الفصل الفصل 8 · OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF

YOUNG GENTLEMAN

Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more

gained the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly

five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by

turns, till noon, fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then

he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think,

for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.

The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an

intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The

name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.

London!—that great place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find

him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say

that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of

living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country

parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who

must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things

passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked

forward.

He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four

miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could

hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced

itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his

means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and

two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too—a gift of

Sowerberry’s after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more

than ordinarily well—in his pocket. “A clean shirt,” thought Oliver,

“is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings;

and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles’ walk

in winter time.” But Oliver’s thoughts, like those of most other

people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his

difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of

surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular

purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and

trudged on.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing

but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he

begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he

turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined

to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind

moaned dismally over the empty fields, and he was cold and hungry, and

more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his

walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.

He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that

he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very

first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than

twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his

legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in

the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey

next morning he could hardly crawl along.

He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and

then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took

any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the

top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a

halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way,

but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When

the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets

again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn’t deserve

anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust

behind.

In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all

persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to

jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of

those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand

about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a

proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady’s ordering one of

the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of

the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he

begged at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they threatened to set the

dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about

the beadle—which brought Oliver’s heart into his mouth,—very often the

only thing he had there, for many hours together.

In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a

benevolent old lady, Oliver’s troubles would have been shortened by the

very same process which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words,

he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king’s highway. But

the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady,

who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part

of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little

she could afford—and more—with such kind and gentle words, and such

tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver’s

soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.

Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver

limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were

closed; the street was empty; not a soul had awakened to the business

of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the

light only served to show the boy his own lonesomeness and desolation,

as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

By degrees, the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up;

and people began passing to and fro. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver

for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried

by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he

came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.

He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great

number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern,

large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed

through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with

ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and

determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by

observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes

before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the

opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the

boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that

Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the

boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?”

The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his

own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even

seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as

dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the

airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather

bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of

his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment—and

would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of

every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it

back to its old place again. He wore a man’s coat, which reached nearly

to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get

his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of

thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he

kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young

gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the

bluchers.

“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?” said this strange young gentleman to

Oliver.

“I am very hungry and tired,” replied Oliver: the tears standing in his

eyes as he spoke. “I have walked a long way. I have been walking these

seven days.”

“Walking for sivin days!” said the young gentleman. “Oh, I see. Beak’s

order, eh? But,” he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, “I

suppose you don’t know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.”

Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird’s mouth

described by the term in question.

“My eyes, how green!” exclaimed the young gentleman. “Why, a beak’s a

madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not straight

forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you

never on the mill?”

“What mill?” inquired Oliver.

“What mill! Why, _the_ mill—the mill as takes up so little room that

it’ll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind’s

low with people, than when it’s high; acos then they can’t get workmen.

But come,” said the young gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have

it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one bob and a magpie; but, as far

as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There!

Now then! Morrice!”

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent

chandler’s shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham

and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, “a fourpenny

bran!” the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the

ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a

portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under

his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small public-house, and led

the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer

was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver,

falling to, at his new friend’s bidding, made a long and hearty meal,

during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time

with great attention.

“Going to London?” said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length

concluded.

“Yes.”

“Got any lodgings?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

The strange boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as far as

the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

“Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver.

“Yes. I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want

some place to sleep in tonight, don’t you?”

“I do, indeed,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I

left the country.”

“Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the young gentleman.

“I’ve got to be in London tonight; and I know a ’spectable old

gentleman as lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and

never ask for the change—that is, if any gentleman he knows interduces

you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means.

Certainly not!”

The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments

of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did

so.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted;

especially as it was immediately followed up, by the assurance that the

old gentleman referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a

comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly

and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his

friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and

_protégé_ of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.

Mr. Dawkins’s appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the

comforts which his patron’s interest obtained for those whom he took

under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly 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 precepts 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 farther acquaintance.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it

was nearly eleven 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 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, which 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 door-ways, 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 shielding 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 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 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 mantelshelf 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 gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook

both his hands very hard—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 be extended much farther, 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 sunk into a deep sleep.