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

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<h2 id="pgepubid00014">
      CHAPTER XII — IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER
      WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN
      AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.
    </h2>
<p>
      The coach rattled away, over nearly the same ground as that which Oliver
      had traversed when he first entered London in company with the Dodger;
      and, turning a different way when it reached the Angel at Islington,
      stopped at length before a neat house, in a quiet shady street near
      Pentonville. Here, a bed was prepared, without loss of time, in which Mr.
      Brownlow saw his young charge carefully and comfortably deposited; and
      here, he was tended with a kindness and solicitude that knew no bounds.
    </p>
<p>
      But, for many days, Oliver remained insensible to all the goodness of his
      new friends. The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many
      times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed,
      dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does
      not work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire
      upon the living frame.
    </p>
<p>
      Weak, and thin, and pallid, he awoke at last from what seemed to have been
      a long and troubled dream. Feebly raising himself in the bed, with his
      head resting on his trembling arm, he looked anxiously around.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What room is this? Where have I been brought to?’ said Oliver. ‘This is
      not the place I went to sleep in.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He uttered these words in a feeble voice, being very faint and weak; but
      they were overheard at once. The curtain at the bed’s head was hastily
      drawn back, and a motherly old lady, very neatly and precisely dressed,
      rose as she undrew it, from an arm-chair close by, in which she had been
      sitting at needle-work.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush, my dear,’ said the old lady softly. ‘You must be very quiet, or you
      will be ill again; and you have been very bad,—as bad as bad could
      be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there’s a dear!’ With those words, the
      old lady very gently placed Oliver’s head upon the pillow; and, smoothing
      back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and loving in his face,
      that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and
      drawing it round his neck.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Save us!’ said the old lady, with tears in her eyes. ‘What a grateful
      little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had
      sat by him as I have, and could see him now!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Perhaps she does see me,’ whispered Oliver, folding his hands together;
      ‘perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That was the fever, my dear,’ said the old lady mildly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I suppose it was,’ replied Oliver, ‘because heaven is a long way off; and
      they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But
      if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was
      very ill herself before she died. She can’t know anything about me
      though,’ added Oliver after a moment’s silence. ‘If she had seen me hurt,
      it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and
      happy, when I have dreamed of her.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her
      spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part
      and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink;
      and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he
      would be ill again.
    </p>
<p>
      So, Oliver kept very still; partly because he was anxious to obey the kind
      old lady in all things; and partly, to tell the truth, because he was
      completely exhausted with what he had already said. He soon fell into a
      gentle doze, from which he was awakened by the light of a candle: which,
      being brought near the bed, showed him a gentleman with a very large and
      loud-ticking gold watch in his hand, who felt his pulse, and said he was a
      great deal better.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You <i>are</i> a great deal better, are you not, my dear?’ said the
      gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, I know you are,’ said the gentleman: ‘You’re hungry too, an’t you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, sir,’ answered Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hem!’ said the gentleman. ‘No, I know you’re not. He is not hungry, Mrs.
      Bedwin,’ said the gentleman: looking very wise.
    </p>
<p>
      The old lady made a respectful inclination of the head, which seemed to
      say that she thought the doctor was a very clever man. The doctor appeared
      much of the same opinion himself.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You feel sleepy, don’t you, my dear?’ said the doctor.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ said the doctor, with a very shrewd and satisfied look. ‘You’re not
      sleepy. Nor thirsty. Are you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir, rather thirsty,’ answered Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Just as I expected, Mrs. Bedwin,’ said the doctor. ‘It’s very natural
      that he should be thirsty. You may give him a little tea, ma’am, and some
      dry toast without any butter. Don’t keep him too warm, ma’am; but be
      careful that you don’t let him be too cold; will you have the goodness?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The old lady dropped a curtsey. The doctor, after tasting the cool stuff,
      and expressing a qualified approval of it, hurried away: his boots
      creaking in a very important and wealthy manner as he went downstairs.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver dozed off again, soon after this; when he awoke, it was nearly
      twelve o’clock. The old lady tenderly bade him good-night shortly
      afterwards, and left him in charge of a fat old woman who had just come:
      bringing with her, in a little bundle, a small Prayer Book and a large
      nightcap. Putting the latter on her head and the former on the table, the
      old woman, after telling Oliver that she had come to sit up with him, drew
      her chair close to the fire and went off into a series of short naps,
      chequered at frequent intervals with sundry tumblings forward, and divers
      moans and chokings. These, however, had no worse effect than causing her
      to rub her nose very hard, and then fall asleep again.
    </p>
<p>
      And thus the night crept slowly on. Oliver lay awake for some time,
      counting the little circles of light which the reflection of the
      rushlight-shade threw upon the ceiling; or tracing with his languid eyes
      the intricate pattern of the paper on the wall. The darkness and the deep
      stillness of the room were very solemn; as they brought into the boy’s
      mind the thought that death had been hovering there, for many days and
      nights, and might yet fill it with the gloom and dread of his awful
      presence, he turned his face upon the pillow, and fervently prayed to
      Heaven.
    </p>
<p>
      Gradually, he fell into that deep tranquil sleep which ease from recent
      suffering alone imparts; that calm and peaceful rest which it is pain to
      wake from. Who, if this were death, would be roused again to all the
      struggles and turmoils of life; to all its cares for the present; its
      anxieties for the future; more than all, its weary recollections of the
      past!
