Oliver did as the old lady bade him; and, although she lamented grievously, meanwhile,that there was not even time to crimp the little frill that bordered his shirt-collar;he looked so delicate and handsome, despite that important personal advantage,that she went so far as to say: looking at him with great complacency from head to foot,that she really didn’t think it would have been possible, on the longest notice,to have made much difference in him for the better.
Thus encouraged, Oliver tapped at the study door. On Mr. Brownlow calling to him to come in,he found himself in a little back room, quite full of books, with a window,looking into some pleasant little gardens. There was a table drawn up before the window,at which Mr. Brownlow was seated reading. When he saw Oliver, he pushed the book away from him,and told him to come near the table, and sit down. Oliver complied;marvelling where the people could be found to read such a great number of books as seemed to be written to make the world wiser.Which is still a marvel to more experienced people than Oliver Twist, every day of their lives.
“There are a good many books, are there not, my boy?” said Mr. Brownlow, observing the curiosity with which Oliver surveyed the shelves that reached from the floor to the ceiling.
“A great number, sir,” replied Oliver. “I never saw so many.”
“You shall read them, if you behave well,” said the old gentleman kindly; “and you will like that,better than looking at the outsides,—that is, some cases;because there are books of which the backs and covers are by far the best parts.”
“I suppose they are those heavy ones, sir,” said Oliver, pointing to some large quartos,with a good deal of gilding about the binding.
“Not always those,” said the old gentleman, patting Oliver on the head, and smiling as he did so;“there are other equally heavy ones, though of a much smaller size.How should you like to grow up a clever man, and write books, eh?”
“I think I would rather read them, sir,” replied Oliver.
“What!wouldn’t you like to be a book-writer?” said the old gentleman.
Oliver considered a little while; and at last said,he should think it would be a much better thing to be a book-seller;upon which the old gentleman laughed heartily, and declared he had said a very good thing.Which Oliver felt glad to have done, though he by no means knew what it was.
“Well, well,” said the old gentleman, composing his features. “Don’t be afraid!We won’t make an author of you, while there’s an honest trade to be learnt, or brick-making to turn to.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver. At the earnest manner of his reply, the old gentleman laughed again;and said something about a curious instinct, which Oliver, not understanding, paid no very great attention to.
“Now,” said Mr. Brownlow, speaking if possible in a kinder,but at the same time in a much more serious manner, than Oliver had ever known him assume yet,“I want you to pay great attention, my boy, to what I am going to say.I shall talk to you without any reserve; because I am sure you are well able to understand me, as many older persons would be.”
“Oh, don’t tell you are going to send me away, sir, pray!” exclaimed Oliver, alarmed at the serious tone of the old gentleman’s commencement!“Don’t turn me out of doors to wander in the streets again. Let me stay here, and be a servant.Don’t send me back to the wretched place I came from. Have mercy upon a poor boy, sir!”
“My dear child,” said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver’s sudden appeal;“you need not be afraid of my deserting you, unless you give me cause.”
“I never, never will, sir,” interposed Oliver.
“I hope not,” rejoined the old gentleman. “I do not think you ever will. I have been deceived,before, in the objects whom I have endeavoured to benefit;but I feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless;and I am more interested in your behalf than I can well account for, even to myself.The persons on whom I have bestowed my dearest love, lie deep in their graves; but,although the happiness and delight of my life lie buried there too,I have not made a coffin of my heart, and sealed it up, forever, on my best affections.Deep affliction has but strengthened and refined them.”
As the old gentleman said this in a low voice: more to himself than to his companion:and as he remained silent for a short time afterwards: Oliver sat quite still.
“Well, well!” said the old gentleman at length, in a more cheerful tone, “I only say this,because you have a young heart; and knowing that I have suffered great pain and sorrow,you will be more careful, perhaps, not to wound me again. You say you are an orphan,without a friend in the world; all the inquiries I have been able to make, confirm the statement.Let me hear your story; where you come from; who brought you up;and how you got into the company in which I found you. Speak the truth,and you shall not be friendless while I live.”
