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

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<h2 id="pgepubid00011">
      CHAPTER IX — CONTAINING FURTHER PARTICULARS CONCERNING THE PLEASANT
      OLD GENTLEMAN, AND HIS HOPEFUL PUPILS
    </h2>
<p>
      It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound, long sleep.
      There was no other person in the room but the old Jew, who was boiling
      some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast, and whistling softly to himself
      as he stirred it round and round, with an iron spoon. He would stop every
      now and then to listen when there was the least noise below: and when he
      had satisfied himself, he would go on whistling and stirring again, as
      before.
    </p>
<p>
      Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not thoroughly
      awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and waking, when you
      dream more in five minutes with your eyes half open, and yourself half
      conscious of everything that is passing around you, than you would in five
      nights with your eyes fast closed, and your senses wrapt in perfect
      unconsciousness. At such time, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind
      is doing, to form some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its
      bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed from the
      restraint of its corporeal associate.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his
      half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the sound of the
      spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides: and yet the self-same senses
      were mentally engaged, at the same time, in busy action with almost
      everybody he had ever known.
    </p>
<p>
      When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the hob. Standing,
      then in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as if he did not well
      know how to employ himself, he turned round and looked at Oliver, and
      called him by his name. He did not answer, and was to all appearances
      asleep.
    </p>
<p>
      After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently to the
      door: which he fastened. He then drew forth: as it seemed to Oliver, from
      some trap in the floor: a small box, which he placed carefully on the
      table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and looked in. Dragging an
      old chair to the table, he sat down; and took from it a magnificent gold
      watch, sparkling with jewels.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Aha!’ said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting every
      feature with a hideous grin. ‘Clever dogs! Clever dogs! Staunch to the
      last! Never told the old parson where they were. Never poached upon old
      Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t have loosened the knot, or kept
      the drop up, a minute longer. No, no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature, the Jew
      once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At least half a
      dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same box, and surveyed with
      equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches, bracelets, and other articles of
      jewellery, of such magnificent materials, and costly workmanship, that
      Oliver had no idea, even of their names.
    </p>
<p>
      Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another: so small that it
      lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute
      inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and shading it
      with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At length he put it
      down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning back in his chair,
      muttered:
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men
      never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade!
      Five of ‘em strung up in a row, and none left to play booty, or turn
      white-livered!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes, which had been
      staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were
      fixed on his in mute curiousity; and although the recognition was only for
      an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly be
      conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been
      observed.
    </p>
<p>
      He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash; and, laying his hand on a
      bread knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very
      much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife
      quivered in the air.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s that?’ said the Jew. ‘What do you watch me for? Why are you awake?
      What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—quick! for your life.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,’ replied Oliver, meekly. ‘I am
      very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You were not awake an hour ago?’ said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the
      boy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No! No, indeed!’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Are you sure?’ cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and
      a threatening attitude.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Upon my word I was not, sir,’ replied Oliver, earnestly. ‘I was not,
      indeed, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tush, tush, my dear!’ said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and
      playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce
      the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. ‘Of course I know
      that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha!
      you’re a brave boy, Oliver.’ The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but
      glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?’ said the Jew, laying
      his hand upon it after a short pause.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning rather pale. ‘They—they’re mine, Oliver;
      my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call
      me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a
      dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness
      for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only
      cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Stay. There’s
      a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I’ll give
      you a basin to wash in, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise
      the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.
    </p>
<p>
      He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the
      basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the
      Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver
      had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally
      introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on
      the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home
      in the crown of his hat.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to
      the Dodger, ‘I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hard,’ replied the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘As nails,’ added Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good boys, good boys!’ said the Jew. ‘What have you got, Dodger?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A couple of pocket-books,’ replied that young gentlman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lined?’ inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Pretty well,’ replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green,
      and the other red.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not so heavy as they might be,’ said the Jew, after looking at the
      insides carefully; ‘but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman,
      ain’t he, Oliver?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very indeed, sir,’ said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates laughed
      uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who saw nothing to
      laugh at, in anything that had passed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And what have you got, my dear?’ said Fagin to Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wipes,’ replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four
      pocket-handkerchiefs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well,’ said the Jew, inspecting them closely; ‘they’re very good ones,
      very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley; so the marks shall be
      picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach Oliver how to do it. Shall us,
      Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If you please, sir,’ said Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as Charley
      Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?’ said the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this reply, that he
      burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the coffee he was drinking,
      and carrying it down some wrong channel, very nearly terminated in his
      premature suffocation.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He is so jolly green!’ said Charley when he recovered, as an apology to
      the company for his unpolite behaviour.
