at the fireplace, 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
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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 accidentally, 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
gentleman felt a hand in any of his pockets, he cried out where it
was; and then the game began all over again.
When this game had been played a great many times, a couple
of young ladies called to see the young gentlemen; 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.
These 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.
“There, my dear,” said Fagin. “That’s a pleasant life, isn’t it?
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They have gone out for the day.”
“Have they done work, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“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 manners—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.
“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.
“See if you can take it out, without my feeling it; as you saw
them do, when we were at play this morning.”
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.
“Is it gone?” cried the Jew.
“Here it is, sir,” said Oliver, showing it in his hand.
“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.”
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.
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Chapter 10
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
For many days, Oliver remained in the Jew’s room, picking
the marks out of the pocket-handkerchiefs (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.
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.
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
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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.
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.
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.
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.
“What’s the matter?” demanded Oliver.
“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old cove at the
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book-stall?”
“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see
him.”
“He’ll do,” said the Dodger.
“A prime plant,” observed Master Charley Bates.
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.
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 bookstall, 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.
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!
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In an instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the
watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy’s mind.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is magic in the sound. The
tradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his wagon; the
butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket; the milkman
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his pail; the errand-boy his parcels; the schoolboy his marbles; the
pavior his pickaxe; the child his battledore. Away they run, pellmell, 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.
“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!”
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion for hunting
something 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 still louder shouts, and whoop and
scream for joy. “Stop thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it
only in mercy!
Stopped at last! A clever blow! He is down upon the pavement;
and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each newcomer, jostling
and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!”
“Give him a little air!” “Nonsense! he doesn’t deserve it.” “Where’s
the gentleman?” “Here he is, coming down the street.” “Make
room there for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir?” “Yes.”
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the
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mouth, looking wildly round 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.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”
“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“I did that, sir,” said a great, lubberly fellow, stepping forward;
“and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him,
sir.”
The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for
his pains; but the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of
dislike, looked 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.
“Come, get up,” said the man roughly.
“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.”
“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. “Come,
get up!”
“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman compassionately.
“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?”
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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.
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Chapter 11
Treats Of Mr. Fang The Police Magistrate; And
Furnishes A Slight Specimen Of His Mode Of
Administering Justice.
The offence had been committed within the district, and
indeed in the immediate neighbourhood 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.
“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.
“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in
charge.
“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man
with the keys.
“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.”
“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His
Worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”
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
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was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.
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.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the