Oliver’s sobs checked his utterance for some minutes;when he was on the point of beginning to relate how he had been brought up at the farm,and carried to the workhouse by Mr. Bumble,a peculiarly impatient little double-knock was heard at the street-door: and the servant,running upstairs, announced Mr. Grimwig.
“Is he coming up?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, sir,” replied the servant. “He asked if there were any muffins in the house; and,when I told him yes, he said he had come to tea.”
Mr. Brownlow smiled; and, turning to Oliver, said that Mr. Grimwig was an old friend of his,and he must not mind his being a little rough in his manners;for he was a worthy creature at bottom, as he had reason to know.
“Shall I go downstairs, sir?” inquired Oliver.
“No,” replied Mr. Brownlow, “I would rather you remained here.”
At this moment, there walked into the room: supporting himself by a thick stick:a stout old gentleman, rather lame in one leg, who was dressed in a blue coat, striped waistcoat,nankeen breeches and gaiters, and a broad-brimmed white hat, with the sides turned up with green.A very small-plaited shirt frill stuck out from his waistcoat; and a very long steel watch-chain,with nothing but a key at the end, dangled loosely below it.The ends of his white neckerchief were twisted into a ball about the size of an orange;the variety of shapes into which his countenance was twisted, defy description.He had a manner of screwing his head on one side when he spoke;and of looking out of the corners of his eyes at the same time:which irresistibly reminded the beholder of a parrot. In this attitude, he fixed himself,the moment he made his appearance; and, holding out a small piece of orange-peel at arm’s length,exclaimed, in a growling, discontented voice,
“Look here!do you see this!Isn’t it a most wonderful and extraordinary thing that I can’t call at a man’s house but I find a piece of this poor surgeon’s friend on the staircase?I’ve been lamed with orange-peel once, and I know orange-peel will be my death,or I’ll be content to eat my own head, sir!”
This was the handsome offer with which Mr.Grimwig backed and confirmed nearly every assertion he made;and it was the more singular in his case, because, even admitting for the sake of argument,the possibility of scientific improvements being brought to that pass which will enable a gentleman to eat his own head in the event of his being so disposed,Mr. Grimwig’s head was such a particularly large one,that the most sanguine man alive could hardly entertain a hope of being able to get through it at a sitting—to put entirely out of the question, a very thick coating of powder.
“I’ll eat my head, sir,” repeated Mr. Grimwig, striking his stick upon the ground. “Hallo!what’s that!” looking at Oliver, and retreating a pace or two.
“This is young Oliver Twist, whom we were speaking about,” said Mr. Brownlow.
Oliver bowed.
“You don’t mean to say that’s the boy who had the fever, I hope?” said Mr. Grimwig, recoiling a little more. “Wait a minute!Don’t speak!Stop—” continued Mr. Grimwig, abruptly, losing all dread of the fever in his triumph at the discovery; “that’s the boy who had the orange!If that’s not the boy, sir, who had the orange, and threw this bit of peel upon the staircase, I’ll eat my head, and his too.”
“No, no, he has not had one,” said Mr. Brownlow, laughing. “Come!Put down your hat; and speak to my young friend.”
“I feel strongly on this subject, sir,” said the irritable old gentleman, drawing off his gloves.“There’s always more or less orange-peel on the pavement in our street;and I _know_ it’s put there by the surgeon’s boy at the corner.A young woman stumbled over a bit last night, and fell against my garden-railings;directly she got up I saw her look towards his infernal red lamp with the pantomime-light.‘Don’t go to him,’ I called out of the window, ‘he’s an assassin!A man-trap!’ So he is. If he is not—” Here the irascible old gentleman gave a great knock on the ground with his stick;which was always understood, by his friends, to imply the customary offer,whenever it was not expressed in words. Then, still keeping his stick in his hand, he sat down;and, opening a double eye-glass, which he wore attached to a broad black riband,took a view of Oliver: who, seeing that he was the object of inspection, coloured, and bowed again.
“That’s the boy, is it?” said Mr. Grimwig, at length.
“That’s the boy,” replied Mr. Brownlow.
“How are you, boy?” said Mr. Grimwig.
“A great deal better, thank you, sir,” replied Oliver.