    </p>
<p>
      It had been bright day, for hours, when Oliver opened his eyes; he felt
      cheerful and happy. The crisis of the disease was safely past. He belonged
      to the world again.
    </p>
<p>
      In three days’ time he was able to sit in an easy-chair, well propped up
      with pillows; and, as he was still too weak to walk, Mrs. Bedwin had him
      carried downstairs into the little housekeeper’s room, which belonged to
      her. Having him set, here, by the fire-side, the good old lady sat herself
      down too; and, being in a state of considerable delight at seeing him so
      much better, forthwith began to cry most violently.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Never mind me, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘I’m only having a regular
      good cry. There; it’s all over now; and I’m quite comfortable.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’re very, very kind to me, ma’am,’ said Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, never you mind that, my dear,’ said the old lady; ‘that’s got
      nothing to do with your broth; and it’s full time you had it; for the
      doctor says Mr. Brownlow may come in to see you this morning; and we must
      get up our best looks, because the better we look, the more he’ll be
      pleased.’ And with this, the old lady applied herself to warming up, in a
      little saucepan, a basin full of broth: strong enough, Oliver thought, to
      furnish an ample dinner, when reduced to the regulation strength, for
      three hundred and fifty paupers, at the lowest computation.
    </p>
<div class="fig" style="width:60%;">
<img alt="0082m " src="1646223070011777107_0082m.jpg" style="width:100%;" id="id-5450970769747615928"/><br/>
</div>
<h5>
<a href="1646223070011777107_0082.jpg.id-2912819399589477859.wrap-0.html.html" style="width:100%;" id="id-2912819399589477859" title="linked image"><i>Original</i></a>
</h5>
<p>
      ‘Are you fond of pictures, dear?’ inquired the old lady, seeing that
      Oliver had fixed his eyes, most intently, on a portrait which hung against
      the wall; just opposite his chair.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t quite know, ma’am,’ said Oliver, without taking his eyes from the
      canvas; ‘I have seen so few that I hardly know. What a beautiful, mild
      face that lady’s is!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said the old lady, ‘painters always make ladies out prettier than
      they are, or they wouldn’t get any custom, child. The man that invented
      the machine for taking likenesses might have known that would never
      succeed; it’s a deal too honest. A deal,’ said the old lady, laughing very
      heartily at her own acuteness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is—is that a likeness, ma’am?’ said Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ said the old lady, looking up for a moment from the broth; ‘that’s
      a portrait.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Whose, ma’am?’ asked Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, really, my dear, I don’t know,’ answered the old lady in a
      good-humoured manner. ‘It’s not a likeness of anybody that you or I know,
      I expect. It seems to strike your fancy, dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It is so pretty,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, sure you’re not afraid of it?’ said the old lady: observing in great
      surprise, the look of awe with which the child regarded the painting.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh no, no,’ returned Oliver quickly; ‘but the eyes look so sorrowful; and
      where I sit, they seem fixed upon me. It makes my heart beat,’ added
      Oliver in a low voice, ‘as if it was alive, and wanted to speak to me, but
      couldn’t.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Lord save us!’ exclaimed the old lady, starting; ‘don’t talk in that way,
      child. You’re weak and nervous after your illness. Let me wheel your chair
      round to the other side; and then you won’t see it. There!’ said the old
      lady, suiting the action to the word; ‘you don’t see it now, at all
      events.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver <i>did</i> see it in his mind’s eye as distinctly as if he had not
      altered his position; but he thought it better not to worry the kind old
      lady; so he smiled gently when she looked at him; and Mrs. Bedwin,
      satisfied that he felt more comfortable, salted and broke bits of toasted
      bread into the broth, with all the bustle befitting so solemn a
      preparation. Oliver got through it with extraordinary expedition. He had
      scarcely swallowed the last spoonful, when there came a soft rap at the
      door. ‘Come in,’ said the old lady; and in walked Mr. Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      Now, the old gentleman came in as brisk as need be; but, he had no sooner
      raised his spectacles on his forehead, and thrust his hands behind the
      skirts of his dressing-gown to take a good long look at Oliver, than his
      countenance underwent a very great variety of odd contortions. Oliver
      looked very worn and shadowy from sickness, and made an ineffectual
      attempt to stand up, out of respect to his benefactor, which terminated in
      his sinking back into the chair again; and the fact is, if the truth must
      be told, that Mr. Brownlow’s heart, being large enough for any six
      ordinary old gentlemen of humane disposition, forced a supply of tears
      into his eyes, by some hydraulic process which we are not sufficiently
      philosophical to be in a condition to explain.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow, clearing his throat. ‘I’m rather
      hoarse this morning, Mrs. Bedwin. I’m afraid I have caught cold.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope not, sir,’ said Mrs. Bedwin. ‘Everything you have had, has been
      well aired, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know, Bedwin. I don’t know,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘I rather think I
      had a damp napkin at dinner-time yesterday; but never mind that. How do
      you feel, my dear?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very happy, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘And very grateful indeed, sir, for
      your goodness to me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Good by,’ said Mr. Brownlow, stoutly. ‘Have you given him any
      nourishment, Bedwin? Any slops, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He has just had a basin of beautiful strong broth, sir,’ replied Mrs.
      Bedwin: drawing herself up slightly, and laying strong emphasis on the
      last word: to intimate that between slops, and broth will compounded,
      there existed no affinity or connection whatsoever.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ugh!’ said Mr. Brownlow, with a slight shudder; ‘a couple of glasses of
      port wine would have done him a great deal more good. Wouldn’t they, Tom
      White, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My name is Oliver, sir,’ replied the little invalid: with a look of great
      astonishment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oliver,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘Oliver what? Oliver White, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, sir, Twist, Oliver Twist.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Queer name!’ said the old gentleman. ‘What made you tell the magistrate
      your name was White?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I never told him so, sir,’ returned Oliver in amazement.
