutes.’ Oliver’s vigorous plunges against the bit of timber in question,
      rendered this occurance highly probable.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear, dear! I don’t know, ma’am,’ said Charlotte, ‘unless we send for the
      police-officers.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Or the millingtary,’ suggested Mr. Claypole.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry: bethinking herself of Oliver’s old friend.
      ‘Run to Mr. Bumble, Noah, and tell him to come here directly, and not to
      lose a minute; never mind your cap! Make haste! You can hold a knife to
      that black eye, as you run along. It’ll keep the swelling down.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Noah stopped to make no reply, but started off at his fullest speed; and
      very much it astonished the people who were out walking, to see a
      charity-boy tearing through the streets pell-mell, with no cap on his
      head, and a clasp-knife at his eye.
    </p>
<p>
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</p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00009">
      CHAPTER VII — OLIVER CONTINUES REFRACTORY
    </h2>
<p>
      Noah Claypole ran along the streets at his swiftest pace, and paused not
      once for breath, until he reached the workhouse-gate. Having rested here,
      for a minute or so, to collect a good burst of sobs and an imposing show
      of tears and terror, he knocked loudly at the wicket; and presented such a
      rueful face to the aged pauper who opened it, that even he, who saw
      nothing but rueful faces about him at the best of times, started back in
      astonishment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, what’s the matter with the boy!’ said the old pauper.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mr. Bumble! Mr. Bumble!’ cried Noah, with well-affected dismay: and in
      tones so loud and agitated, that they not only caught the ear of Mr.
      Bumble himself, who happened to be hard by, but alarmed him so much that
      he rushed into the yard without his cocked hat,—which is a very
      curious and remarkable circumstance: as showing that even a beadle, acted
      upon a sudden and powerful impulse, may be afflicted with a momentary
      visitation of loss of self-possession, and forgetfulness of personal
      dignity.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, Mr. Bumble, sir!’ said Noah: ‘Oliver, sir,—Oliver has—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What? What?’ interposed Mr. Bumble: with a gleam of pleasure in his
      metallic eyes. ‘Not run away; he hasn’t run away, has he, Noah?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, sir, no. Not run away, sir, but he’s turned
      wicious,’ replied Noah. ‘He tried to murder me, sir; and then
      he tried to murder Charlotte; and then missis. Oh! what dreadful pain it
      is! Such agony, please, sir!’ And here, Noah writhed and twisted
      his body into an extensive variety of eel-like positions; thereby giving
      Mr. Bumble to understand that, from the violent and sanguinary onset of
      Oliver Twist, he had sustained severe internal injury and damage, from
      which he was at that moment suffering the acutest torture.
    </p>
<p>
      When Noah saw that the intelligence he communicated perfectly paralysed
      Mr. Bumble, he imparted additional effect thereunto, by bewailing his
      dreadful wounds ten times louder than before; and when he observed a
      gentleman in a white waistcoat crossing the yard, he was more tragic in
      his lamentations than ever: rightly conceiving it highly expedient to
      attract the notice, and rouse the indignation, of the gentleman aforesaid.
    </p>
<p>
      The gentleman’s notice was very soon attracted; for he had not walked
      three paces, when he turned angrily round, and inquired what that young
      cur was howling for, and why Mr. Bumble did not favour him with something
      which would render the series of vocular exclamations so designated, an
      involuntary process?
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s a poor boy from the free-school, sir,’ replied Mr. Bumble, ‘who has
      been nearly murdered—all but murdered, sir,—by young Twist.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘By Jove!’ exclaimed the gentleman in the white waistcoat, stopping short.
      ‘I knew it! I felt a strange presentiment from the very first, that that
      audacious young savage would come to be hung!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He has likewise attempted, sir, to murder the female servant,’ said Mr.