Mr. Brownlow, seeming to apprehend that his singular friend was about to say something disagreeable,asked Oliver to step downstairs and tell Mrs. Bedwin they were ready for tea; which,as he did not half like the visitor’s manner, he was very happy to do.
“He is a nice-looking boy, is he not?” inquired Mr. Brownlow.
“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Grimwig, pettishly.
“Don’t know?”
“No. I don’t know. I never see any difference in boys. I only knew two sort of boys. Mealy boys, and beef-faced boys.”
“And which is Oliver?”
“Mealy. I know a friend who has a beef-faced boy; a fine boy, they call him; with a round head,and red cheeks, and glaring eyes; a horrid boy;with a body and limbs that appear to be swelling out of the seams of his blue clothes;with the voice of a pilot, and the appetite of a wolf. I know him!The wretch!”
“Come,” said Mr. Brownlow, “these are not the characteristics of young Oliver Twist; so he needn’t excite your wrath.”
“They are not,” replied Mr. Grimwig. “He may have worse.”
Here, Mr. Brownlow coughed impatiently; which appeared to afford Mr. Grimwig the most exquisite delight.
“He may have worse, I say,” repeated Mr. Grimwig. “Where does he come from!Who is he?What is he?He has had a fever. What of that?Fevers are not peculiar to good people; are they?Bad people have fevers sometimes; haven’t they, eh?I knew a man who was hung in Jamaica for murdering his master. He had had a fever six times;he wasn’t recommended to mercy on that account. Pooh!nonsense!”
Now, the fact was, that in the inmost recesses of his own heart, Mr.Grimwig was strongly disposed to admit that Oliver’s appearance and manner were unusually prepossessing;but he had a strong appetite for contradiction,sharpened on this occasion by the finding of the orange-peel; and,inwardly determining that no man should dictate to him whether a boy was well-looking or not,he had resolved, from the first, to oppose his friend. When Mr.Brownlow admitted that on no one point of inquiry could he yet return a satisfactory answer;and that he had postponed any investigation into Oliver’s previous history until he thought the boy was strong enough to hear it;Mr. Grimwig chuckled maliciously. And he demanded, with a sneer,whether the housekeeper was in the habit of counting the plate at night;because if she didn’t find a table-spoon or two missing some sunshiny morning, why, he would be content to—and so forth.
All this, Mr. Brownlow, although himself somewhat of an impetuous gentleman:knowing his friend’s peculiarities, bore with great good humour; as Mr. Grimwig, at tea,was graciously pleased to express his entire approval of the muffins,matters went on very smoothly; and Oliver, who made one of the party,began to feel more at his ease than he had yet done in the fierce old gentleman’s presence.
“And when are you going to hear a full, true,and particular account of the life and adventures of Oliver Twist?” asked Grimwig of Mr. Brownlow, at the conclusion of the meal; looking sideways at Oliver, as he resumed his subject.
“Tomorrow morning,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I would rather he was alone with me at the time.Come up to me tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, my dear.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Oliver. He answered with some hesitation, because he was confused by Mr. Grimwig’s looking so hard at him.
“I’ll tell you what,” whispered that gentleman to Mr. Brownlow;“he won’t come up to you tomorrow morning. I saw him hesitate. He is deceiving you, my good friend. ”
“I’ll swear he is not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, warmly.
“If he is not,” said Mr. Grimwig, “I’ll—” and down went the stick.
“I’ll answer for that boy’s truth with my life!” said Mr. Brownlow, knocking the table.
“And I for his falsehood with my head!” rejoined Mr. Grimwig, knocking the table also.
“We shall see,” said Mr. Brownlow, checking his rising anger.
“We will,” replied Mr. Grimwig, with a provoking smile; “we will.”
As fate would have it, Mrs. Bedwin chanced to bring in, at this moment, a small parcel of books,which Mr. Brownlow had that morning purchased of the identical bookstall-keeper,who has already figured in this history; having laid them on the table, she prepared to leave the room.
“Stop the boy, Mrs. Bedwin!” said Mr. Brownlow; “there is something to go back.”
“He has gone, sir,” replied Mrs. Bedwin.
“Call after him,” said Mr. Brownlow; “it’s particular. He is a poor man, and they are not paid for.There are some books to be taken back, too.”