    </p>
<p>
      This sounded so like a falsehood, that the old gentleman looked somewhat
      sternly in Oliver’s face. It was impossible to doubt him; there was truth
      in every one of its thin and sharpened lineaments.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Some mistake,’ said Mr. Brownlow. But, although his motive for looking
      steadily at Oliver no longer existed, the old idea of the resemblance
      between his features and some familiar face came upon him so strongly,
      that he could not withdraw his gaze.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope you are not angry with me, sir?’ said Oliver, raising his eyes
      beseechingly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Why! what’s this? Bedwin, look
      there!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As he spoke, he pointed hastily to the picture over Oliver’s head, and
      then to the boy’s face. There was its living copy. The eyes, the head, the
      mouth; every feature was the same. The expression was, for the instant, so
      precisely alike, that the minutest line seemed copied with startling
      accuracy!
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver knew not the cause of this sudden exclamation; for, not being
      strong enough to bear the start it gave him, he fainted away. A weakness
      on his part, which affords the narrative an opportunity of relieving the
      reader from suspense, in behalf of the two young pupils of the Merry Old
      Gentleman; and of recording—
    </p>
<p>
      That when the Dodger, and his accomplished friend Master Bates, joined in
      the hue-and-cry which was raised at Oliver’s heels, in consequence of
      their executing an illegal conveyance of Mr. Brownlow’s personal property,
      as has been already described, they were actuated by a very laudable and
      becoming regard for themselves; and forasmuch as the freedom of the
      subject and the liberty of the individual are among the first and proudest
      boasts of a true-hearted Englishman, so, I need hardly beg the reader to
      observe, that this action should tend to exalt them in the opinion of all
      public and patriotic men, in almost as great a degree as this strong proof
      of their anxiety for their own preservation and safety goes to corroborate
      and confirm the little code of laws which certain profound and
      sound-judging philosophers have laid down as the main-springs of all
      Nature’s deeds and actions: the said philosophers very wisely reducing the
      good lady’s proceedings to matters of maxim and theory: and, by a very
      neat and pretty compliment to her exalted wisdom and understanding,
      putting entirely out of sight any considerations of heart, or generous
      impulse and feeling. For, these are matters totally beneath a female who
      is acknowledged by universal admission to be far above the numerous little
      foibles and weaknesses of her sex.
    </p>
<p>
      If I wanted any further proof of the strictly philosophical nature of the
      conduct of these young gentlemen in their very delicate predicament, I
      should at once find it in the fact (also recorded in a foregoing part of
      this narrative), of their quitting the pursuit, when the general attention
      was fixed upon Oliver; and making immediately for their home by the
      shortest possible cut. Although I do not mean to assert that it is usually
      the practice of renowned and learned sages, to shorten the road to any
      great conclusion (their course indeed being rather to lengthen the
      distance, by various circumlocutions and discursive staggerings, like unto
      those in which drunken men under the pressure of a too mighty flow of
      ideas, are prone to indulge); still, I do mean to say, and do say
      distinctly, that it is the invariable practice of many mighty
      philosophers, in carrying out their theories, to evince great wisdom and
      foresight in providing against every possible contingency which can be
      supposed at all likely to affect themselves. Thus, to do a great right,
      you may do a little wrong; and you may take any means which the end to be
      attained, will justify; the amount of the right, or the amount of the
      wrong, or indeed the distinction between the two, being left entirely to
      the philosopher concerned, to be settled and determined by his clear,
      comprehensive, and impartial view of his own particular case.
    </p>
<p>
      It was not until the two boys had scoured, with great rapidity, through a
      most intricate maze of narrow streets and courts, that they ventured to
      halt beneath a low and dark archway. Having remained silent here, just
      long enough to recover breath to speak, Master Bates uttered an
      exclamation of amusement and delight; and, bursting into an uncontrollable
      fit of laughter, flung himself upon a doorstep, and rolled thereon in a
      transport of mirth.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s the matter?’ inquired the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your noise,’ remonstrated the Dodger, looking cautiously round. ‘Do
      you want to be grabbed, stupid?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I can’t help it,’ said Charley, ‘I can’t help it! To see him splitting
      away at that pace, and cutting round the corners, and knocking up again’ 
      the posts, and starting on again as if he was made of iron as well as
      them, and me with the wipe in my pocket, singing out arter him—oh,
      my eye!’ The vivid imagination of Master Bates presented the scene before
      him in too strong colours. As he arrived at this apostrophe, he again
      rolled upon the door-step, and laughed louder than before.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’ll Fagin say?’ inquired the Dodger; taking advantage of the next
      interval of breathlessness on the part of his friend to propound the
      question.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What?’ repeated Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, what?’ said the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, what should he say?’ inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in
      his merriment; for the Dodger’s manner was impressive. ‘What should he
      say?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then, taking off his hat,
      scratched his head, and nodded thrice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean?’ said Charley.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage, the frog he wouldn’t, and high
      cockolorum,’ said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual
      countenance.
    </p>
<p>
      This was explanatory, but not satisfactory. Master Bates felt it so; and
      again said, ‘What do you mean?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again, and gathering the
      skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm, thrust his tongue into his
      cheek, slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar
      but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court.
      Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
    </p>
<p>
      The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs, a few minutes after the
      occurrence of this conversation, roused the merry old gentleman as he sat
      over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife
      in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile
      on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under
      his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, how’s this?’ muttered the Jew: changing countenance; ‘only two of
      ‘em? Where’s the third? They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The footsteps approached nearer; they reached the landing. The door was
      slowly opened; and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered, closing it behind
      them.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00015">
      CHAPTER XIII — SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE
      INTELLIGENT READER, CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE
      RELATED, APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY
    </h2>
<h3 id="pgepubid00016">
      ‘Where’s Oliver?’ said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. ‘Where’s the
      boy?’ 
    </h3>
<p>
      The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his
      violence; and looked uneasily at each other. But they made no reply.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’s become of the boy?’ said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by
      the collar, and threatening him with horrid imprecations. ‘Speak out, or
      I’ll throttle you!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest, that Charley Bates, who deemed
      it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side, and who conceived it by no
      means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped
      upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar—something
      between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Will you speak?’ thundered the Jew: shaking the Dodger so much that his
      keeping in the big coat at all, seemed perfectly miraculous.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,’ said the Dodger,
      sullenly. ‘Come, let go o’ me, will you!’ And, swinging himself, at one
      jerk, clean out of the big coat, which he left in the Jew’s hands, the
      Dodger snatched up the toasting fork, and made a pass at the merry old
      gentleman’s waistcoat; which, if it had taken effect, would have let a
      little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew stepped back in this emergency, with more agility than could have
      been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the
      pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at
      this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he
      suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young
      gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!’ growled a deep voice. ‘Who
      pitched that ‘ere at me? It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as hit
      me, or I’d have settled somebody. I might have know’d, as nobody but an
      infernal, rich, plundering, thundering old Jew could afford to throw away
      any drink but water—and not that, unless he done the River Company
      every quarter. Wot’s it all about, Fagin? D—me, if my
      neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer! Come in, you sneaking warmint; wot
      are you stopping outside for, as if you was ashamed of your master! Come
      in!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man who growled out these words, was a stoutly-built fellow of about
      five-and-thirty, in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches,
      lace-up half boots, and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair
      of legs, with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs, which in such
      costume, always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set
      of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty
      belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he
      smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done
      so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days’ growth, and two
      scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of
      having been recently damaged by a blow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come in, d’ye hear?’ growled this engaging ruffian.
    </p>
<p>
      A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different
      places, skulked into the room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why didn’t you come in afore?’ said the man. ‘You’re getting too proud to
      own me afore company, are you? Lie down!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This command was accompanied with a kick, which sent the animal to the
      other end of the room. He appeared well used to it, however; for he coiled
      himself up in a corner very quietly, without uttering a sound, and winking
      his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute, appeared to occupy
      himself in taking a survey of the apartment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What are you up to? Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious,
      in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?’ said the man, seating himself deliberately. ‘I
      wonder they don’t murder you! I would if I was them. If I’d been your
      ‘prentice, I’d have done it long ago, and—no, I couldn’t have sold
      you afterwards, for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of
      ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass bottles
      large enough.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hush! hush! Mr. Sikes,’ said the Jew, trembling; ‘don’t speak so loud!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘None of your mistering,’ replied the ruffian; ‘you always mean mischief
      when you come that. You know my name: out with it! I shan’t disgrace it
      when the time comes.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,’ said the Jew, with abject humility.
      ‘You seem out of humour, Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Perhaps I am,’ replied Sikes; ‘I should think you was rather out of sorts
      too, unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about, as
      you do when you blab and—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Are you mad?’ said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve, and pointing
      towards the boys.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left
      ear, and jerking his head over on the right shoulder; a piece of dumb show
      which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly. He then, in cant terms,
      with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled, but which
      would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here, demanded a glass
      of liquor.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And mind you don’t poison it,’ said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat upon the
      table.
    </p>
<p>
      This was said in jest; but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer
      with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he
      might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all
      events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far from the
      old gentleman’s merry heart.
    </p>
<p>
      After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr. Sikes condescended
      to take some notice of the young gentlemen; which gracious act led to a
      conversation, in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture were
      circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the
      truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’m afraid,’ said the Jew, ‘that he may say something which will get us
      into trouble.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s very likely,’ returned Sikes with a malicious grin. ‘You’re blowed
      upon, Fagin.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And I’m afraid, you see,’ added the Jew, speaking as if he had not
      noticed the interruption; and regarding the other closely as he did so,—‘I’m
      afraid that, if the game was up with us, it might be up with a good many
      more, and that it would come out rather worse for you than it would for
      me, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The man started, and turned round upon the Jew. But the old gentleman’s
      shoulders were shrugged up to his ears; and his eyes were vacantly staring
      on the opposite wall.
    </p>
<p>
      There was a long pause. Every member of the respectable coterie appeared
      plunged in his own reflections; not excepting the dog, who by a certain
      malicious licking of his lips seemed to be meditating an attack upon the
      legs of the first gentleman or lady he might encounter in the streets when
      he went out.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Somebody must find out wot’s been done at the office,’ said Mr. Sikes in
      a much lower tone than he had taken since he came in.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew nodded assent.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If he hasn’t peached, and is committed, there’s no fear till he comes out
      again,’ said Mr. Sikes, ‘and then he must be taken care on. You must get
      hold of him somehow.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Again the Jew nodded.