      Bumble, with a face of ashy paleness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And his missis,’ interposed Mr. Claypole.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And his master, too, I think you said, Noah?’ added Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No! he’s out, or he would have murdered him,’ replied Noah. ‘He said he
      wanted to.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah! Said he wanted to, did he, my boy?’ inquired the gentleman in the
      white waistcoat.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Noah. ‘And please, sir, missis wants to know whether
      Mr. Bumble can spare time to step up there, directly, and flog him—‘cause
      master’s out.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Certainly, my boy; certainly,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat:
      smiling benignly, and patting Noah’s head, which was about three inches
      higher than his own. ‘You’re a good boy—a very good boy. Here’s a
      penny for you. Bumble, just step up to Sowerberry’s with your cane, and
      see what’s best to be done. Don’t spare him, Bumble.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, I will not, sir,’ replied the beadle. And the cocked hat and cane
      having been, by this time, adjusted to their owner’s satisfaction, Mr.
      Bumble and Noah Claypole betook themselves with all speed to the
      undertaker’s shop.
    </p>
<p>
      Here the position of affairs had not at all improved. Sowerberry had not
      yet returned, and Oliver continued to kick, with undiminished vigour, at
      the cellar-door. The accounts of his ferocity as related by Mrs.
      Sowerberry and Charlotte, were of so startling a nature, that Mr. Bumble
      judged it prudent to parley, before opening the door. With this view he
      gave a kick at the outside, by way of prelude; and, then, applying his
      mouth to the keyhole, said, in a deep and impressive tone:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oliver!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come; you let me out!’ replied Oliver, from the inside.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you know this here voice, Oliver?’ said Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ain’t you afraid of it, sir? Ain’t you a-trembling while I speak, sir?’ 
      said Mr. Bumble.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No!’ replied Oliver, boldly.
    </p>
<p>
      An answer so different from the one he had expected to elicit, and was in
      the habit of receiving, staggered Mr. Bumble not a little. He stepped back
      from the keyhole; drew himself up to his full height; and looked from one
      to another of the three bystanders, in mute astonishment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, you know, Mr. Bumble, he must be mad,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No boy in half his senses could venture to speak so to you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s not Madness, ma’am,’ replied Mr. Bumble, after a few moments of deep
      meditation. ‘It’s Meat.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What?’ exclaimed Mrs. Sowerberry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Meat, ma’am, meat,’ replied Bumble, with stern emphasis. ‘You’ve over-fed
      him, ma’am. You’ve raised a artificial soul and spirit in him, ma’am
      unbecoming a person of his condition: as the board, Mrs. Sowerberry, who
      are practical philosophers, will tell you. What have paupers to do with
      soul or spirit? It’s quite enough that we let ‘em have live bodies. If you
      had kept the boy on gruel, ma’am, this would never have happened.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear, dear!’ ejaculated Mrs. Sowerberry, piously raising her eyes to the
      kitchen ceiling: ‘this comes of being liberal!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The liberality of Mrs. Sowerberry to Oliver, had consisted of a profuse
      bestowal upon him of all the dirty odds and ends which nobody else would
      eat; so there was a great deal of meekness and self-devotion in her
      voluntarily remaining under Mr. Bumble’s heavy accusation. Of which, to do
      her justice, she was wholly innocent, in thought, word, or deed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said Mr. Bumble, when the lady brought her eyes down to earth again;
      ‘the only thing that can be done now, that I know of, is to leave him in
      the cellar for a day or so, till he’s a little starved down; and then to
      take him out, and keep him on gruel all through the apprenticeship. He
      comes of a bad family. Excitable natures, Mrs. Sowerberry! Both the nurse
      and doctor said, that that mother of his made her way here, against
      difficulties and pain that would have killed any well-disposed woman,
      weeks before.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At this point of Mr. Bumble’s discourse, Oliver, just hearing enough to
      know that some allusion was being made to his mother, recommenced kicking,
      with a violence that rendered every other sound inaudible. Sowerberry
      returned at this juncture. Oliver’s offence having been explained to him,
      with such exaggerations as the ladies thought best calculated to rouse his
      ire, he unlocked the cellar-door in a twinkling, and dragged his
      rebellious apprentice out, by the collar.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver’s clothes had been torn in the beating he had received; his face
      was bruised and scratched; and his hair scattered over his forehead. The
      angry flush had not disappeared, however; and when he was pulled out of
      his prison, he scowled boldly on Noah, and looked quite undismayed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now, you are a nice young fellow, ain’t you?’ said Sowerberry; giving
      Oliver a shake, and a box on the ear.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He called my mother names,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, and what if he did, you little ungrateful wretch?’ said Mrs.