The street-door was opened. Oliver ran one way; and the girl ran another; and Mrs.Bedwin stood on the step and screamed for the boy; but there was no boy in sight.Oliver and the girl returned, in a breathless state, to report that there were no tidings of him.
“Dear me, I am very sorry for that,” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow;“I particularly wished those books to be returned tonight.”
“Send Oliver with them,” said Mr. Grimwig, with an ironical smile;“he will be sure to deliver them safely, you know.”
“Yes; do let me take them, if you please, sir,” said Oliver. “I’ll run all the way, sir.”
The old gentleman was just going to say that Oliver should not go out on any account;when a most malicious cough from Mr. Grimwig determined him that he should; and that,by his prompt discharge of the commission, he should prove to him the injustice of his suspicions: on this head at least: at once.
“You _shall_ go, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “The books are on a chair by my table. Fetch them down.”
Oliver, delighted to be of use, brought down the books under his arm in a great bustle; and waited,cap in hand, to hear what message he was to take.
“You are to say,” said Mr. Brownlow, glancing steadily at Grimwig;“you are to say that you have brought those books back;and that you have come to pay the four pound ten I owe him. This is a five-pound note,so you will have to bring me back, ten shillings change.”
“I won’t be ten minutes, sir,” said Oliver, eagerly.Having buttoned up the bank-note in his jacket pocket,and placed the books carefully under his arm, he made a respectful bow, and left the room. Mrs.Bedwin followed him to the street-door, giving him many directions about the nearest way,and the name of the bookseller, and the name of the street:all of which Oliver said he clearly understood.Having superadded many injunctions to be sure and not take cold,the old lady at length permitted him to depart.
“Bless his sweet face!” said the old lady, looking after him. “I can’t bear, somehow, to let him go out of my sight.”
At this moment, Oliver looked gaily round, and nodded before he turned the corner.The old lady smilingly returned his salutation, and, closing the door, went back to her own room.
“Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes, at the longest,” said Mr. Brownlow,pulling out his watch, and placing it on the table. “It will be dark by that time.”
“Oh!you really expect him to come back, do you?” inquired Mr. Grimwig.
“Don’t you?” asked Mr. Brownlow, smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s breast, at the moment;and it was rendered stronger by his friend’s confident smile.
“No,” he said, smiting the table with his fist, “I do not.The boy has a new suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books under his arm,and a five-pound note in his pocket. He’ll join his old friends the thieves, and laugh at you.If ever that boy returns to this house, sir, I’ll eat my head.”
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table; and there the two friends sat,in silent expectation, with the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance we attach to our own judgments,and the pride with which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions, that, although Mr.Grimwig was not by any means a bad-hearted man,and though he would have been unfeignedly sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived,he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate were scarcely discernible;but there the two old gentlemen continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between them.
CHAPTER XV. SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill;a dark and gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day in the winter-time;and where no ray of sun ever shone in the summer: there sat,brooding over a little pewter measure and a small glass,strongly impregnated with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat, drab shorts,half-boots and stockings, whom even by that dim light no experienced agent of the police would have hesitated to recognise as Mr.William Sikes. At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who occupied himself, alternately,in winking at his master with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large,fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared to be the result of some recent conflict.
“Keep quiet, you warmint!Keep quiet!” said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence.Whether his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed by the dog’s winking,or whether his feelings were so wrought upon by his reflections that they required all the relief derivable from kicking an unoffending animal to allay them,is matter for argument and consideration. Whatever was the cause,the effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog simultaneously.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted upon them by their masters; but Mr.Sikes’s dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner, and labouring, perhaps,at this moment, under a powerful sense of injury,made no more ado but at once fixed his teeth in one of the half-boots.Having given in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form;just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled at his head.
“You would, would you?” said Sikes, seizing the poker in one hand,and deliberately opening with the other a large clasp-knife, which he drew from his pocket. “Come here, you born devil!Come here!D’ye hear?”
The dog no doubt heard; because Mr. Sikes spoke in the very harshest key of a very harsh voice; but,appearing to entertain some unaccountable objection to having his throat cut,he remained where he was, and growled more fiercely than before:at the same time grasping the end of the poker between his teeth, and biting at it like a wild beast.