    </p>
<p>
      The prudence of this line of action, indeed, was obvious; but,
      unfortunately, there was one very strong objection to its being adopted.
      This was, that the Dodger, and Charley Bates, and Fagin, and Mr. William
      Sikes, happened, one and all, to entertain a violent and deeply-rooted
      antipathy to going near a police-office on any ground or pretext whatever.
    </p>
<p>
      How long they might have sat and looked at each other, in a state of
      uncertainty not the most pleasant of its kind, it is difficult to guess.
      It is not necessary to make any guesses on the subject, however; for the
      sudden entrance of the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen on a former
      occasion, caused the conversation to flow afresh.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The very thing!’ said the Jew. ‘Bet will go; won’t you, my dear?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wheres?’ inquired the young lady.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Only just up to the office, my dear,’ said the Jew coaxingly.
    </p>
<p>
      It is due to the young lady to say that she did not positively affirm that
      she would not, but that she merely expressed an emphatic and earnest
      desire to be ‘blessed’ if she would; a polite and delicate evasion of the
      request, which shows the young lady to have been possessed of that natural
      good breeding which cannot bear to inflict upon a fellow-creature, the
      pain of a direct and pointed refusal.
    </p>
<p>
      The Jew’s countenance fell. He turned from this young lady, who was gaily,
      not to say gorgeously attired, in a red gown, green boots, and yellow
      curl-papers, to the other female.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nancy, my dear,’ said the Jew in a soothing manner, ‘what do <i>you</i>
      say?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That it won’t do; so it’s no use a-trying it on, Fagin,’ replied Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean by that?’ said Mr. Sikes, looking up in a surly manner.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What I say, Bill,’ replied the lady collectedly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, you’re just the very person for it,’ reasoned Mr. Sikes: ‘nobody
      about here knows anything of you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And as I don’t want ‘em to, neither,’ replied Nancy in the same composed
      manner, ‘it’s rather more no than yes with me, Bill.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She’ll go, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, she won’t, Fagin,’ said Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, she will, Fagin,’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      And Mr. Sikes was right. By dint of alternate threats, promises, and
      bribes, the lady in question was ultimately prevailed upon to undertake
      the commission. She was not, indeed, withheld by the same considerations
      as her agreeable friend; for, having recently removed into the
      neighborhood of Field Lane from the remote but genteel suburb of
      Ratcliffe, she was not under the same apprehension of being recognised by
      any of her numerous acquaintances.
    </p>
<p>
      Accordingly, with a clean white apron tied over her gown, and her
      curl-papers tucked up under a straw bonnet,—both articles of dress
      being provided from the Jew’s inexhaustible stock,—Miss Nancy
      prepared to issue forth on her errand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop a minute, my dear,’ said the Jew, producing, a little covered
      basket. ‘Carry that in one hand. It looks more respectable, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Give her a door-key to carry in her t’other one, Fagin,’ said Sikes; ‘it
      looks real and genivine like.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, yes, my dear, so it does,’ said the Jew, hanging a large street-door
      key on the forefinger of the young lady’s right hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There; very good! Very good indeed, my dear!’ said the Jew, rubbing his
      hands.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, my brother! My poor, dear, sweet, innocent little brother!’ exclaimed
      Nancy, bursting into tears, and wringing the little basket and the
      street-door key in an agony of distress. ‘What has become of him! Where
      have they taken him to! Oh, do have pity, and tell me what’s been done
      with the dear boy, gentlemen; do, gentlemen, if you please, gentlemen!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Having uttered those words in a most lamentable and heart-broken tone: to
      the immeasurable delight of her hearers: Miss Nancy paused, winked to the
      company, nodded smilingly round, and disappeared.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, she’s a clever girl, my dears,’ said the Jew, turning round to his
      young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if in mute admonition to
      them to follow the bright example they had just beheld.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She’s a honour to her sex,’ said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and
      smiting the table with his enormous fist. ‘Here’s her health, and wishing
      they was all like her!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      While these, and many other encomiums, were being passed on the
      accomplished Nancy, that young lady made the best of her way to the
      police-office; whither, notwithstanding a little natural timidity
      consequent upon walking through the streets alone and unprotected, she
      arrived in perfect safety shortly afterwards.
    </p>
<p>
      Entering by the back way, she tapped softly with the key at one of the
      cell-doors, and listened. There was no sound within: so she coughed and
      listened again. Still there was no reply: so she spoke.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nolly, dear?’ murmured Nancy in a gentle voice; ‘Nolly?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There was nobody inside but a miserable shoeless criminal, who had been
      taken up for playing the flute, and who, the offence against society
      having been clearly proved, had been very properly committed by Mr. Fang
      to the House of Correction for one month; with the appropriate and amusing
      remark that since he had so much breath to spare, it would be more
      wholesomely expended on the treadmill than in a musical instrument. He
      made no answer: being occupied mentally bewailing the loss of the flute,
      which had been confiscated for the use of the county: so Nancy passed on
      to the next cell, and knocked there.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well!’ cried a faint and feeble voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is there a little boy here?’ inquired Nancy, with a preliminary sob.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ replied the voice; ‘God forbid.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This was a vagrant of sixty-five, who was going to prison for <i>not</i>
      playing the flute; or, in other words, for begging in the streets, and
      doing nothing for his livelihood. In the next cell was another man, who
      was going to the same prison for hawking tin saucepans without license;
      thereby doing something for his living, in defiance of the Stamp-office.
