Oliver Twist
THE PURSUIT AND ESCAPE
Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at Rotherhithe abuts, where the on the banks are and the on the river with the of and the of close-built low-roofed houses, there the filthiest, the strangest, the most of the many that are in London, unknown, by name, to the great of its inhabitants.
To this place, the visitor has to through a of close, narrow, and streets, by the and of people, and to the traffic they may be to occasion. The and least are in the shops; the and articles of at the salesman’s door, and from the house-parapet and windows. Jostling with of the class, ballast-heavers, coal-whippers, women, children, and the and of the river, he makes his way with along, by and from the narrow which branch off on the right and left, and by the of that great of from the of that from every corner. Arriving, at length, in and less-frequented than those through which he has passed, he walks house-fronts over the pavement, that to as he passes, to fall, by iron that time and have almost away, every of and neglect.
In such a neighborhood, Dockhead in the Borough of Southwark, Jacob’s Island, by a ditch, six or eight and fifteen or twenty wide when the is in, once called Mill Pond, but in the days of this as Folly Ditch. It is a or from the Thames, and can always be at high water by opening the at the Lead Mills from which it took its old name. At such times, a stranger, looking from one of the across it at Mill Lane, will see the of the houses on either from their doors and windows, buckets, pails, of all kinds, in which to the water up; and when his is from these operations to the houses themselves, his will be by the him. Crazy common to the of a dozen houses, with from which to look upon the beneath; windows, and patched, with out, on which to the that is there; rooms so small, so filthy, so confined, that the air would too for the and which they shelter; themselves out above the mud, and to into it—as some have done; dirt-besmeared and foundations; every of poverty, every of filth, rot, and garbage; all these ornament the banks of Folly Ditch.
In Jacob’s Island, the are and empty; the are down; the are no more; the doors are into the streets; the are blackened, but they no smoke. Thirty or years ago, and came upon it, it was a place; but now it is a indeed. The houses have no owners; they are open, and entered upon by those who have the courage; and there they live, and there they die. They must have powerful for a residence, or be to a condition indeed, who a in Jacob’s Island.
In an upper room of one of these houses—a house of size, in other respects, but at door and window: of which house the the in manner already described—there were assembled three men, who, each other every now and then with looks of and expectation, sat for some time in and silence. One of these was Toby Crackit, another Mr. Chitling, and the third a of fifty years, nose had been almost in, in some old scuffle, and a which might be to the same occasion. This man was a returned transport, and his name was Kags.
“I wish,” said Toby to Mr. Chitling, “that you had out some other when the two old ones got too warm, and had not come here, my feller.”
“Why didn’t you, blunder-head!” said Kags.
“Well, I you’d have been a little more to see me than this,” Mr. Chitling, with a air.
“Why, look’e, gentleman,” said Toby, “when a man himself so very ex-clusive as I have done, and by that means has a house over his with nobody a and about it, it’s a thing to have the of a from a (however and a person he may be to play cards with at conweniency) as you are.”
“Especially, when the man has got a friend stopping with him, that’s sooner than was from parts, and is too to want to be presented to the Judges on his return,” added Mr. Kags.
There was a silence, after which Toby Crackit, to as any to maintain his devil-may-care swagger, to Chitling and said,
“When was Fagin took then?”
“Just at dinner-time—two o’clock this afternoon. Charley and I our lucky up the wash-us chimney, and Bolter got into the empty water-butt, downwards; but his were so long that they out at the top, and so they took him too.”
“And Bet?”
“Poor Bet! She to see the Body, to speak to who it was,” Chitling, his more and more, “and off mad, and raving, and her against the boards; so they put a strait-weskut on her and took her to the hospital—and there she is.”
“Wot’s come of Bates?” Kags.
“He about, not to come over here dark, but he’ll be here soon,” Chitling. “There’s else to go to now, for the people at the Cripples are all in custody, and the of the ken—I up there and see it with my own eyes—is with traps.”
“This is a smash,” Toby, his lips. “There’s more than one will go with this.”
“The sessions are on,” said Kags: “if they the over, and Bolter King’s evidence: as of he will, from what he’s said already: they can prove Fagin an the fact, and the trial on on Friday, and he’ll in six days from this, by G—!”
“You should have the people groan,” said Chitling; “the officers like devils, or they’d have him away. He was once, but they a ring him, and their way along. You should have how he looked about him, all and bleeding, and to them as if they were his friends. I can see ’em now, not able to with the pressing of the mob, and him along ’em; I can see the people jumping up, one another, and with their teeth and making at him; I can see the blood upon his and beard, and the with which the themselves into the centre of the at the corner, and they’d tear his out!”
The horror-stricken of this pressed his hands upon his ears, and with his closed got up and to and fro, like one distracted.
While he was thus engaged, and the two men sat by in with their upon the floor, a noise was upon the stairs, and Sikes’s dog into the room. They ran to the window, downstairs, and into the street. The dog had jumped in at an open window; he no attempt to them, was his master to be seen.
