Oliver Twist
SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
In the of a low public-house, in the part of Little Saffron Hill; a dark and den, where a gas-light all day in the winter-time; and where no of sun in the summer: there sat, over a little measure and a small glass, with the of liquor, a man in a coat, shorts, half-boots and stockings, by that light no agent of the police would have to as Mr. William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who himself, alternately, in at his master with at the same time; and in a large, fresh cut on one of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some conflict.
“Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!” said Mr. Sikes, silence. Whether his were so as to be by the dog’s winking, or his were so upon by his that they all the from kicking an animal to them, is for and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the was a and a curse, upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs are not to upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes’s dog, having of in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful of injury, no more but at once his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having in a shake, he retired, growling, under a form; just the measure which Mr. Sikes at his head.
“You would, would you?” said Sikes, the in one hand, and opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he from his pocket. “Come here, you devil! Come here! D’ye hear?”
The dog no heard; Mr. Sikes spoke in the very key of a very voice; but, appearing to some to having his cut, he where he was, and more than before: at the same time the end of the his teeth, and at it like a wild beast.
This only Mr. Sikes the more; who, on his knees, to the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left, and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man and swore, and and blasphemed; and the was a most point for one or other; when, the door opening, the dog out: Bill Sikes with the and the clasp-knife in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes, being of the dog’s participation, at once transferred his in the to the new comer.
“What the do you come in me and my dog for?” said Sikes, with a gesture.
“I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,” Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new comer.
“Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!” Sikes. “Couldn’t you the noise?”
“Not a of it, as I’m a man, Bill,” the Jew.
“Oh no! You nothing, you don’t,” Sikes with a sneer. “Sneaking in and out, so as nobody how you come or go! I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, a minute ago.”
“Why?” the Jew with a smile.
“Cause the government, as for the of such men as you, as haven’t the of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,” Sikes, up the knife with a very look; “that’s why.”
The Jew his hands; and, at the table, to laugh at the of his friend. He was very at ease, however.
“Grin away,” said Sikes, the poker, and him with contempt; “grin away. You’ll have the laugh at me, though, unless it’s a nightcap. I’ve got the upper hand over you, Fagin; and, d—me, I’ll keep it. There! If I go, you go; so take of me.”
“Well, well, my dear,” said the Jew, “I know all that; we—we—have a interest, Bill,—a interest.”
“Humph,” said Sikes, as if he the more on the Jew’s than on his. “Well, what have you got to say to me?”
“It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,” Fagin, “and this is your share. It’s more than it ought to be, my dear; but as I know you’ll do me a good turn another time, and—”
“Stow that gammon,” the robber, impatiently. “Where is it? Hand over!”
“Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,” the Jew, soothingly. “Here it is! All safe!” As he spoke, he an old from his breast; and a large in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes, it from him, opened it; and to count the it contained.
“This is all, is it?” Sikes.
“All,” the Jew.
“You haven’t opened the parcel and one or two as you come along, have you?” Sikes, suspiciously. “Don’t put on an look at the question; you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.”
These words, in plain English, an to ring the bell. It was answered by another Jew: than Fagin, but nearly as and in appearance.
Bill Sikes pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly the hint, retired to it: a look with Fagin, who his for an instant, as if in of it, and his in reply; so that the action would have been almost to an third person. It was upon Sikes, who was at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn. Possibly, if he had the of signals, he might have that it no good to him.
“Is here, Barney?” Fagin; speaking, now that that Sikes was looking on, without his from the ground.
“Dot a shoul,” Barney; words: they came from the or not: their way through the nose.
“Nobody?” Fagin, in a of surprise: which might that Barney was at to tell the truth.
“Dobody but Biss Dadsy,” Barney.
“Nancy!” Sikes. “Where? Strike me blind, if I don’t that ’ere girl, for her native talents.”
“She’s a plate of id the bar,” Barney.
“Send her here,” said Sikes, out a of liquor. “Send her here.”
Barney looked at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew silent, and not his from the ground, he retired; and presently returned, in Nancy; who was with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.