    </p>
<p>
      But, as neither of these criminals answered to the name of Oliver, or knew
      anything about him, Nancy made straight up to the bluff officer in the
      striped waistcoat; and with the most piteous wailings and lamentations,
      rendered more piteous by a prompt and efficient use of the street-door key
      and the little basket, demanded her own dear brother.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I haven’t got him, my dear,’ said the old man.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Where is he?’ screamed Nancy, in a distracted manner.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, the gentleman’s got him,’ replied the officer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What gentleman! Oh, gracious heavens! What gentleman?’ exclaimed Nancy.
    </p>
<p>
      In reply to this incoherent questioning, the old man informed the deeply
      affected sister that Oliver had been taken ill in the office, and
      discharged in consequence of a witness having proved the robbery to have
      been committed by another boy, not in custody; and that the prosecutor had
      carried him away, in an insensible condition, to his own residence: of and
      concerning which, all the informant knew was, that it was somewhere in
      Pentonville, he having heard that word mentioned in the directions to the
      coachman.
    </p>
<p>
      In a dreadful state of doubt and uncertainty, the agonised young woman
      staggered to the gate, and then, exchanging her faltering walk for a swift
      run, returned by the most devious and complicated route she could think
      of, to the domicile of the Jew.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Bill Sikes no sooner heard the account of the expedition delivered,
      than he very hastily called up the white dog, and, putting on his hat,
      expeditiously departed: without devoting any time to the formality of
      wishing the company good-morning.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We must know where he is, my dears; he must be found,’ said the Jew
      greatly excited. ‘Charley, do nothing but skulk about, till you bring home
      some news of him! Nancy, my dear, I must have him found. I trust to you,
      my dear,—to you and the Artful for everything! Stay, stay,’ added
      the Jew, unlocking a drawer with a shaking hand; ‘there’s money, my dears.
      I shall shut up this shop to-night. You’ll know where to find me! Don’t
      stop here a minute. Not an instant, my dears!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words, he pushed them from the room: and carefully
      double-locking and barring the door behind them, drew from its place of
      concealment the box which he had unintentionally disclosed to Oliver.
      Then, he hastily proceeded to dispose the watches and jewellery beneath
      his clothing.
    </p>
<p>
      A rap at the door startled him in this occupation. ‘Who’s there?’ he cried
      in a shrill tone.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Me!’ replied the voice of the Dodger, through the key-hole.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What now?’ cried the Jew impatiently.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is he to be kidnapped to the other ken, Nancy says?’ inquired the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes,’ replied the Jew, ‘wherever she lays hands on him. Find him, find
      him out, that’s all. I shall know what to do next; never fear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The boy murmured a reply of intelligence: and hurried downstairs after his
      companions.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He has not peached so far,’ said the Jew as he pursued his occupation.
      ‘If he means to blab us among his new friends, we may stop his mouth yet.’ 
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00017">
      CHAPTER XIV — COMPRISING FURTHER PARTICULARS OF OLIVER’S STAY AT MR.
      BROWNLOW’S, WITH THE REMARKABLE PREDICTION WHICH ONE MR. GRIMWIG UTTERED
      CONCERNING HIM, WHEN HE WENT OUT ON AN ERRAND
    </h2>
<p>
      Oliver soon recovering from the fainting-fit into which Mr. Brownlow’s
      abrupt exclamation had thrown him, the subject of the picture was
      carefully avoided, both by the old gentleman and Mrs. Bedwin, in the
      conversation that ensued: which indeed bore no reference to Oliver’s
      history or prospects, but was confined to such topics as might amuse
      without exciting him. He was still too weak to get up to breakfast; but,
      when he came down into the housekeeper’s room next day, his first act was
      to cast an eager glance at the wall, in the hope of again looking on the
      face of the beautiful lady. His expectations were disappointed, however,
      for the picture had been removed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ said the housekeeper, watching the direction of Oliver’s eyes. ‘It
      is gone, you see.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I see it is ma’am,’ replied Oliver. ‘Why have they taken it away?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It has been taken down, child, because Mr. Brownlow said, that as it
      seemed to worry you, perhaps it might prevent your getting well, you
      know,’ rejoined the old lady.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, no, indeed. It didn’t worry me, ma’am,’ said Oliver. ‘I liked to see
      it. I quite loved it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well!’ said the old lady, good-humouredly; ‘you get well as fast as
      ever you can, dear, and it shall be hung up again. There! I promise you
      that! Now, let us talk about something else.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This was all the information Oliver could obtain about the picture at that
      time. As the old lady had been so kind to him in his illness, he
      endeavoured to think no more of the subject just then; so he listened
      attentively to a great many stories she told him, about an amiable and
      handsome daughter of hers, who was married to an amiable and handsome man,
      and lived in the country; and about a son, who was clerk to a merchant in
      the West Indies; and who was, also, such a good young man, and wrote such
      dutiful letters home four times a-year, that it brought the tears into her
      eyes to talk about them. When the old lady had expatiated, a long time, on
      the excellences of her children, and the merits of her kind good husband
      besides, who had been dead and gone, poor dear soul! just six-and-twenty
      years, it was time to have tea. After tea she began to teach Oliver
      cribbage: which he learnt as quickly as she could teach: and at which game
      they played, with great interest and gravity, until it was time for the
      invalid to have some warm wine and water, with a slice of dry toast, and
      then to go cosily to bed.