“What’s the meaning of this?” said Toby when they had returned. “He can’t be here. I—I—hope not.”
“If he was here, he’d have come with the dog,” said Kags, to the animal, who on the floor. “Here! Give us some water for him; he has himself faint.”
“He’s it all up, every drop,” said Chitling after the dog some time in silence. “Covered with mud—lame—half blind—he must have come a long way.”
“Where can he have come from!” Toby. “He’s been to the other of course, and them with come on here, where he’s been many a time and often. But where can he have come from first, and how comes he here alone without the other!”
“He”—(none of them called the by his old name)—“He can’t have away with himself. What do you think?” said Chitling.
Toby his head.
“If he had,” said Kags, “the dog ’ud want to lead us away to where he did it. No. I think he’s got out of the country, and left the dog behind. He must have him the somehow, or he wouldn’t be so easy.”
This solution, appearing the most one, was as the right; the dog, under a chair, himself up to sleep, without more notice from anybody.
It being now dark, the was closed, and a and upon the table. The terrible events of the last two days had a on all three, by the and of their own position. They their chairs closer together, starting at every sound. They spoke little, and that in whispers, and were as and awe-stricken as if the of the woman in the next room.
They had sat thus, some time, when was a at the door below.
“Young Bates,” said Kags, looking round, to check the he himself.
The came again. No, it wasn’t he. He like that.
Crackit to the window, and all over, in his head. There was no need to tell them who it was; his was enough. The dog too was on the in an instant, and ran to the door.
“We must let him in,” he said, taking up the candle.
“Isn’t there any help for it?” asked the other man in a voice.
“None. He must come in.”
“Don’t us in the dark,” said Kags, taking a from the chimney-piece, and it, with such a hand that the was twice he had finished.
Crackit to the door, and returned by a man with the part of his in a handkerchief, and another over his under his hat. He them slowly off. Blanched face, eyes, cheeks, of three days’ growth, flesh, thick breath; it was the very of Sikes.
He his hand upon a chair which in the middle of the room, but as he was about to into it, and to over his shoulder, it close to the wall—as close as it would go—and ground it against it—and sat down.
Not a word had been exchanged. He looked from one to another in silence. If an were and met his, it was averted. When his voice silence, they all three started. They to have its before.
“How came that dog here?” he asked.
“Alone. Three hours ago.”
“To-night’s paper says that Fagin’s took. Is it true, or a lie?”
“True.”
They were again.
“Damn you all!” said Sikes, his hand across his forehead. “Have you nothing to say to me?”
There was an movement among them, but nobody spoke.
“You that keep this house,” said Sikes, his to Crackit, “do you to sell me, or to let me here till this is over?”
“You may stop here, if you think it safe,” returned the person addressed, after some hesitation.
Sikes his slowly up the him: trying to turn his than actually doing it: and said, “Is—it—the body—is it buried?”
They their heads.
“Why isn’t it!” he with the same him. “Wot do they keep such above the ground for?—Who’s that knocking?”
Crackit intimated, by a motion of his hand as he left the room, that there was nothing to fear; and directly came with Charley Bates him. Sikes sat opposite the door, so that the moment the boy entered the room he his figure.
“Toby,” said the boy back, as Sikes his him, “why didn’t you tell me this, downstairs?”
There had been something so in the off of the three, that the man was to this lad. Accordingly he nodded, and as though he would shake hands with him.
“Let me go into some other room,” said the boy, still farther.
“Charley!” said Sikes, forward. “Don’t you—don’t you know me?”
“Don’t come nearer me,” answered the boy, still retreating, and looking, with in his eyes, upon the murderer’s face. “You monster!”
The man stopped half-way, and they looked at each other; but Sikes’s to the ground.
“Witness you three,” the boy his fist, and more and more as he spoke. “Witness you three—I’m not of him—if they come here after him, I’ll give him up; I will. I tell you out at once. He may kill me for it if he likes, or if he dares, but if I am here I’ll give him up. I’d give him up if he was to be alive. Murder! Help! If there’s the of a man among you three, you’ll help me. Murder! Help! Down with him!”
Pouring out these cries, and them with gesticulation, the boy actually himself, single-handed, upon the man, and in the of his energy and the of his surprise, him to the ground.
The three stupefied. They offered no interference, and the boy and man rolled on the ground together; the former, of the that upon him, his hands and in the about the murderer’s breast, and to call for help with all his might.
The contest, however, was too to last long. Sikes had him down, and his was on his throat, when Crackit him with a look of alarm, and pointed to the window. There were lights below, voices in loud and conversation, the of footsteps—endless they in number—crossing the nearest bridge. One man on to be among the crowd; for there was the noise of on the pavement. The of lights increased; the came more and on. Then, came a loud at the door, and then a from such a of angry voices as would have the quail.
