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black riband, took a view of Oliver; who, seeing that he was the
object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again. “That’s the boy, is
it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
“That is the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow.
“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.
“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
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.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only
know two sorts of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver?”
“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!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics
of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”
“They are not,” replied Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to
afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
“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?
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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!”
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 bear 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.
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.
“And when are you going to hear a full, true, and particular
account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Mr.
Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal, looking
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sideways at Oliver, as he resumed the subject.
“Tomorrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather
he was alone with me at the time. Come up to me tomorrow
morning at ten o’clock, my dear.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation
because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at
hum.
“I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow;
“he won’t come up to you tomorrow morning. I saw him hesitate.
He is deceiving you, my good friend.”
“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll—” and down went the
stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr.
Brownlow, knocking the table.
“And I for his falsehood with my head!” rejoined Mr. Grimwig,
knocking the table also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we
will.”
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 book-stall keeper, who has
already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she
prepared to leave the room. “Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!” said Mr.
Brownlow; “there is something to go back.”
“He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin.
“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
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taken back, too.”
The street door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl
ran another; and Mr. 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.
“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow;
“I particularly wished those books to be returned tonight.”
“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical
smile; “he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.
“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver. “I’ll
run all the way, sir.”
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.
“You shall go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are
on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.”
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.
“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.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” replied 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
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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, and having superadded many injunctions to
be sure and not take cold, the old lady at length permitted him to
depart.
“Bless his sweet face!” said the old lady, looking after him. “I
can’t bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.”
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.
“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.”
“Oh! you really expect him to come back, do you?” inquired Mr.
Grimwig.
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
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.
“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.”
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.
It was worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we
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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.
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.
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Chapter 15
Showing How Very Fond Of Oliver Twist, The
Merry Old Jew And Miss Nancy Were.
In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, situated in the
filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill—a dark and gloomy den,
where a flaring gas-light burned all day in the wintertime, 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 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 varmint! 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
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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 it a
hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form; thereby 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 newcomer.
“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;
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for the Jew was the newcomer.
“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 night-cap. 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 thought 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—”
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“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.
