Oliver Twist
OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Oliver the at which the by-path terminated; and once more the high-road. It was eight o’clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and the hedges, by turns, till noon: that he might be and overtaken. Then he sat to by the of the milestone, and to think, for the time, where he had go and try to live.
The by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name a new train of ideas in the boy’s mind.
London!—that great place!—nobody—not Mr. Bumble—could him there! He had often the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no of need want in London; and that there were of in that city, which those who had been up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a boy, who must die in the unless some one helped him. As these passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.
He had the himself and London by full four miles more, he how much he must he to his place of destination. As this itself upon him, he his a little, and upon his means of there. He had a of bread, a shirt, and two of stockings, in his bundle. He had a too—a gift of Sowerberry’s after some in which he had himself more than well—in his pocket. “A clean shirt,” Oliver, “is a very thing; and so are two of 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 and active to point out his difficulties, were at a to any mode of them; so, after a good of to no particular purpose, he his little over to the other shoulder, and on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time nothing but the of bread, and a of water, which he at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he into a meadow; and, close under a hay-rick, to there, till morning. He at first, for the wind over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had before. Being very with his walk, however, he soon asleep and his troubles.
He cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so that he was to the for a small loaf, in the very village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again. His were sore, and his so weak that they him. Another night passed in the air, him worse; when he set on his next he along.
He waited at the of a hill till a stage-coach came up, and then of the passengers; but there were very who took any notice of him: and those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see how he for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by of his and feet. When the saw this, they put their into their pockets again, that he was an dog, and didn’t anything; and the coach away and left only a cloud of behind.
In some villages, large painted were up: all who the district, that they would be sent to jail. This Oliver very much, and him to out of those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would about the inn-yards, and look at every one who passed: a which in the landlady’s ordering one of the post-boys who were about, to drive that boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to something. If he at a farmer’s house, ten to one but they to set the dog on him; and when he his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle—which Oliver’s 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 old lady, Oliver’s would have been by the very same which had put an end to his mother’s; in other words, he would most have upon the king’s highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a of and cheese; and the old lady, who had a in some part of the earth, took upon the orphan, and gave him what little she afford—and more—with such and words, and such of and compassion, that they into Oliver’s soul, than all the he had undergone.
Early on the seventh after he had left his native place, Oliver slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the was empty; not a had to the of the day. The sun was in all its beauty; but the light only to the boy his own and desolation, as he sat, with and with dust, upon a door-step.
By degrees, the were opened; the window-blinds were up; and people to and fro. Some stopped to at Oliver for a moment or two, or to at him as they by; but none him, or themselves to how he came there. He had no to beg. And there he sat.
He had been on the step for some time: at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), at the as they passed through, and how it that they do, with ease, in a hours, what it had taken him a whole week of and his years to accomplish: when he was by that a boy, who had passed him some minutes before, had returned, and was now him most from the opposite of the way. He took little of this at first; but the boy in the same of close so long, that Oliver his head, and returned his look. Upon this, the boy over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,
“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?”
The boy who this to the wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the looking boys that Oliver had seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the and manners of a man. He was of his age: with bow-legs, and little, sharp, eyes. His was on the top of his so lightly, that it to off every moment—and would have done so, very often, if the had not had a of every now and then his a twitch, which it to its old place again. He a man’s coat, which nearly to his heels. He had the back, half-way up his arm, to his hands out of the sleeves: with the view of them into the pockets of his trousers; for there he them. He was, altogether, as and a as four six, or something less, in the bluchers.
“Hullo, my covey! What’s the row?” said this to Oliver.
“I am very and tired,” Oliver: the in his as he spoke. “I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days.”
“Walking for days!” said the gentleman. “Oh, I see. Beak’s order, eh? But,” he added, noticing Oliver’s look of surprise, “I you don’t know what a is, my com-pan-i-on.”
Oliver replied, that he had always a bird’s mouth by the term in question.
“My eyes, how green!” the gentleman. “Why, a beak’s a madgst’rate; and when you walk by a beak’s order, it’s not forerd, but always up, and a agin. Was you on the mill?”
“What mill?” Oliver.