“Help!” the boy in a voice that rent the air. “He’s here! Break the door!”
“In the King’s name,” the voices without; and the again, but louder.
“Break the door!” the boy. “I tell you they’ll open it. Run to the room where the light is. Break the door!”
Strokes, thick and heavy, upon the door and window-shutters as he to speak, and a loud from the crowd; the listener, for the time, some idea of its extent.
“Open the door of some place where I can lock this Hell-babe,” Sikes fiercely; to and fro, and the boy, now, as easily as if he were an empty sack. “That door. Quick!” He him in, it, and the key. “Is the door fast?”
“Double-locked and chained,” Crackit, who, with the other two men, still and bewildered.
“The panels—are they strong?”
“Lined with sheet-iron.”
“And the too?”
“Yes, and the windows.”
“Damn you!” the ruffian, up the and the crowd. “Do your worst! I’ll you yet!”
Of all the that on ears, none the of the throng. Some to those who were nearest to set the house on fire; others to the officers to shoot him dead. Among them all, none such as the man on horseback, who, himself out of the saddle, and through the as if he were water, cried, the window, in a voice that rose above all others, “Twenty to the man who a ladder!”
The nearest voices took up the cry, and hundreds it. Some called for ladders, some for sledge-hammers; some ran with to and as if to them, and still came and again; some their in and execrations; some pressed with the of madmen, and thus the progress of those below; some among the to climb up by the water-spout and in the wall; and all to and fro, in the beneath, like a of moved by an angry wind: and joined from time to time in one loud roar.
“The tide,” the murderer, as he into the room, and the out, “the was in as I came up. Give me a rope, a long rope. They’re all in front. I may into the Folly Ditch, and clear off that way. Give me a rope, or I shall do three more and kill myself.”
The panic-stricken men pointed to where such articles were kept; the murderer, the and cord, up to the house-top.
All the in the of the house had been long ago up, one small in the room where the boy was locked, and that was too small for the passage of his body. But, from this aperture, he had to call on those without, to the back; and thus, when the at last on the house-top by the door in the roof, a loud the to those in front, who to round, pressing upon each other in an stream.
He planted a board, which he had up with him for the purpose, so against the door that it must be of great to open it from the inside; and over the tiles, looked over the low parapet.
The water was out, and the a of mud.
The had been these moments, his and of his purpose, but the they it and it was defeated, they a of to which all their previous had been whispers. Again and again it rose. Those who were at too great a to know its meaning, took up the sound; it and re-echoed; it as though the whole city had its population out to him.
On pressed the people from the front—on, on, on, in a of angry faces, with here and there a to them up, and them out in all their and passion. The houses on the opposite of the had been entered by the mob; were up, or out; there were and of in every window; upon of people to every house-top. Each little (and there were three in sight) the weight of the upon it. Still the on to some or from which to their shouts, and only for an see the wretch.
“They have him now,” a man on the nearest bridge. “Hurrah!”
The light with heads; and again the uprose.
“I will give fifty pounds,” an old from the same quarter, “to the man who takes him alive. I will here, till he come to ask me for it.”
There was another roar. At this moment the word was passed among the that the door was at last, and that he who had called for the had into the room. The turned, as this ran from mouth to mouth; and the people at the windows, those upon the back, their stations, and into the street, joined the that now pell-mell to the spot they had left: each man and with his neighbor, and all with to near the door, and look upon the as the officers him out. The and of those who were pressed almost to suffocation, or and under in the confusion, were dreadful; the narrow were up; and at this time, the of some to the space in of the house, and the of others to themselves from the mass, the attention was from the murderer, although the for his was, if possible, increased.
The man had down, by the of the crowd, and the of escape; but this with no less than it had occurred, he upon his feet, to make one last for his life by into the ditch, and, at the of being stifled, to away in the and confusion.
Roused into new and energy, and by the noise the house which that an entrance had been effected, he set his against the of chimneys, one end of the rope and it, and with the other a by the of his hands and teeth almost in a second. He let himself by the to a less of the ground than his own height, and had his knife in his hand to cut it then and drop.
At the very when he the over his previous to it his arm-pits, and when the old before-mentioned (who had so tight to the of the as to the of the crowd, and his position) those about him that the man was about to himself down—at that very the murderer, looking him on the roof, his arms above his head, and a of terror.
“The again!” he in an screech.
Staggering as if by lightning, he his and over the parapet. The was on his neck. It ran up with his weight, tight as a bow-string, and as the it speeds. He for five-and-thirty feet. There was a jerk, a of the limbs; and there he hung, with the open knife in his hand.
The old with the shock, but it bravely. The against the wall; and the boy, the which his view, called to the people to come and take him out, for God’s sake.
A dog, which had till now, ran and on the with a howl, and himself for a spring, jumped for the man’s shoulders. Missing his aim, he into the ditch, over as he went; and his against a stone, out his brains.
