SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND
MISS NANCY WERE
In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little
Saffron Hill; a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in
the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat,
brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated
with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts, half-boots and
stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the police would
have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a
white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his
master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large, fresh cut on one
side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.
'Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!' said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking
silence. Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog's
winking, or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that
they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to
allay them, is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause,
the effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their
masters; but Mr. Sikes's dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner,
and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury, made
no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given
in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just escaping the pewter
measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.
'You would, would you?' said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand, and
deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his
pocket. 'Come here, you born devil! Come here! D'ye hear?'
The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a
very harsh voice; but, appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to
having his throat cut, he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than
before: at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and
biting at it like a wild beast.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his
knees, began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to
left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust
and swore, and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most
critical point for one or other; when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted
out: leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes,
being disappointed of the dog's participation, at once transferred his share in
the quarrel to the new comer.
'What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?' said Sikes, with a
fierce gesture.
'I didn't know, my dear, I didn't know,' replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew
was the new comer.
'Didn't know, you white-livered thief!' growled Sikes. 'Couldn't you hear the
noise?'
'Not a sound of it, as I'm a living man, Bill,' replied the Jew.
'Oh no! You hear nothing, you don't,' retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer.
'Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go! I wish you had been
the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.'
'Why?' inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
'Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you, as haven't
half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,' replied Sikes,
shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; 'that's why.'
The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table, affected to laugh
at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.
'Grin away,' said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage
contempt; 'grin away. You'll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it's
behind a nightcap. I've got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d--me, I'll
keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take care of me.'
'Well, well, my dear,' said the Jew, 'I know all that; we--we--have a mutual
interest, Bill,--a mutual interest.'
'Humph,' said Sikes, as if he though the interest lay rather more on the
Jew's side than on his. 'Well, what have you got to say to me?'
'It's all passed safe through the melting-pot,' replied Fagin, 'and this is
your share. It's rather more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you'll
do me a good turn another time, and--'
'Stow that gammon,' interposed the robber, impatiently. 'Where is it? Hand
over!'
'Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,' replied the Jew, soothingly.
'Here it is! All safe!' As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief
from his breast; and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small
brown-paper packet. Sikes, snatching it from him, hastily opened it; and
proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
'This is all, is it?' inquired Sikes.
'All,' replied the Jew.
'You haven't opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along,
have you?' inquired Sikes, suspiciously. 'Don't put on an injured look at the
question; you've done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.'
These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell. It
was answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and
repulsive in appearance.
Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly
understanding the hint, retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable
look with Fagin, who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it,
and shook his head in reply; so slightly that the action would have been almost
imperceptible to an observant third person. It was lost upon Sikes, who was
stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if
he had observed the brief interchange of signals, he might have thought that it
boded no good to him.
'Is anybody here, Barney?' inquired Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes was
looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.
'Dot a shoul,' replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart
or not: made their way through the nose.
'Nobody?' inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise: which perhaps might mean
that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.
'Dobody but Biss Dadsy,' replied Barney.
'Nancy!' exclaimed Sikes. 'Where? Strike me blind, if I don't honour that
'ere girl, for her native talents.'
'She's bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,' replied Barney.
'Send her here,' said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. 'Send her here.'
Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew reamining
silent, and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently
returned, ushering in Nancy; who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket,
and street-door key, complete.
'You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?' inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.
'Yes, I am, Bill,' replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; 'and
tired enough of it I am, too. The young brat's been ill and confined to the
crib; and--'
'Ah, Nancy, dear!' said Fagin, looking up.
Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew's red eye-brows, and a half
closing of his deeply-set eyes, warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be
too communicative, is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need
care for here; and the fact is, that she suddenly checked herself, and with
several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes, turned the conversation to other
matters. In about ten minutes' time, Mr. Fagin was seized with a fit of
coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders, and declared it
was time to go. Mr. Sikes, finding that he was walking a short part of her way
himself, expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together,
followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon
as his master was out of sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it; looked
after him as we walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a
deep curse; and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table; where
he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a
distance of the merry old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he
got into Clerkenwell, he accidently turned down a by-street which was not
exactly in his way; but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way
down it, and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it
worth while to turn back; and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the
books under his arm.
He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel; and
how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and
beaten, might be weeping bitterly at that very moment; when he was startled by a
young woman screaming out very loud. 'Oh, my dear brother!' And he had hardly
looked up, to see what the matter was, when he was stopped by having a pair of
arms thrown tight round his neck.
'Don't,' cried Oliver, struggling. 'Let go of me. Who is it? What are you
stopping me for?'
The only reply to this, was a great number of loud lamentations from the
young woman who had embraced him; and who had a little basket and a street-door
key in her hand.
'Oh my gracious!' said the young woman, 'I have found him! Oh! Oliver!
Oliver! Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account!
Come home, dear, come. Oh, I've found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I've
found him!' With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into
another fit of crying, and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women
who came up at the moment asked a butcher's boy with a shiny head of hair
anointed with suet, who was also looking on, whether he didn't think he had
better run for the doctor. To which, the butcher's boy: who appeared of a
lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not.
'Oh, no, no, never mind,' said the young woman, grasping Oliver's hand; 'I'm
better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy! Come!'
'Oh, ma'am,' replied the young woman, 'he ran away, near a month ago, from
his parents, who are hard-working and respectable people; and went and joined a
set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother's heart.'
'Young wretch!' said one woman.
'Go home, do, you little brute,' said the other.
'I am not,' replied Oliver, greatly alarmed. 'I don't know her. I haven't any
sister, or father and mother either. I'm an orphan; I live at Pentonville.'
'Only hear him, how he braves it out!' cried the young woman.
'Why, it's Nancy!' exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time;
and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.
'You see he knows me!' cried Nancy, appealing to the bystanders. 'He can't
help himself. Make him come home, there's good people, or he'll kill his dear
mother and father, and break my heart!'
'What the devil's this?' said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a
white dog at his heels; 'young Oliver! Come home to your poor mother, you young
dog! Come home directly.'
'I don't belong to them. I don't know them. Help! help! cried Oliver,
struggling in the man's powerful grasp.
'Help!' repeated the man. 'Yes; I'll help you, you young rascal!
What books are these? You've been a stealing 'em, have you? Give 'em here.'
With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the
head.
'That's right!' cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. 'That's the only way
of bringing him to his senses!'
'To be sure!' cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at
the garret-window.
'It'll do him good!' said the two women.
'And he shall have it, too!' rejoined the man, administering another blow,
and seizing Oliver by the collar. 'Come on, you young villain! Here, Bull's-eye,
mind him, boy! Mind him!'
Weak with recent illness; stupified by the blows and the suddenness of the
attack; terrified by the fierce growling of the dog, and the brutality of the
man; overpowered by the conviction of the bystanders that he really was the
hardened little wretch he was described to be; what could one poor child do!
Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; resistance was
useless. In another moment he was dragged into a labyrinth of dark narrow
courts, and was forced along them at a pace which rendered the few cries he
dared to give utterance to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed,
whether they were intelligible or no; for there was nobody to care for them, had
they been ever so plain.
* * * * * * * * *
The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting anxiously at the open
door; the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any
traces of Oliver; and still the two old gentlemen sat, perseveringly, in the
dark parlour, with the watch between them.
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