“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.
CHAPTER IX. 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 wrapt in perfect unconsciousness.At such time, 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 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 appearances 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 poached 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:
“What a fine 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 curiousity;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.