This resistance only infuriated Mr. Sikes the more; who, dropping on his knees,began to assail the animal most furiously. The dog jumped from right to left,and from left to right; snapping, growling, and barking; the man thrust and swore,and struck and blasphemed; and the struggle was reaching a most critical point for one or other;when, the door suddenly opening, the dog darted out:leaving Bill Sikes with the poker and the clasp-knife in his hands.
There must always be two parties to a quarrel, says the old adage. Mr. Sikes,being disappointed of the dog’s participation,at once transferred his share in the quarrel to the new comer.
“What the devil do you come in between me and my dog for?” said Sikes, with a fierce gesture.
“I didn’t know, my dear, I didn’t know,” replied Fagin, humbly; for the Jew was the new comer.
“Didn’t know, you white-livered thief!” growled Sikes. “Couldn’t you hear the noise?”
“Not a sound of it, as I’m a living man, Bill,” replied the Jew.
“Oh no!You hear nothing, you don’t,” retorted Sikes with a fierce sneer. “Sneaking in and out, so as nobody hears how you come or go!I wish you had been the dog, Fagin, half a minute ago.”
“Why?” inquired the Jew with a forced smile.
“’Cause the government, as cares for the lives of such men as you,as haven’t half the pluck of curs, lets a man kill a dog how he likes,” replied Sikes,shutting up the knife with a very expressive look; “that’s why.”
The Jew rubbed his hands; and, sitting down at the table,affected to laugh at the pleasantry of his friend. He was obviously very ill at ease, however.
“Grin away,” said Sikes, replacing the poker, and surveying him with savage contempt; “grin away.You’ll never have the laugh at me, though, unless it’s behind 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 care of me.”
“Well, well, my dear,” said the Jew, “I know all that; we—we—have a mutual interest, Bill, —a mutual interest.”
“Humph,” said Sikes, as if he thought the interest lay rather more on the Jew’s side than on his. “Well, what have you got to say to me?”
“It’s all passed safe through the melting-pot,” replied Fagin, “and this is your share.It’s rather 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,” interposed the robber, impatiently. “Where is it?Hand over!”
“Yes, yes, Bill; give me time, give me time,” replied the Jew, soothingly. “Here it is!All safe!” As he spoke, he drew forth an old cotton handkerchief from his breast;and untying a large knot in one corner, produced a small brown-paper packet. Sikes,snatching it from him, hastily opened it; and proceeded to count the sovereigns it contained.
“This is all, is it?” inquired Sikes.
“All,” replied the Jew.
“You haven’t opened the parcel and swallowed one or two as you come along, have you?” inquired Sikes, suspiciously. “Don’t put on an injured look at the question;you’ve done it many a time. Jerk the tinkler.”
These words, in plain English, conveyed an injunction to ring the bell.It was answered by another Jew: younger than Fagin, but nearly as vile and repulsive in appearance.
Bill Sikes merely pointed to the empty measure. The Jew, perfectly understanding the hint,retired to fill it: previously exchanging a remarkable look with Fagin,who raised his eyes for an instant, as if in expectation of it, and shook his head in reply;so slightly that the action would have been almost imperceptible to an observant third person.It was lost upon Sikes, who was stooping at the moment to tie the boot-lace which the dog had torn.Possibly, if he had observed the brief interchange of signals,he might have thought that it boded no good to him.
“Is anybody here, Barney?” inquired Fagin; speaking, now that Sikes was looking on, without raising his eyes from the ground.
“Dot a shoul,” replied Barney; whose words: whether they came from the heart or not: made their way through the nose.
“Nobody?” inquired Fagin, in a tone of surprise:which perhaps might mean that Barney was at liberty to tell the truth.
“Dobody but Biss Dadsy,” replied Barney.
“Nancy!” exclaimed Sikes. “Where?Strike me blind, if I don’t honour that ’ere girl, for her native talents.”
“She’s bid havid a plate of boiled beef id the bar,” replied Barney.
“Send her here,” said Sikes, pouring out a glass of liquor. “Send her here.”