“What mill! Why, the mill—the as takes up so little room that it’ll work a Stone Jug; and always goes when the wind’s low with people, than when it’s high; then they can’t workmen. But come,” said the gentleman; “you want grub, and you shall have it. I’m at low-water-mark myself—only one and a magpie; but, as as it goes, I’ll out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! “Morrice!”
Assisting Oliver to rise, the took him to an chandler’s shop, where he purchased a of ready-dressed and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself it, “a bran!” the being clean and from dust, by the of making a in the by out a of the crumb, and it therein. Taking the under his arm, the into a small public-house, and the way to a tap-room in the of the premises. Here, a pot of was in, by direction of the youth; and Oliver, to, at his new friend’s bidding, a long and meal, the progress of which the boy him from time to time with great attention.
“Going to London?” said the boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
“Yes.”
“Got any lodgings?”
“No.”
“Money?”
“No.”
The boy whistled; and put his arms into his pockets, as as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
“Do you live in London?” Oliver.
“Yes. I do, when I’m at home,” the boy. “I you want some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?”
“I do, indeed,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a since I left the country.”
“Don’t your on that score,” said the gentleman. “I’ve got to be in London to-night; and I know a ’spectable old as there, wot’ll give you for nothink, and ask for the change—that is, if any he you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!”
The smiled, as if to that the of were ironical; and the as he did so.
This offer of was too to be resisted; as it was up, by the that the old to, would provide Oliver with a place, without of time. This to a more and dialogue; from which Oliver that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a and of the mentioned.
Mr. Dawkin’s did not say a in of the which his patron’s for those he took under his protection; but, as he had a and mode of conversing, and that among his friends he was by the of “The Artful Dodger,” Oliver that, being of a and careless turn, the of his had been away upon him. Under this impression, he to the good opinion of the old as as possible; and, if he the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than he should, to the of his acquaintance.
As John Dawkins to their entering London nightfall, it was nearly eleven o’clock when they the at Islington. They from the Angel into St. John’s Road; the small which at Sadler’s Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; the little by the of the workhouse; across the ground which once the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger at a pace, Oliver to close at his heels.
Although Oliver had to his attention in of his leader, he not help a on either of the way, as he passed along. A or more place he had seen. The was very narrow and muddy, and the air was with odours.
There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in appeared to be of children, who, at that time of night, were in and out at the doors, or from the inside. The places that to the of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the orders of Irish were with might and main. Covered and yards, which here and there from the main street, little of houses, where men and were positively in filth; and from of the door-ways, great ill-looking were emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or errands.
Oliver was just he hadn’t away, when they the of the hill. His conductor, him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and him into the passage, closed it them.
“Now, then!” a voice from below, in reply to a from the Dodger.
“Plummy and slam!” was the reply.
This to be some or that all was right; for the light of a on the at the end of the passage; and a man’s out, from where a of the old had been away.
“There’s two on you,” said the man, the out, and his with his hand. “Who’s the t’other one?”
“A new pal,” Jack Dawkins, Oliver forward.
“Where did he come from?”
“Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?”
“Yes, he’s a sortin’ the wipes. Up with you!” The was back, and the disappeared.
Oliver, his way with one hand, and having the other by his companion, with much the dark and stairs: which his with an and that he was well with them.
He open the door of a back-room, and Oliver in after him.
The and of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a table the fire: upon which were a candle, in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pots, a and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was to the by a string, some were cooking; and over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old Jew, villainous-looking and was by a quantity of red hair. He was in a gown, with his bare; and to be his attention the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of were hanging. Several of old sacks, were by on the floor. Seated the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, long pipes, and with the air of middle-aged men. These all about their as he a to the Jew; and then and 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 to Oliver, took him by the hand, and he should have the of his acquaintance. Upon this, the with the pipes came him, and his hands very hard—especially the one in which he his little bundle. One was very to up his cap for him; and another was so as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of them, himself, when he to bed. These would be much farther, but for a of the Jew’s toasting-fork on the and of the who offered them.
“We are very to see you, Oliver, very,” said the Jew. “Dodger, take off the sausages; and a 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, for the wash; that’s all, Oliver; that’s all. Ha! ha! ha!”
The part of this speech, was by a from all the of the old gentleman. In the of which they to supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a of gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, another wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately he himself on to one of the sacks; and then he into a sleep.
