was a peculiar pet and protégé of the elderly gentleman before
mentioned.
Mr. Dawkins’ appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the
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Oliver Twist
comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he
took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flighty and
dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that
among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet
of “The Artful Dodger,” Oliver concluded that, being of a
dissipated and careless turn, the moral precept of his benefactor
had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression,
he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old
gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger
incorrigible, as he more than half-suspected he should, to decline
the honour of his further acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before
nightfall, it was nearly seven o’clock when they reached the
turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John’s
Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler’s
Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down
the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic
ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence
into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great, along
which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to
follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping
sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances
on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more
wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow
and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours. There
were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade
appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night,
were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the
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inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general
blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest
orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered
ways and yards, where here and there diverged from the main
street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and
women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the
doorways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging,
bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless
errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn’t better run away,
when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching
him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane;
and, drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them.
“Now, then!” cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle
from the Dodger.
“Plummy and slam!” was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right;
for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote
end of the passage; and a man’s face peeped out, from where a
balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
“There’s two on you,” said the man, thrusting the candle
farther out, and shading his eyes with his hand. “Who’s the t’other
one?”
“A new pal,” replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
“Where did he come from?”
“Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?”
“Yes, he’s a-sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!” The candle was
drawn back, and the face disappeared.
Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other
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Oliver Twist
firmly grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty
the dark and broken stairs; which his conductor mounted with an
ease and expedition that showed that he was well acquainted with
them. He threw open the door of a back room, and drew Oliver in
after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black, with age
and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a
candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a
loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire,
and which was secured to the mantel-shelf by a string, some
sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-
fork in his hand, was a very old, shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-
looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted
red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat
bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-
pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk
handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of old
sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round the
table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking
long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged
men. These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a
few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at
Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
“This is him, Fagin,” said Jack Dawkins; “my friend, Oliver
Twist.”
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took
him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his
intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentlemen with the
pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard—
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Oliver Twist
especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young
gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and
another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order
that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of
emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities
would probably have been extended much further, but for a liberal
exercise of the Jew’s toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of
the affectionate youths who offered them.
“We are very glad to see you, Oliver—very,” said the Jew.
“Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for
Oliver. Ah, you’re a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my
dear! There are a good many of ’em, ain’t there? We’ve just looked
’em out, ready for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha!
ha!”
The latter part of this speech was hailed by a boisterous shout
from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the
midst of which, they went to supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot
gin-and-water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because
another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was
desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to
one of the sacks; and then he sank into a deep sleep.
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Oliver Twist
Chapter 9
Containing Further Particulars Concerning The
Pleasant Old Gentleman, And His Hopeful Pupils.
It was late next morning when Oliver awoke, from a sound,
long sleep. There was no other person in the room but the old
Jew, who was boiling some coffee in a saucepan for breakfast,
and whistling softly to himself as he stirred it round and round,
with an iron spoon. He would stop every now and then to listen
when there was the least noise below; and when he had satisfied
himself, he would go on, whistling and stirring again, as before.
Although Oliver had roused himself from sleep, he was not
thoroughly awake. There is a drowsy state, between sleeping and
waking, when you dream more in five minutes with your eyes half-
open, and yourself half-conscious of everything that is passing
around you, than you would in five nights with your eyes fast
closed, and your senses wrapped in perfect unconsciousness. At
such times, a mortal knows just enough of what his mind is doing,
to form some glimmering conception of its mighty powers, its
bounding from earth and spurning time and space, when freed
from the restraint of its corporeal associate.
Oliver was precisely in this condition. He saw the Jew with his
half-closed eyes; heard his low whistling; and recognised the
sound of the spoon grating against the saucepan’s sides; and yet
the self-same senses were mentally engaged, at the same time, in
busy action with almost everybody he had ever known.
When the coffee was done, the Jew drew the saucepan to the
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hob. Standing, then, in an irresolute attitude for a few minutes, as
if he did not well know how to employ himself, he turned round
and looked at Oliver, and called him by his name. He did not
answer, and was to all appearance asleep.
After satisfying himself upon this head, the Jew stepped gently
to the door; which he fastened. He then drew forth, as it seemed to
Oliver, from some trap in the floor, a small box, which he placed
carefully on the table. His eyes glistened as he raised the lid, and
looked in. Dragging an old chair to the table, he sat down; and
took from it a magnificent gold watch, sparkling with jewels.
“Aha!” said the Jew, shrugging up his shoulders, and distorting
every feature with a hideous grin. “Clever dogs! Clever dogs!
Staunch to the last! Never told the old parson where they were.
Never peached upon old Fagin! And why should they? It wouldn’t
have loosened the knot, or kept the drop up, a minute longer. No,
no, no! Fine fellows! Fine fellows!”
