Oliver Twist

by Charles Dickens

  The pace at which they went was such a very lazy, ill-looking saunter that Oliver soon began to think his companions were going to deceive the old gentleman by not going to work at all. The Dodger had a vicious propensity, too, of pulling the caps from the heads of small boys and tossing them down areas, while Charley Bates exhibited some very loose notions concerning the rights of property by pilfering divers apples and onions from the stalls at the kennel sides, and thrusting them into pockets which were so surprisingly capacious that they seemed to undermine his whole suit of clothes in every direction. These things looked so bad that Oliver was on the point of declaring his intention of seeking his way back in the best way he could, when his thoughts were suddenly directed into another channel by a very mysterious change of behaviour on the part of the Dodger.

  They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, which is yet called, by some strange perversion of terms, "The Green," when the Dodger made a sudden stop and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again, with the greatest caution and circumspection.

  "What's the matter?" demanded Oliver.

  "Hush!" replied the Dodger. "Do you see that old cove at the book-stall?"

  "The old gentleman over the way?" said Oliver. "Yes, I see him."

  "He'll do," said the Dodger.

  "A prime plant," observed Master Charley Bates.

  Oliver looked from one to the other, with the greatest surprise, but he was not permitted to make any inquiries; for the two boys walked stealthily across the road and slunk close behind the old gentleman towards whom his attention had been directed. Oliver walked a few paces after them and, not knowing whether to advance or retire, stood looking on in silent amazement.

  The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking personage, with a powdered head and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar, wore white trousers, and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. He had taken up a book from the stall and there he stood, reading away, as hard as if he were in his elbow-chair in his own study. It is very possible that he fancied himself there, indeed; for it was plain, from his abstraction, that he saw not the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys, nor, in short, anything but the book itself, which he was reading straight through, turning over the leaf when he got to the bottom of a page, beginning at the top line of the next one, and going regularly on, with the greatest interest and eagerness.

  What was Oliver's horror and alarm as he stood a few paces off, looking on with his eyelids as wide open as they would possibly go, to see the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman's pocket and draw from thence a handkerchief! To see him hand the same to Charley Bates, and finally to behold them, both, running away round the corner at full speed!

  In an instant the whole mystery of the handkerchiefs, and the watches, and the jewels, and the Jew, rushed upon the boy's mind. He stood, for a moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and, not knowing what he did, made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.

  This was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator; and, shouting "Stop thief!" with all his might, made off after him, book in hand

  But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they issued forth with great promptitude and, shouting "Stop thief!" too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.

  Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.

  "Stop thief! Stop thief!" There is a magic in the sound. The tradesman leaves his counter, and the carman his wagon; the butcher throws down his tray, the baker his basket, the milk-man his pail, the errand-boy his parcels, the schoolboy his marbles, the paviour his pickaxe, the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners, rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls; and streets, squares, and courts, re-echo with the sound.

  "Stop thief! Stop thief!" The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they fly, splashing through the mud and rattling along the pavements; up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob, a whole audience (desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot, and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh vigour to the cry, "Stop thief! Stop thief!"

  "Stop thief! Stop thief!" There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in-his looks, agony in his eyes, large drops of perspiration streaming down his face, strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with still louder shouts, and whoop and scream with joy. "Stop thief!" Ay, stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!

  Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him, each new-comer jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. "Stand aside!" "Give him a little air!" "Nonsense! he don't deserve it." "Where's the gentleman?" "Here he is, coming down the street." "Make room there for the gentleman!" "Is this the boy, sir!" "Yes."

  Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.

  "Yes," said the gentleman, "I am afraid it is the boy."

  "Afraid!" murmured the crowd. "That's a good 'un!"

  "Poor fellow!" said the gentleman, "he has hurt himself."

  "I did that, sir," said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; "and preciously I cut my knuckle agin' his mouth. I stopped him, sir."

  The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike, looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself, which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.

  "Come, get up," said the man, roughly.

  "It wasn't me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys," said Oliver, clasping his hands passionately, and looking round. "They are here somewhere."

  "Oh no, they ain't," said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to. "Come, get up!"

  "Don't hurt him," said the old gentleman, compassionately.

  "Oh no, I won't hurt him," replied the officer, tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof. "Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?"

  Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar, at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side; and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat, got a little ahead and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys sh
outed in triumph, and on they went.