      Sowerberry. ‘She deserved what he said, and worse.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She didn’t’ said Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She did,’ said Mrs. Sowerberry.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s a lie!’ said Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      Mrs. Sowerberry burst into a flood of tears.
    </p>
<p>
      This flood of tears left Mr. Sowerberry no alternative. If he had
      hesitated for one instant to punish Oliver most severely, it must be quite
      clear to every experienced reader that he would have been, according to
      all precedents in disputes of matrimony established, a brute, an unnatural
      husband, an insulting creature, a base imitation of a man, and various
      other agreeable characters too numerous for recital within the limits of
      this chapter. To do him justice, he was, as far as his power went—it
      was not very extensive—kindly disposed towards the boy; perhaps,
      because it was his interest to be so; perhaps, because his wife disliked
      him. The flood of tears, however, left him no resource; so he at once gave
      him a drubbing, which satisfied even Mrs. Sowerberry herself, and rendered
      Mr. Bumble’s subsequent application of the parochial cane, rather
      unnecessary. For the rest of the day, he was shut up in the back kitchen,
      in company with a pump and a slice of bread; and at night, Mrs.
      Sowerberry, after making various remarks outside the door, by no means
      complimentary to the memory of his mother, looked into the room, and,
      amidst the jeers and pointings of Noah and Charlotte, ordered him upstairs
      to his dismal bed.
    </p>
<p>
      It was not until he was left alone in the silence and stillness of the
      gloomy workshop of the undertaker, that Oliver gave way to the feelings
      which the day’s treatment may be supposed likely to have awakened in a
      mere child. He had listened to their taunts with a look of contempt; he
      had borne the lash without a cry: for he felt that pride swelling in his
      heart which would have kept down a shriek to the last, though they had
      roasted him alive. But now, when there were none to see or hear him, he
      fell upon his knees on the floor; and, hiding his face in his hands, wept
      such tears as, God send for the credit of our nature, few so young may
      ever have cause to pour out before him!
    </p>
<p>
      For a long time, Oliver remained motionless in this attitude. The candle
      was burning low in the socket when he rose to his feet. Having gazed
      cautiously round him, and listened intently, he gently undid the
      fastenings of the door, and looked abroad.
    </p>
<p>
      It was a cold, dark night. The stars seemed, to the boy’s eyes, farther
      from the earth than he had ever seen them before; there was no wind; and
      the sombre shadows thrown by the trees upon the ground, looked sepulchral
      and death-like, from being so still. He softly reclosed the door. Having
      availed himself of the expiring light of the candle to tie up in a
      handkerchief the few articles of wearing apparel he had, sat himself down
      upon a bench, to wait for morning.
    </p>
<p>
      With the first ray of light that struggled through the crevices in the
      shutters, Oliver arose, and again unbarred the door. One timid look around—one
      moment’s pause of hesitation—he had closed it behind him, and was in
      the open street.
    </p>
<p>
      He looked to the right and to the left, uncertain whither to fly.
    </p>
<p>
      He remembered to have seen the waggons, as they went out, toiling up the
      hill. He took the same route; and arriving at a footpath across the
      fields: which he knew, after some distance, led out again into the road;
      struck into it, and walked quickly on.
    </p>
<p>
      Along this same footpath, Oliver well-remembered he had trotted beside Mr.