    </p>
<p>
      They were happy days, those of Oliver’s recovery. Everything was so quiet,
      and neat, and orderly; everybody so kind and gentle; that after the noise
      and turbulence in the midst of which he had always lived, it seemed like
      Heaven itself. He was no sooner strong enough to put his clothes on,
      properly, than Mr. Brownlow caused a complete new suit, and a new cap, and
      a new pair of shoes, to be provided for him. As Oliver was told that he
      might do what he liked with the old clothes, he gave them to a servant who
      had been very kind to him, and asked her to sell them to a Jew, and keep
      the money for herself. This she very readily did; and, as Oliver looked
      out of the parlour window, and saw the Jew roll them up in his bag and
      walk away, he felt quite delighted to think that they were safely gone,
      and that there was now no possible danger of his ever being able to wear
      them again. They were sad rags, to tell the truth; and Oliver had never
      had a new suit before.
    </p>
<p>
      One evening, about a week after the affair of the picture, as he was
      sitting talking to Mrs. Bedwin, there came a message down from Mr.
      Brownlow, that if Oliver Twist felt pretty well, he should like to see him
      in his study, and talk to him a little while.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bless us, and save us! Wash your hands, and let me part your hair nicely
      for you, child,’ said Mrs. Bedwin. ‘Dear heart alive! If we had known he
      would have asked for you, we would have put you a clean collar on, and
      made you as smart as sixpence!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented
      grievously, meanwhile, that there was not even time to crimp the little
      frill that bordered his shirt-collar; he looked so delicate and handsome,
      despite that important personal advantage, that she went so far as to say:
      looking at him with great complacency from head to foot, that she really
      didn’t think it would have been possible, on the longest notice, to have
      made much difference in him for the better.
    </p>
<p>
      Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling
      to him to come in, he found himself in a little back room, quite full of
      books, with a window, looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was
      a table drawn up before the window, at which Mr. Brownlow was seated
      reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him, and told
      him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied; marvelling
      where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as
      seemed to be written to make the world wiser. Which is still a marvel to
      more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?’ said Mr. Brownlow,
      observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that
      reached from the floor to the ceiling.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A great number, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘I never saw so many.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You shall read them, if you behave well,’ said the old gentleman kindly;
      ‘and you will like that, better than looking at the outsides,—that
      is, some cases; because there are books of which the backs and covers are
      by far the best parts.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,’ said Oliver, pointing to some
      large quartos, with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not always those,’ said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head,
      and smiling as he did so; ‘there are other equally heavy ones, though of a
      much smaller size. How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write
      books, eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I think I would rather read them, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What! wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?’ said the old gentleman.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver considered a little while; and at last said, he should think it
      would be a much better thing to be a book-seller; upon which the old
      gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing.
      Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it
      was.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well,’ said the old gentleman, composing his features. ‘Don’t be
      afraid! We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade to
      be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old
      gentleman laughed again; and said something about a curious instinct,
      which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now,’ said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder, but at the
      same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him
      assume yet, ‘I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going
      to say. I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are
      well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!’ exclaimed
      Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement!
      ‘Don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay
      here, and be a servant. Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came
      from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘My dear child,’ said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s
      sudden appeal; ‘you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you
      give me cause.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I never, never will, sir,’ interposed Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I hope not,’ rejoined the old gentleman. ‘I do not think you ever will. I
      have been deceived, before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to
      benefit; but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am
      more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to
      myself. The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in
      their graves; but, although the happiness and delight of my life lie
      buried there too, I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up,
      forever, on my best affections. Deep affliction has but strengthened and
      refined them.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his
      companion: and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver
      sat quite still.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, well!’ said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone,
      ‘I only say this, because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have
      suffered great pain and sorrow, you will be more careful, perhaps, not to
      wound me again. You say you are an orphan, without a friend in the world;
      all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement. Let me
      hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up; and how you got
      into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth, and you shall not
      be friendless while I live.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes; when he was on the
      point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm, and
      carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble, a peculiarly impatient little
      double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant, running
      upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is he coming up?’ inquired Mr. Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the servant. ‘He asked if there were any muffins in
      the house; and, when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an
      old friend of his, and he must not mind his being a little rough in his
      manners; for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Shall I go downstairs, sir?’ inquired Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, ‘I would rather you remained here.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick
      stick: a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a
      blue coat, striped waistcoat, nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a
      broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green. A very
      small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long
      steel watch-chain, with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely
      below it. The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about
      the size of an orange; the variety of shapes into which his countenance
      was twisted, defy description. He had a manner of screwing his head on one
      side when he spoke; and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the
      same time: which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this
      attitude, he fixed himself, the moment he made his appearance; and,
      holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length, exclaimed, in a
      growling, discontented voice.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Look here! do you see this! Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary
      thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor
      surgeon’s friend on the staircase? I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once,
      and I know orange-peel will be my death, or I’ll be content to eat my own
      head, sir!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      This was the handsome offer with which Mr. Grimwig backed and confirmed
      nearly every assertion he made; and it was the more singular in his case,
      because, even admitting for the sake of argument, the possibility of
      scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a
      gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed, Mr.
      Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one, that the most sanguine
      man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at
      a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating
      of powder.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll eat my head, sir,’ repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the
      ground. ‘Hallo! what’s that!’ looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or
      two.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,’ said Mr.
      Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver bowed.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?’ said Mr.