  CHAPTER XI

  Treats of Mr. Fang the police magistrate, and furnishes

  a slight specimen of his mode of administering justice.

  THE OFFENCE HAD BEEN COMMITED WITHIN THE DISTRICT, AND indeed in the immediate neighbourhood of, a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or. three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the backway. It was a small paved yard into which they turned, and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face and a bunch of keys in his hand.

  "What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly.

  "A young fogle-hunter," replied the man who had Oliver in charge.

  "Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the keys.

  "Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I--I would rather not press the case."

  "Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!"

  This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched and, nothing being found upon him, locked up.

  The cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty, for it was Monday morning, and it had been tenanted by six drunken people who had been locked up elsewhere since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges--the word is worth noting--in dungeons, compared with which those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two.

  The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.

  "There is something in that boy's face," said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book, in a thoughtful manner; "something that touches and interests me. Can he be innocent? He looked like.--By the by," exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky. "Bless my soul! Where have I seen something like that look before?"

  After musing for some minutes, the old gentleman walked, with the same meditative face, into a back anteroom opening from the yard, and there, retiring into a comer, called up before his mind's eye a vast amphitheatre of faces over which a dusky curtain had hung for many years. "No," said the old gentleman, shaking his head, "it must be imagination."

  He wandered over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the shroud that had so long concealed them. There were the faces of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost strangers peering intrusively from the crowd, there were the faces of young and blooming girls that were now old women; there were faces that the grave had changed and closed upon, but which the mind, superior to its power, still dressed in their old freshness and beauty, calling back the lustre of the eyes, the brightness of the smile, the beaming of the soul through its mask of clay, and whispering of beauty beyond the tomb, changed but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to shed a soft and gentle glow upon the path to Heaven.

  But the old gentleman could recall no one countenance of which Oliver's features bore a trace. So he heaved a sigh over the recollections he had awakened, and being, happily for himself, an absent old gentleman, buried them again in the pages of the musty book.

  He was roused by a touch on the shoulder, and a request from the man with the keys to follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily, and was at once ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.

  The office was a front parlour, with a panelled wall. Mr. Fang sat behind a bar, at the upper end; and on one side the door was a sort of wooden pen in which poor little Oliver was already deposited, trembling very much at the awfulness of the scene.

  Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, growing on the back and sides of his head. His face was stem, and much flushed. If he were really not in the habit of drinking rather more than was exactly good for him, he might have brought an action against his countenance for libel, and have recovered heavy damages.

  The old gentleman bowed respectfully and, advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

  Now it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, advertising to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper, and he looked up with an angry scowl.

  "Who are you?" said Mr. Fang.

  The old gentleman pointed, with some surprise, to his card.

  "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper. "Who is this fellow?"

  "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable person, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.

  "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?"

  "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against the boy, your worship."

  His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.

  "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him!"

  "Before I am sworn, I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow, "and that is, that I really never, without actual experience, could have believed--"

  "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.

  "I will not, sir!" replied the old gentleman.

  "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent, impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!"

  "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

  "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him."

  Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to be sworn at once.

  "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?"

  "I was standing at a book-stall--" Mr. Brownlow began.

  "Hold your tongue, sir," said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?"

  The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the charge, how he had searched Oliver and found nothing on his person, and how that was all he knew about it.

  "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang.

  "None, your worship," replied the policeman.

  Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said in a towering passion,

  "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by--"

  By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailer coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon the flo
or, thus preventing the word from being heard--accidentally, of course.

  With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his, case, observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he saw him running away, and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

  "He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman in conclusion. "And I fear," he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, "I really fear that he is ill."

  "Oh! yes, I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come, none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?"

  Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale, and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

  "What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" demanded Mr. Fang. "Officer, what's his name?"

  This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question, and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more and add to the severity of his sentence, he hazarded a guess.

  "He says his name's Tom White, your worship," said this kind-hearted thief-taker.

  "Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?" said Fang. "Very well, very well. Where does he live?"

  "Where he can, your worship," replied the officer; again pretending to receive Oliver's answer.

  "Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang.

  "He says they died in his infancy, your worship," replied the officer: hazarding the usual reply.

  At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.

  "Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me."

  "I think he really is ill, your worship." remonstrated the of ficer.

  "I know better," said Mr. Fang.

  "Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; "he'll fall down."