      Bumble, when he first carried him to the workhouse from the farm. His way
      lay directly in front of the cottage. His heart beat quickly when he
      bethought himself of this; and he half resolved to turn back. He had come
      a long way though, and should lose a great deal of time by doing so.
      Besides, it was so early that there was very little fear of his being
      seen; so he walked on.
    </p>
<p>
      He reached the house. There was no appearance of its inmates stirring at
      that early hour. Oliver stopped, and peeped into the garden. A child was
      weeding one of the little beds; as he stopped, he raised his pale face and
      disclosed the features of one of his former companions. Oliver felt glad
      to see him, before he went; for, though younger than himself, he had been
      his little friend and playmate. They had been beaten, and starved, and
      shut up together, many and many a time.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush, Dick!’ said Oliver, as the boy ran to the gate, and thrust his thin
      arm between the rails to greet him. ‘Is any one up?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nobody but me,’ replied the child.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You musn’t say you saw me, Dick,’ said Oliver. ‘I am running away. They
      beat and ill-use me, Dick; and I am going to seek my fortune, some long
      way off. I don’t know where. How pale you are!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I heard the doctor tell them I was dying,’ replied the child with a faint
      smile. ‘I am very glad to see you, dear; but don’t stop, don’t stop!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, yes, I will, to say good-b’ye to you,’ replied Oliver. ‘I shall see
      you again, Dick. I know I shall! You will be well and happy!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope so,’ replied the child. ‘After I am dead, but not before. I know
      the doctor must be right, Oliver, because I dream so much of Heaven, and
      Angels, and kind faces that I never see when I am awake. Kiss me,’ said
      the child, climbing up the low gate, and flinging his little arms round
      Oliver’s neck. ‘Good-b’ye, dear! God bless you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The blessing was from a young child’s lips, but it was the first that
      Oliver had ever heard invoked upon his head; and through the struggles and
      sufferings, and troubles and changes, of his after life, he never once
      forgot it.
    </p>
<p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00010">
      CHAPTER VIII — OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A
      STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN
    </h2>
<p>
      Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more
      gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five
      miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns,
      till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat
      down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the
      first time, where he had better go and try to live.
    </p>
<p>
      The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation
      that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened
      a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.
    </p>
<p>
      London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could
      ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too,
      say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of
      living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country
      parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must
      die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed
      through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.
    </p>
<p>
      He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four
      miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could
      hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced
      itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his
      means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two
      pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of
      Sowerberry’s after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more
      than ordinarily well—in his pocket. ‘A clean shirt,’ thought Oliver,
      ‘is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings;
      and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk in
      winter time.’ But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other people,
      although they were extremely ready and active to point out his
      difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of
      surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular
      purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and
      trudged on.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but
      the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at
      the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a
      meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there,
      till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally
      over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he
      had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon
      fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
    </p>
<p>
      He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he
      was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first
      village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles,
      when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that
      they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air,
      made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning he could
      hardly crawl along.
    </p>
<p>
      He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and
      then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took
      any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the
      top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a
      halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but
      was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the
      outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again,
      declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve anything; and
      the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.
    </p>
<p>
      In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons
      who begged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This
      frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those
      villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand about the
      inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a proceeding which
      generally terminated in the landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who
      were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she
      was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer’s house,
      ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed
      his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which brought
      Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the only thing he had
      there, for many hours together.
    </p>
<p>
      In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a
      benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the
      very same process which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he
      would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But the
      turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who
      had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the
      earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she could
      afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such
      tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’s
      soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
    </p>
<p>
      Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver
      limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were
      closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of
      the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only
      served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation, as he sat,
      with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.
    </p>
<p>
      By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and
      people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a
      moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but
      none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He
      had no heart to beg. And there he sat.
    </p>
<p>
      He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great
      number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large
      or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and
      thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few
      hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination
      beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a
      boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and
      was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He
      took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same
      attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and
      returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking
      close up to Oliver, said,
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his
      own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen.