      Grimwig, recoiling a little more. ‘Wait a minute! Don’t speak! Stop—’ 
      continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his
      triumph at the discovery; ‘that’s the boy who had the orange! If that’s
      not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the
      staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no, he has not had one,’ said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. ‘Come! Put down
      your hat; and speak to my young friend.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I feel strongly on this subject, sir,’ said the irritable old gentleman,
      drawing off his gloves. ‘There’s always more or less orange-peel on the
      pavement in our street; and I <i>know</i> it’s put there by the surgeon’s
      boy at the corner. A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell
      against my garden-railings; directly she got up I saw her look towards his
      infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light. “Don’t go to him,” I called
      out of the window, “he’s an assassin! A man-trap!” So he is. If he is not—’ 
      Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his
      stick; which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary
      offer, whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his
      stick in his hand, he sat down; and, opening a double eye-glass, which he
      wore attached to a broad black riband, took a view of Oliver: who, seeing
      that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s the boy, is it?’ said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s the boy,’ replied Mr. Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘How are you, boy?’ said Mr. Grimwig.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A great deal better, thank you, sir,’ replied Oliver.
    </p>
<p>
      Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to
      say something disagreeable, asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs.
      Bedwin they were ready for tea; which, as he did not half like the
      visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?’ inquired Mr. Brownlow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know,’ replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t know?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two
      sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And which is Oliver?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call
      him; with a round head, and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy;
      with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his
      blue clothes; with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I
      know him! The wretch!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come,’ said Mr. Brownlow, ‘these are not the characteristics of young
      Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘They are not,’ replied Mr. Grimwig. ‘He may have worse.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr.
      Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He may have worse, I say,’ repeated Mr. Grimwig. ‘Where does he come
      from! Who is he? What is he? He has had a fever. What of that? Fevers are
      not peculiar to good people; are they? Bad people have fevers sometimes;
      haven’t they, eh? I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his
      master. He had had a fever six times; he wasn’t recommended to mercy on
      that account. Pooh! nonsense!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr.
      Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner
      were unusually prepossessing; but he had a strong appetite for
      contradiction, sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the
      orange-peel; and, inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him
      whether a boy was well-looking or not, he had resolved, from the first, to
      oppose his friend. When Mr. Brownlow admitted that on no one point of
      inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer; and that he had
      postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he
      thought the boy was strong enough to hear it; Mr. Grimwig chuckled
      maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer, whether the housekeeper was in
      the habit of counting the plate at night; because if she didn’t find a
      table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content
      to—and so forth.
    </p>
<p>
      All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous
      gentleman: knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good
      humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea, was graciously pleased to express his
      entire approval of the muffins, matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver,
      who made one of the party, began to feel more at his ease than he had yet
      done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular account of
      the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?’ asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow,
      at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed
      his subject.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To-morrow morning,’ replied Mr. Brownlow. ‘I would rather he was alone
      with me at the time. Come up to me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock, my
      dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he
      was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll tell you what,’ whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow; ‘he won’t
      come up to you to-morrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you,
      my good friend.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll swear he is not,’ replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If he is not,’ said Mr. Grimwig, ‘I’ll—’ and down went the stick.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!’ said Mr. Brownlow,
      knocking the table.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘And I for his falsehood with my head!’ rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the
      table also.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We shall see,’ said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We will,’ replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; ‘we will.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a
      small parcel of books, which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of
      the identical bookstall-keeper, who has already figured in this history;
      having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘there is something to go
      back.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He has gone, sir,’ replied Mrs. Bedwin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Call after him,’ said Mr. Brownlow; ‘it’s particular. He is a poor man,
      and they are not paid for. There are some books to be taken back, too.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another;
      and Mrs. Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was
      no boy in sight. Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to
      report that there were no tidings of him.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Dear me, I am very sorry for that,’ exclaimed Mr. Brownlow; ‘I
      particularly wished those books to be returned to-night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Send Oliver with them,’ said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile; ‘he
      will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,’ said Oliver. ‘I’ll run all
      the way, sir.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on
      any account; when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him
      that he should; and that, by his prompt discharge of the commission, he
      should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions: on this head at
      least: at once.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You <i>shall</i> go, my dear,’ said the old gentleman. ‘The books are on
      a chair by my table. Fetch them down.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a
      great bustle; and waited, cap in hand, to hear what message he was to
      take.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You are to say,’ said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig; ‘you
      are to say that you have brought those books back; and that you have come
      to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note, so you
      will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I won’t be ten minutes, sir,’ said Oliver, eagerly. Having buttoned up
      the bank-note in his jacket pocket, and placed the books carefully under
      his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs. Bedwin followed
      him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way,
      and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street: all of which
      Oliver said he clearly understood. Having superadded many injunctions to
      be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to depart.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bless his sweet face!’ said the old lady, looking after him. ‘I can’t
      bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the
      corner. The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the
      door, went back to her own room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,’ said Mr.
      Brownlow, pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. ‘It will be
      dark by that time.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?’ inquired Mr. Grimwig.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t you?’ asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
    </p>
<p>
      The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast, at the
      moment; and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No,’ he said, smiting the table with his fist, ‘I do not. The boy has a
      new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm,
      and a five-pound note in his pocket. He’ll join his old friends the
      thieves, and laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this house, sir,
      I’ll eat my head.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two
      friends sat, in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
    </p>
<p>
      It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our
      own judgments, and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and
      hasty conclusions, that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a
      bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see
      his respected friend duped and deceived, he really did most earnestly and
      strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
    </p>
<p>
      It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely
      discernible; but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence,
      with the watch between them.
    </p>
<p>
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