With these, and other muttered reflections of the like nature,
the Jew once more deposited the watch in its place of safety. At
least half a dozen more were severally drawn forth from the same
box, and surveyed with equal pleasure; besides rings, brooches,
bracelets, and other articles of jewellery, of such magnificent
materials, and costly workmanship, that Oliver had no idea, even
of their names.
Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another; so
small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some
very minute inscription on it; for the Jew laid it flat upon the table,
and, shading it with his hand, pored over it, long and earnestly. At
length he put it down, as if despairing of success; and, leaning
back in his chair, muttered:
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Oliver Twist
“What a line thing capital punishment is! Dead men never
repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a
fine thing for the trade! Five of ’em strung up in a row, and none
left to play booty, or turn white-livered!”
As the Jew uttered these words, his bright, dark eyes, which
had been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the
boy’s eyes were fixed on his in mute curiosity; and although the
recognition was only for an instant—for the briefest space of time
that can possibly be conceived—it was enough to show the old
man that he had been observed. He closed the lid of the box with a
loud crash; and, laying his hand on a bread-knife which was on the
table, started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for,
even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the
air.
“What’s that?” said the Jew. “What do you watch me for? Why
are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick—
quick! for your life!”
“I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,” replied Oliver meekly. “I
am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.”
“You were not awake an hour ago?” said the Jew, scowling
fiercely on the boy.
“No! No, indeed!” replied Oliver.
“Are you sure?” cried the Jew, with a still fiercer look than
before, and a threatening attitude.
“Upon my word I was not, sir,” replied Oliver earnestly. “I was
not, indeed, sir.”
“Tush, tush, my dear!” said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old
manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down;
as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport.
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“Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you.
You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver!” The Jew
rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box,
notwithstanding.
“Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?” said the Jew,
laying his hand upon it after a short pause.
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver.
‘‘Ah!” said the Jew, turning rather pale. “They—they’re mine,
Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age.
The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.”
Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to
live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that
perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys cost him a
good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and
asked if he might get up.
“Certainly, my dear, certainly,” replied the old gentleman.
“Stay. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door.
Bring it here: and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.”
Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an
instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was
gone.
He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by
emptying the basin out of the window, agreeable to the Jew’s
directions, when the Dodger returned, accompanied by a very
sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the
previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as
Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and
some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in
the crown of his hat.
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“Well,” said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing
himself to the Dodger, “I hope you’ve been at work this morning,
my dears?”
“Hard,” replied the Dodger.
“As nails,” added Charley Bates.
“Good boys, good boys!” said the Jew. “What have you got,
Dodger?”
“A couple of pocket-books,” replied that young gentleman.
“Lined?” inquired the Jew, with eagerness.
“Pretty well,” replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books;
one green, and the other red.
“Not so heavy as they might be,” said the Jew, after looking at
the insides carefully; “but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious
workman, ain’t he, Oliver?”
“Very, indeed, sir,” said Oliver. At which Mr. Charles Bates
laughed uproariously; very much to the amazement of Oliver, who
saw nothing to laugh at, in anything that had passed.
“And what have you got, my dear?” said Fagin to Charley
Bates.
“Wipes,” replied Master Bates; at the same time producing four
pocket-handkerchiefs.
“Well,” said the Jew, inspecting them closely; “they’re very
good ones—very. You haven’t marked them well, though, Charley;
so the marks shall be picked out with a needle, and we’ll teach
Oliver how to do it. Shall us, Oliver, eh? Ha! ha! ha!”
“If you please, sir,” said Oliver.
“You’d like to be able to make pocket-handkerchiefs as easy as
Charley Bates, wouldn’t you, my dear?” said the Jew.
“Very much, indeed, if you’ll teach me, sir,” replied Oliver.
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Master Bates saw something so exquisitely ludicrous in this
reply, that he burst into another laugh; which laugh, meeting the
coffee he was drinking, and carrying it down some wrong channel,
very nearly terminated in his premature suffocation.
“He is so jolly green!” said Charley when he recovered, as an
apology to the company for his unpolite behaviour.
The Dodger said nothing, but he smoothed Oliver’s hair over
his eyes, and said he’d know better, by and by; upon which the old
gentleman, observing Oliver’s colour mounting, changed the
subject by asking whether there had been much of a crowd at the
execution that morning. This made him wonder more and more;
for it was plain from the replies of the two boys that they had both
been there; and Oliver naturally wondered how they could
possibly have found time to be so very industrious.
When the breakfast was cleared away, the merry old gentleman
and the two boys played at a very curious and uncommon game,
which was performed in this way. The merry old gentleman,
placing a snuff-box in one pocket of his trousers, a note-case in the
other, and a watch in his waistcoat pocket, with a guard-chain
round his neck, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt,
buttoned his coat tightly round him, and putting his spectacle-case
and handkerchief in his pockets, trotted up and down the room
with a stick, in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen
walk about the streets any hour in the day. Sometimes he stopped