      He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a
      juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and
      manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and
      little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so
      lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and would have
      done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and
      then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old
      place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He
      had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of
      the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the
      pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was,
      altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood
      four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?’ said this strange young gentleman to
      Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I am very hungry and tired,’ replied Oliver: the tears standing in his
      eyes as he spoke. ‘I have walked a long way. I have been walking these
      seven days.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Walking for sivin days!’ said the young gentleman. ‘Oh, I see. Beak’s
      order, eh? But,’ he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, ‘I suppose
      you don’t know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth described
      by the term in question.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My eyes, how green!’ exclaimed the young gentleman. ‘Why, a beak’s a
      madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight
      for’erd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never
      on the mill?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What mill?’ inquired Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What mill! Why, <i>the</i> mill—the mill as takes up so little room
      that it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s
      low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen.
      But come,’ said the young gentleman; ‘you want grub, and you shall have
      it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as
      far as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There!
      Now then! ‘Morrice!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent
      chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and
      a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, ‘a fourpenny bran!’ 
      the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious
      expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the
      crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young
      gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room
      in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by
      direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new
      friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of
      which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Going to London?’ said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length
      concluded.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Got any lodgings?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Money?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as the
      big coat-sleeves would let them go.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you live in London?’ inquired Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes. I do, when I’m at home,’ replied the boy. ‘I suppose you want some
      place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I do, indeed,’ answered Oliver. ‘I have not slept under a roof since I
      left the country.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,’ said the young gentleman. ‘I’ve
      got to be in London to-night; and I know a ‘spectable old gentleman as
      lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the
      change—that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don’t
      he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of
      discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.
    </p>
<p>
      This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted;
      especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the
      old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a
      comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and
      confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend’s name
      was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the
      elderly gentleman before mentioned.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Dawkin’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts
      which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took under his
      protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of
      conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was
      better known by the sobriquet of ‘The Artful Dodger,’ Oliver concluded
      that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his
      benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression,
      he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as
      quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more
      than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther
      acquaintance.
    </p>
<p>
      As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was
      nearly eleven o’clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They
      crossed from the Angel into St. John’s Road; struck down the small street
      which terminates at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and
      Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across
      the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence
      into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which
      the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at
      his heels.
    </p>
<p>
      Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his
      leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of
      the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never
      seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated
      with filthy odours.
    </p>
<p>
      There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared
      to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in
      and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that
      seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the
      public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with
      might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from
      the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and
      women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the
      door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to
      all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away, when they
      reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm,
      pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the
      passage, closed it behind them.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now, then!’ cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the
      Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Plummy and slam!’ was the reply.
    </p>
<p>
      This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the
      light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the
      passage; and a man’s face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old
      kitchen staircase had been broken away.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There’s two on you,’ said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and
      shielding his eyes with his hand. ‘Who’s the t’other one?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A new pal,’ replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where did he come from?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!’ The candle was drawn back,
      and the face disappeared.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped
      by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken
      stairs: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that
      showed he was well acquainted with them.
    </p>
<p>
      He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
    </p>
<p>
      The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt.
      There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in
      a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a
      plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to
      the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over
      them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew,
      whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of
      matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat
      bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and
      the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were
      hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled side by side
      on the floor. Seated round the table were four or five boys, none older
      than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the
      air of middle-aged men. These all crowded about their associate as he
      whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at
      Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is him, Fagin,’ said Jack Dawkins; ‘my friend Oliver Twist.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the
      hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance.
      Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook
      both his hands very hard—especially the one in which he held his
      little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for
      him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in
      order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of
      emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would
      probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew’s
      toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who
      offered them.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,’ said the Jew. ‘Dodger, take
      off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you’re
      a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a good many
      of ‘em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked ‘em out, ready for the wash; that’s
      all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all
      the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they
      went to supper.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot
      gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, because another
      gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately
      afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then
      he sunk into a deep sleep.
    </p>
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