Oliver Twist
unpleasant use of it: tossing it into the air with great disdain, and
running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing those
feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he
started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right
gallantly.
The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river, and the
marshy ground about; and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was
piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken;
for the driver had grown sleepy; and Sikes was in no mood to lead him
into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together, in a corner of the
cart; bewildered with alarm and apprehension; and figuring strange
objects in the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as
if in some fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.
As they passed Sunbury Church, the clock struck seven. There was a
light in the ferry-house window opposite: which streamed across the
road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves
beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off; and
the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed
like quiet music for the repose of the dead.
Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road.
Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, took
Oliver by the hand, and they once again walked on.
They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected;
but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes
and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights
of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw
that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the
foot of a bridge.
Sikes kept straight on, until they were close upon the bridge; then
turned suddenly down a bank upon the left.
“The water!” thought Oliver, turning sick with fear. “He has brought me
to this lonely place to murder me!”
He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle for
his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary house:
all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the
dilapidated entrance; and one story above; but no light was visible.
The house was dark, dismantled: and, to all appearance, uninhabited.
Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low
porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they
passed in together.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE BURGLARY
“Hallo!” cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the
passage.
“Don’t make such a row,” said Sikes, bolting the door. “Show a glim,
Toby.”
“Aha! my pal!” cried the same voice. “A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the
gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.”
The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the
person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers: for the noise of a
wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct
muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.
“Do you hear?” cried the same voice. “There’s Bill Sikes in the passage
with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as if you
took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger. Are you any
fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you
thoroughly?”
A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the
room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on
the right hand; first, a feeble candle: and next, the form of the same
individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the
infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at
the public-house on Saffron Hill.
“Bister Sikes!” exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; “cub
id, sir; cub id.”
“Here! you get on first,” said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him.
“Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.”
Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him;
and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken
chairs, a table, and a very old couch: on which, with his legs much
higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long
clay pipe. He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with
large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring,
shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches. Mr. Crackit (for he it was)
had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face; but
what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew
curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,
ornamented with large common rings. He was a trifle above the middle
size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by
no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he
contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.
“Bill, my boy!” said this figure, turning his head towards the door,
“I’m glad to see you. I was almost afraid you’d given it up: in which
case I should have made a personal wentur. Hallo!”
Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes
rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting
posture, and demanded who that was.
“The boy. Only the boy!” replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the
fire.
“Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads,” exclaimed Barney, with a grin.
“Fagin’s, eh!” exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver. “Wot an inwalable boy
that’ll make, for the old ladies’ pockets in chapels! His mug is a
fortin’ to him.”
“There—there’s enough of that,” interposed Sikes, impatiently; and
stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his
ear: at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with a
long stare of astonishment.
“Now,” said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, “if you’ll give us something
to eat and drink while we’re waiting, you’ll put some heart in us; or
in me, at all events. Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest yourself;
for you’ll have to go out with us again tonight, though not very far
off.”
Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool
to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarcely knowing
where he was, or what was passing around him.
“Here,” said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and
a bottle upon the table, “Success to the crack!” He rose to honour the
toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner, advanced
to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its contents.
Mr. Sikes did the same.
“A drain for the boy,” said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. “Down with
it, innocence.”
“Indeed,” said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man’s face;
“indeed, I—”
“Down with it!” echoed Toby. “Do you think I don’t know what’s good for
you? Tell him to drink it, Bill.”
“He had better!” said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. “Burn my
body, if he isn’t more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers. Drink
it, you perwerse imp; drink it!”
Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily
swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a
violent fit of coughing: which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and
even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.
This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat
nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the
two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver retained
his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched himself
on the floor: close outside the fender.
They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but
Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell
into a heavy doze: imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes,
or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other
of the scenes of the past day: when he was roused by Toby Crackit
jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.
In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively
engaged in busy preparation. Sikes and his companion enveloped their
necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats;
Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he
hastily crammed into the pockets.
“Barkers for me, Barney,” said Toby Crackit.
“Here they are,” replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. “You
loaded them yourself.”
“All right!” replied Toby, stowing them away. “The persuaders?”
“I’ve got ’em,” replied Sikes.
“Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies—nothing forgotten?” inquired Toby:
fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.
“All right,” rejoined his companion. “Bring them bits of timber,
Barney. That’s the time of day.”
With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney’s hands, who,
having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on
Oliver’s cape.
“Now then!” said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver: who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the
air, and the drink which had been forced upon him: put his hand
mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.
“Take his other hand, Toby,” said Sikes. “Look out, Barney.”
The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet.
The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having
made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.
It was now intensely dark. The fog was much heavier than it had been in
the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that,
although no rain fell, Oliver’s hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes
after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture
that was floating about. They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards
the lights which he had seen before. They were at no great distance
off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.
“Slap through the town,” whispered Sikes; “there’ll be nobody in the
way, tonight, to see us.”
Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little
town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted. A dim light shone at
intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs
occasionally broke the silence of the night. But there was nobody
abroad. They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.
Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After
walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house
surrounded by a wall: to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely
pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.
“The boy next,” said Toby. “Hoist him up; I’ll catch hold of him.”
Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the
arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass
on the other side. Sikes followed directly. And they stole cautiously
towards the house.
And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and
terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the
objects of the expedition. He clasped his hands together, and
involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror. A mist came
before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs
failed him; and he sank upon his knees.
“Get up!” murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol
from his pocket; “Get up, or I’ll strew your brains upon the grass.”
“Oh! for God’s sake let me go!” cried Oliver; “let me run away and die
in the fields. I will never come near London; never, never! Oh! pray
have mercy on me, and do not make me steal. For the love of all the
bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!”