Barney looked timidly at Fagin, as if for permission; the Jew remaining silent,and not lifting his eyes from the ground, he retired; and presently returned, ushering in Nancy;who was decorated with the bonnet, apron, basket, and street-door key, complete.
“You are on the scent, are you, Nancy?” inquired Sikes, proffering the glass.
“Yes, I am, Bill,” replied the young lady, disposing of its contents; “and tired enough of it I am,too. The young brat’s been ill and confined to the crib; and—”
“Ah, Nancy, dear!” said Fagin, looking up.
Now, whether a peculiar contraction of the Jew’s red eye-brows,and a half closing of his deeply-set eyes,warned Miss Nancy that she was disposed to be too communicative,is not a matter of much importance. The fact is all we need care for here; and the fact is,that she suddenly checked herself, and with several gracious smiles upon Mr. Sikes,turned the conversation to other matters. In about ten minutes’ time, Mr.Fagin was seized with a fit of coughing; upon which Nancy pulled her shawl over her shoulders,and declared it was time to go. Mr. Sikes,finding that he was walking a short part of her way himself,expressed his intention of accompanying her; they went away together, followed,at a little distant, by the dog, who slunk out of a back-yard as soon as his master was out of sight.
The Jew thrust his head out of the room door when Sikes had left it;looked after him as he walked up the dark passage; shook his clenched fist; muttered a deep curse;and then, with a horrible grin, reseated himself at the table;where he was soon deeply absorbed in the interesting pages of the Hue-and-Cry.
Meanwhile, Oliver Twist, little dreaming that he was within so very short a distance of the merry old gentleman,was on his way to the book-stall. When he got into Clerkenwell,he accidently turned down a by-street which was not exactly in his way;but not discovering his mistake until he had got half-way down it,and knowing it must lead in the right direction, he did not think it worth while to turn back;and so marched on, as quickly as he could, with the books under his arm.
He was walking along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel;and how much he would give for only one look at poor little Dick, who, starved and beaten,might be weeping bitterly at that very moment;when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud. “Oh, my dear brother!” And he had hardly looked up, to see what the matter was,when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.
“Don’t,” cried 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 lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him;and who had a little basket and a street-door key in her hand.
“Oh my gracious!” said the young woman, “I have found him!Oh!Oliver!Oliver!Oh you naughty boy, to make me suffer such distress on your account!Come home, dear, come. Oh, I’ve found him. Thank gracious goodness heavins, I’ve found him!” With these incoherent exclamations, the young woman burst into another fit of crying,and got so dreadfully hysterical, that a couple of women who came up at the moment asked a butcher’s boy with a shiny head of hair anointed with suet,who was also looking on, whether he didn’t think he had better run for the doctor. To which,the butcher’s boy: who appeared of a lounging, not to say indolent disposition: replied, that he thought not.
“Oh, no, no, never mind,” said the young woman, grasping Oliver’s hand; “I’m better now. Come home directly, you cruel boy!Come!”
“Oh, ma’am,” replied the young woman, “he ran away, near a month ago, from his parents,who are hard-working and respectable people;and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters; and almost broke his mother’s heart.”
“Young wretch!” said one woman.
“Go home, do, you little brute,” said the other.
“I am not,” replied Oliver, greatly 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 hear him, how he braves it out!” cried the young woman.
“Why, it’s Nancy!” exclaimed Oliver; who now saw her face for the first time; and started back, in irrepressible astonishment.
“You see he knows me!” cried Nancy, appealing 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 break my heart!”
“What the devil’s this?” said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels; “young Oliver!Come home to your poor mother, you young dog!Come home directly.”
“I don’t belong to them. I don’t know them. Help!help!” cried Oliver, struggling in the man’s powerful grasp.
“Help!” repeated the man. “Yes; I’ll help you, you young rascal!What books are these?You’ve been a stealing ’em, have you?Give ’em here.” With these words, the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.
“That’s right!” cried a looker-on, from a garret-window. “That’s the only way of bringing him to his senses!”
“To be sure!” cried a sleepy-faced carpenter, casting an approving look at the garret-window.
“It’ll do him good!” said the two women.