“You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?” Sikes, the glass.
“Yes, I am, Bill,” the lady, of its contents; “and of it I am, too. The brat’s been and to the crib; and—”
“Ah, Nancy, dear!” said Fagin, looking up.
Now, a of the Jew’s red eye-brows, and a of his deeply-set eyes, Miss Nancy that she was to be too communicative, is not a of much importance. The is all we need for here; and the is, that she herself, and with upon Mr. Sikes, the to other matters. In about ten minutes’ time, Mr. Fagin was with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy her over her shoulders, and it was time to go. Mr. Sikes, that he was walking a part of her way himself, his of her; they away together, followed, at a little distant, by the dog, who out of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight.
The Jew his out of the room door when Sikes had left it; looked after him as he walked up the dark passage; his fist; a curse; and then, with a grin, himself at the table; where he was soon in the pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little that he was so very a of the old gentleman, was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell, he a by-street which was not in his way; but not his mistake until he had got half-way it, and it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it while to turn back; and so on, as as he could, with the books under his arm.
He was walking along, how happy and he ought to feel; and how much he would give for only one look at little Dick, who, and beaten, might be at that very moment; when he was by a woman out very loud. “Oh, my dear brother!” And he had looked up, to see what the was, when he was stopped by having a pair of arms tight his neck.
“Don’t,” Oliver, struggling. “Let go of me. Who is it? What are you stopping me for?”
The only reply to this, was a great number of loud from the woman who had him; and who had a little and a street-door key in her hand.
“Oh my gracious!” said the woman, “I have him! Oh! Oliver! Oliver! Oh you boy, to make me such on your account! Come home, dear, come. Oh, I’ve him. Thank heavins, I’ve him!” With these exclamations, the woman into another fit of crying, and got so hysterical, that a of who came up at the moment asked a butcher’s boy with a of with suet, who was also looking on, he didn’t think he had for the doctor. To which, the butcher’s boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say disposition: replied, that he not.
“Oh, no, no, mind,” said the woman, Oliver’s hand; “I’m now. Come home directly, you boy! Come!”
“Oh, ma’am,” the woman, “he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents, who are hard-working and people; and and joined a set of and characters; and almost his mother’s heart.”
“Young wretch!” said one woman.
“Go home, do, you little brute,” said the other.
“I am not,” Oliver, alarmed. “I don’t know her. I haven’t any sister, or father and mother either. I’m an orphan; I live at Pentonville.”
“Only him, how he it out!” the woman.
“Why, it’s Nancy!” Oliver; who now saw her for the time; and started back, in astonishment.
“You see he me!” Nancy, to the bystanders. “He can’t help himself. Make him come home, there’s good people, or he’ll kill his dear mother and father, and my heart!”
“What the devil’s this?” said a man, out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; “young Oliver! Come home to your mother, you dog! Come home directly.”
“I don’t to them. I don’t know them. Help! help!” Oliver, in the man’s powerful grasp.
“Help!” the man. “Yes; I’ll help you, you rascal! What books are these? You’ve been a ’em, have you? Give ’em here.” With these words, the man the from his grasp, and him on the head.
“That’s right!” a looker-on, from a garret-window. “That’s the only way of him to his senses!”
“To be sure!” a sleepy-faced carpenter, an look at the garret-window.
“It’ll do him good!” said the two women.
“And he shall have it, too!” the man, another blow, and Oliver by the collar. “Come on, you villain! Here, Bull’s-eye, mind him, boy! Mind him!”
Weak with illness; by the and the of the attack; by the of the dog, and the of the man; by the of the that he was the little he was to be; what one child do! Darkness had set in; it was a low neighborhood; no help was near; was useless. In another moment he was into a of dark narrow courts, and was along them at a which the he to give to, unintelligible. It was of little moment, indeed, they were or no; for there was nobody to for them, had they been so plain.
The gas-lamps were lighted; Mrs. Bedwin was waiting at the open door; the had up the twenty times to see if there were any of Oliver; and still the two old sat, perseveringly, in the dark parlour, with the watch them.