    </p>
<p>
      The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over his eyes, and
      said he’d know better, by and by; upon which the old gentleman, observing
      Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the subject by asking whether there had
      been much of a crowd at the execution that morning? This made him wonder
      more and more; for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they
      had both been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could possibly
      have found time to be so very industrious.
    </p>
<p>
      When the breakfast was cleared away; the merry old gentlman and the two
      boys played at a very curious and uncommon game, which was performed in
      this way. The merry old gentleman, placing a snuff-box in one pocket of
      his trousers, a note-case in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat
      pocket, with a guard-chain round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin
      in his shirt: buttoned his coat tight round him, and putting his
      spectacle-case and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the
      room with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk
      about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped at the
      fire-place, and sometimes at the door, making believe that he was staring
      with all his might into shop-windows. At such times, he would look
      constantly round him, for fear of thieves, and would keep slapping all his
      pockets in turn, to see that he hadn’t lost anything, in such a very funny
      and natural manner, that Oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face.
      All this time, the two boys followed him closely about: getting out of his
      sight, so nimbly, every time he turned round, that it was impossible to
      follow their motions. At last, the Dodger trod upon his toes, or ran upon
      his boot accidently, while Charley Bates stumbled up against him behind;
      and in that one moment they took from him, with the most extraordinary
      rapidity, snuff-box, note-case, watch-guard, chain, shirt-pin,
      pocket-handkerchief, even the spectacle-case. If the old gentlman felt a
      hand in any one of his pockets, he cried out where it was; and then the
      game began all over again.
    </p>
<p>
      When this game had been played a great many times, a couple of young
      ladies called to see the young gentleman; one of whom was named Bet, and
      the other Nancy. They wore a good deal of hair, not very neatly turned up
      behind, and were rather untidy about the shoes and stockings. They were
      not exactly pretty, perhaps; but they had a great deal of colour in their
      faces, and looked quite stout and hearty. Being remarkably free and
      agreeable in their manners, Oliver thought them very nice girls indeed. As
      there is no doubt they were.
    </p>
<p>
      The visitors stopped a long time. Spirits were produced, in consequence of
      one of the young ladies complaining of a coldness in her inside; and the
      conversation took a very convivial and improving turn. At length, Charley
      Bates expressed his opinion that it was time to pad the hoof. This, it
      occurred to Oliver, must be French for going out; for directly afterwards,
      the Dodger, and Charley, and the two young ladies, went away together,
      having been kindly furnished by the amiable old Jew with money to spend.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it? They have
      gone out for the day.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have they done work, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said the Jew; ‘that is, unless they should unexpectedly come across
      any, when they are out; and they won’t neglect it, if they do, my dear,
      depend upon it. Make ‘em your models, my dear. Make ‘em your models,’ 
      tapping the fire-shovel on the hearth to add force to his words; ‘do
      everything they bid you, and take their advice in all matters—especially
      the Dodger’s, my dear. He’ll be a great man himself, and will make you one
      too, if you take pattern by him.—Is my handkerchief hanging out of
      my pocket, my dear?’ said the Jew, stopping short.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ said Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw them do,
      when we were at play this morning.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver held up the bottom of the pocket with one hand, as he had seen the
      Dodger hold it, and drew the handkerchief lightly out of it with the
      other.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is it gone?’ cried the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Here it is, sir,’ said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’re a clever boy, my dear,’ said the playful old gentleman, patting
      Oliver on the head approvingly. ‘I never saw a sharper lad. Here’s a
      shilling for you. If you go on, in this way, you’ll be the greatest man of
      the time. And now come here, and I’ll show you how to take the marks out
      of the handkerchiefs.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver wondered what picking the old gentleman’s pocket in play, had to do
      with his chances of being a great man. But, thinking that the Jew, being
      so much his senior, must know best, he followed him quietly to the table,
      and was soon deeply involved in his new study.
