CHAPTER VI

The Artful Dodger

By eight o'clock Oliver was nearly five miles away from the town, but he ran and hid behind the hedges by turns, till noon, lest he should be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of a milestone and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.

The milestone told him, in big letters, that he was now seventy miles from London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in his mind. London!—that great large place!—nobody—not even Mr. Bumble—could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the work-house, too, say that no lad of spirit would find it difficult to earn his living in London. As these thoughts passed through his mind, he jumped upon his feet and again walked forward.

Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but a crust of dry bread. When night came, he turned into a meadow, and creeping under a hay-rick he lay there and soon fell asleep.

He felt cold and stiff when he got up the next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to spend the only penny he had on a small loaf. Another night passed in the cold, damp air made him worse, and when he set forward on his journey next morning, he could hardly crawl along.

He continued in this manner for six days, begging at cottage-doors in the villages where it was not forbidden to beg. Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, he walked slowly and painfully into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the streets were empty; not a soul had awakened to the business of the day. The sun was rising in all its splendid beauty; but the light only served to show the boy his loneliness as he sat, with bleeding feet and covered with dust, upon a door-step.

By degrees the shutters were opened; the window-blinds were drawn up; and people began passing to and fro.

He had been sitting on the door-step for some time when he observed that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned and was now looking at him closely from the opposite side of the way. Presently the boy crossed over and walking close up to Oliver said:

"Hullo! What's the trouble?"

The boy who addressed Oliver in this manner was about his own age, but one of the strangest looking boys Oliver had ever seen. He was a dirty little boy, but he had about him all the manners of a man. He was short for his age, with little sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, halfway up the arms, to get his hands out of the sleeves, apparently with the purpose of thrusting them into his trouser-pockets, for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as bold and boastful a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less.

"Hullo, my boy! what's the trouble?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.

"I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver, the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days."

"Walking for seven days!" said the young gentleman. "You want some food, and you shall have it. I am a poor boy myself, but I have a shilling and I'll pay. Get up and come with me."

Helping Oliver to rise, this young man took him to a neighbouring shop, where he bought him some ham and a big loaf of bread. Then he took him to a small public-house where a pot of beer was brought to him, and he made a long and hearty meal.

"Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length finished his meal.

"Yes."

"Got any lodgings?"

"No."

"Money?"

"No."

The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as the big coat sleeves would let them go.

"Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver.

"Yes, I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some place to sleep in tonight, don't you?"

"I do indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I left the country."

"Don't cry," said the young gentleman. "I've got to be in London tonight; and I know a respectable old gentleman who lives there, and he'll give you lodgings for nothing, if any gentleman he knows introduces you. And he knows me very well."

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted; especially as it was immediately followed up by the assurance that the old gentleman would provide Oliver with a comfortable job, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly conversation between the two boys, from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, but that among his intimate friends he was called "The Artful Dodger".

As Jack Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the outskirts. They passed through one of the ugliest and dirtiest parts of London until at last, they reached the bottom of a hill. Oliver was considering whether he hadn't better run away, but the Dodger, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house, and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind him.

He gave a whistle and the light of a candle gleamed on the wall at the end of the passage; and a man's face peeped out.

"There's two of you," said the man, shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the other one?"

"A new friend," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward. "Is Fagin upstairs?"

"Yes, he's sorting the handkerchiefs, 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. Jack Dawkins threw open the door of a back-room and drew Oliver after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a wooden table before the fire, upon which were a candle, stuck in a beer-bottle, two or three cups, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan on the fire some sausages were cooking; and standing over them was a very old Jew, whose evil-looking face was partly hidden by his thick, red hair. He was dressed in a greasy woollen gown, with his throat bare, and he seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and a number of silk handkerchiefs which were hanging over a line. Several rough beds made of old sacks were laid 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 crowded round the Dodger as he whispered a few words to the Jew, and then turned round and looked at Oliver. So did the Jew himself.

"This is him, Fagin," said the Dodger; "my friend, Oliver Twist."

The Jew smiled, and making a low bow to Oliver, took him by the hand and hoped he should have the honour of his friendship. Upon this the young gentlemen with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard especially the one in which he held his little bundle.

"We are very glad to see you, Oliver," said the Jew. "Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a chair near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you're looking at the handkerchiefs, eh, my dear? There are a good many of them, aren't there? We've just sorted them out, ready for the wash; that's all, Oliver; that's all. Ha! ha! ha!"

The latter part of his speech was met by a loud shout from all the pupils of the merry old gentleman, and they all went to supper.