    </p>
<p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00012">
      CHAPTER X — OLIVER BECOMES BETTER ACQUAINTED WITH THE CHARACTERS OF
      HIS NEW ASSOCIATES; AND PURCHASES EXPERIENCE AT A HIGH PRICE. BEING A
      SHORT, BUT VERY IMPORTANT CHAPTER, IN THIS HISTORY
    </h2>
<p>
      For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking the marks out of
      the pocket-handkerchief, (of which a great number were brought home,) and
      sometimes taking part in the game already described: which the two boys
      and the Jew played, regularly, every morning. At length, he began to
      languish for fresh air, and took many occasions of earnestly entreating
      the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work with his two companions.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver was rendered the more anxious to be actively employed, by what he
      had seen of the stern morality of the old gentleman’s character. Whenever
      the Dodger or Charley Bates came home at night, empty-handed, he would
      expatiate with great vehemence on the misery of idle and lazy habits; and
      would enforce upon them the necessity of an active life, by sending them
      supperless to bed. On one occasion, indeed, he even went so far as to
      knock them both down a flight of stairs; but this was carrying out his
      virtuous precepts to an unusual extent.
    </p>
<p>
      At length, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had so eagerly
      sought. There had been no handkerchiefs to work upon, for two or three
      days, and the dinners had been rather meagre. Perhaps these were reasons
      for the old gentleman’s giving his assent; but, whether they were or no,
      he told Oliver he might go, and placed him under the joint guardianship of
      Charley Bates, and his friend the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      The three boys sallied out; the Dodger with his coat-sleeves tucked up,
      and his hat cocked, as usual; Master Bates sauntering along with his hands
      in his pockets; and Oliver between them, wondering where they were going,
      and what branch of manufacture he would be instructed in, first.
    </p>
<p>
      The pace at which they went, was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter,
      that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the
      old gentleman, by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious
      propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and
      tossing them down areas; while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose
      notions concerning the rights of property, by pilfering divers apples and
      onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into
      pockets which were so surprisingly capacious, that they seemed to
      undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These things
      looked so bad, that Oliver was on the point of declaring his intention of
      seeking his way back, in the best way he could; when his thoughts were
      suddenly directed into another channel, by a very mysterious change of
      behaviour on the part of the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square
      in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms,
      ‘The Green’: when the Dodger made a sudden stop; and, laying his finger on
      his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and
      circumspection.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush!’ replied the Dodger. ‘Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The old gentleman over the way?’ said Oliver. ‘Yes, I see him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’ll do,’ said the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A prime plant,’ observed Master Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise; but he
      was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked
      stealthily across the road, and slunk close behind the old gentleman
      towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces
      after them; and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking
      on in silent amazement.
    </p>
<p>
      The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a
      powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat
      with a black velvet collar; wore white trousers; and carried a smart
      bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall, and
      there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair, in
      his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed;
      for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall,
      nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the book itself:
      which he was reading straight through: turning over the leaf when he got
      to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the next one, and
      going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.
    </p>
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<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0073.jpg.id-2150105169461786239.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-2150105169461786239" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      What was Oliver’s horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on
      with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger
      plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket, and draw from thence a
      handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates; and finally to
      behold them, both running away round the corner at full speed!
    </p>
<p>
      In an instant the whole mystery of the hankerchiefs, and the watches, and
      the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.
    </p>
<p>
      He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins
      from terror, that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused
      and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made
      off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
    </p>
<p>
      This was all done in a minute’s space. In the very instant when Oliver
      began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and
      missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away
      at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the
      depredator; and shouting ‘Stop thief!’ with all his might, made off after
      him, book in hand.
    </p>
<p>
      But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry.
      The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by
      running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first
      doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver
      running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth
      with great promptitude; and, shouting ‘Stop thief!’ too, joined in the
      pursuit like good citizens.
    </p>
<p>
      Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not
      theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation
      is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been
      prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more;
      so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys
      roaring and shouting behind him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman
      leaves his counter, and the car-man his waggon; the butcher throws down
      his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his
      parcels; the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe; the child
      his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash:
      tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the
      corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls: and streets,
      squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the
      crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the
      mud, and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows, out run the
      people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience desert Punch in the very
      thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout,
      and lend fresh vigour to the cry, ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop thief! Stop thief!’ There is a passion for <i>hunting</i> <i>something</i>
      deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child,
      panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large
      drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make
      head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him
      every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. ‘Stop thief!’ 
      Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
    </p>
<p>
      Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the
      crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling and struggling
      with the others to catch a glimpse. ‘Stand aside!’ ‘Give him a little
      air!’ ‘Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.’ ‘Where’s the gentleman?’ ‘Here his
      is, coming down the street.’ ‘Make room there for the gentleman!’ ‘Is this
      the boy, sir!’ ‘Yes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,
      looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the
      old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the
      foremost of the pursuers.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, ‘I am afraid it is the boy.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Afraid!’ murmured the crowd. ‘That’s a good ‘un!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Poor fellow!’ said the gentleman, ‘he has hurt himself.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘<i>I</i> did that, sir,’ said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward;
      ‘and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains;
      but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, look
      anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is
      very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded
      another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person
      to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd,
      and seized Oliver by the collar.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come, get up,’ said the man, roughly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys,’ said
      Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. ‘They are here
      somewhere.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh no, they ain’t,’ said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but
      it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down
      the first convenient court they came to.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come, get up!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t hurt him,’ said the old gentleman, compassionately.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh no, I won’t hurt him,’ replied the officer, tearing his jacket half
      off his back, in proof thereof. ‘Come, I know you; it won’t do. Will you
      stand upon your legs, you young devil?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet,
      and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid
      pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as many
      of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead, and stared
      back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph; and on they
      went.
    </p>
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<h2 id="pgepubid00013">
      CHAPTER XI — TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES
      A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
    </h2>
<p>
      The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the
      immediate neighborhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office.
      The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or
      three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led
      beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of
      summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which
      they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of
      whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the matter now?’ said the man carelessly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A young fogle-hunter,’ replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?’ inquired the man with the
      keys.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, I am,’ replied the old gentleman; ‘but I am not sure that this boy
      actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the
      case.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Must go before the magistrate now, sir,’ replied the man. ‘His worship
      will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he
      unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was
      searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.
    </p>
<p>
      This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so
      light. It was most intolerably dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it
      had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up,
      elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our
      station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial
      charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with
      which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried,
      found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who
      doubts this, compare the two.
    </p>
<p>
      The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in
      the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent
      cause of all this disturbance.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There is something in that boy’s face,’ said the old gentleman to himself
      as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in
      a thoughtful manner; ‘something that touches and interests me. <i>Can</i>
      he be innocent? He looked like—Bye the bye,’ exclaimed the old
      gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, ‘Bless my
      soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same
      meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard; and there,
      retiring into a corner, called up before his mind’s eye a vast
      amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years.
      ‘No,’ said the old gentleman, shaking his head; ‘it must be imagination.
    </p>
<p>
      He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not
      easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the
      faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers
      peering intrusively from the crowd; there were the faces of young and
      blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave
      had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power,
      still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre
      of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through
      its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to
      be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed
      a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.
    </p>
<p>
      But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver’s
      features bore a trace. So, he heaved a sigh over the recollections he
      awakened; and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried
      them again in the pages of the musty book.
    </p>
<p>
      He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with
      the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and
      was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
    </p>
<p>
      The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind
      a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen
      in which poor little Oliver was already deposited; trembling very much at
      the awfulness of the scene.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no
      great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of
      his head. His face was stern, and much flushed. If he were really not in
      the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might
      have brought action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered
      heavy damages.
    </p>
<p>
      The old gentleman bowed respectfully; and advancing to the magistrate’s
      desk, said, suiting the action to the word, ‘That is my name and address,
      sir.’ He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and
      gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.
    </p>
<p>
      Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading
      article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision
      of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to
      the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home
      Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Who are you?’ said Mr. Fang.
    </p>
<p>
      The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the
      newspaper. ‘Who is this fellow?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My name, sir,’ said the old gentleman, speaking <i>like</i> a gentleman,
      ‘my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the
      magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable
      person, under the protection of the bench.’ Saying this, Mr. Brownlow
      looked around the office as if in search of some person who would afford
      him the required information.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Officer!’ said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, ‘what’s this
      fellow charged with?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He’s not charged at all, your worship,’ replied the officer. ‘He appears
      against this boy, your worship.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a
      safe one.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Appears against the boy, does he?’ said Mr. Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow
      contemptuously from head to foot. ‘Swear him!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘and
      that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have
      believed—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your tongue, sir!’ said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I will not, sir!’ replied the old gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your tongue this instant, or I’ll have you turned out of the
      office!’ said Mr. Fang. ‘You’re an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare
      you bully a magistrate!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What!’ exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Swear this person!’ said Fang to the clerk. ‘I’ll not hear another word.
      Swear him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Brownlow’s indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps,
      that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his
      feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ said Fang, ‘what’s the charge against this boy? What have you got
      to say, sir?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I was standing at a bookstall—’ Mr. Brownlow began.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your tongue, sir,’ said Mr. Fang. ‘Policeman! Where’s the policeman?
      Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the
      charge; how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and
      how that was all he knew about it.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Are there any witnesses?’ inquired Mr. Fang.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘None, your worship,’ replied the policeman.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the
      prosecutor, said in a towering passion.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do
      you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give
      evidence, I’ll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailor coughed very
      loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon
      the floor, thus preventing the word from being heard—accidently, of
      course.
    </p>
<p>
      With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to
      state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run
      after the boy because he had saw him running away; and expressing his hope
      that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the
      thief, to be connected with the thieves, he would deal as leniently with
      him as justice would allow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He has been hurt already,’ said the old gentleman in conclusion. ‘And I
      fear,’ he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, ‘I really
      fear that he is ill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! yes, I dare say!’ said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. ‘Come, none of your
      tricks here, you young vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver tried to reply but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and
      the whole place seemed turning round and round.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?’ demanded Mr. Fang. ‘Officer,
      what’s his name?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was
      standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but
      finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing
      that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and
      add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,’ said the kind-hearted
      thief-taker.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?’ said Fang. ‘Very well, very well.
      Where does he live?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where he can, your worship,’ replied the officer; again pretending to
      receive Oliver’s answer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Has he any parents?’ inquired Mr. Fang.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He says they died in his infancy, your worship,’ replied the officer:
      hazarding the usual reply.
    </p>
<p>
      At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head; and, looking round
      with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stuff and nonsense!’ said Mr. Fang: ‘don’t try to make a fool of me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I think he really is ill, your worship,’ remonstrated the officer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I know better,’ said Mr. Fang.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Take care of him, officer,’ said the old gentleman, raising his hands
      instinctively; ‘he’ll fall down.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stand away, officer,’ cried Fang; ‘let him, if he likes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in a
      fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared
      to stir.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I knew he was shamming,’ said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof
      of the fact. ‘Let him lie there; he’ll soon be tired of that.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?’ inquired the clerk in a
      low voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Summarily,’ replied Mr. Fang. ‘He stands committed for three months—hard
      labour of course. Clear the office.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing
      to carry the insensible boy to his cell; when an elderly man of decent but
      poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the
      office, and advanced towards the bench.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s sake stop a moment!’ cried
      the new comer, breathless with haste.
    </p>
<p>
      Although the presiding Genii in such an office as this, exercise a summary
      and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character,
      almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, expecially of the poorer
      class; and although, within such walls, enough fantastic tricks are daily
      played to make the angels blind with weeping; they are closed to the
      public, save through the medium of the daily press.[Footnote: Or were
      virtually, then.] Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see
      an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!’ cried
      Mr. Fang.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I <i>will</i> speak,’ cried the man; ‘I will not be turned out. I saw it
      all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down.
      Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing
      rather too serious to be hushed up.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Swear the man,’ growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. ‘Now, man, what
      have you got to say?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This,’ said the man: ‘I saw three boys: two others and the prisoner here:
      loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was
      reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I
      saw that this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.’ Having by
      this time recovered a little breath, the worthy book-stall keeper
      proceeded to relate, in a more coherent manner the exact circumstances of
      the robbery.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why didn’t you come here before?’ said Fang, after a pause.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,’ replied the man. ‘Everybody who could
      have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till five
      minutes ago; and I’ve run here all the way.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The prosecutor was reading, was he?’ inquired Fang, after another pause.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘The very book he has in his hand.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, that book, eh?’ said Fang. ‘Is it paid for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, it is not,’ replied the man, with a smile.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear me, I forgot all about it!’ exclaimed the absent old gentleman,
      innocently.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!’ said Fang, with a
      comical effort to look humane. ‘I consider, sir, that you have obtained
      possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable
      circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of
      the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man,
      or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the
      office!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘D—n me!’ cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had
      kept down so long, ‘d—n me! I’ll—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Clear the office!’ said the magistrate. ‘Officers, do you hear? Clear the
      office!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out,
      with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect
      phrenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion
      vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement,
      with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a
      deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. ‘Call a coach,
      somebody, pray. Directly!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat,
      the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘May I accompany you?’ said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bless me, yes, my dear sir,’ said Mr. Brownlow quickly. ‘I forgot you.
      Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s
      no time to lose.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.
    </p>
<p>
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