Oliver Twist
The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had
cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his
hand upon the boy’s mouth, and dragged him to the house.
“Hush!” cried the man; “it won’t answer here. Say another word, and
I’ll do your business myself with a crack on the head. That makes no
noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel. Here, Bill, wrench
the shutter open. He’s game enough now, I’ll engage. I’ve seen older
hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold
night.”
Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin’s head for sending
Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little
noise. After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to
which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.
It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the
ground, at the back of the house: which belonged to a scullery, or
small brewing-place, at the end of the passage. The aperture was so
small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to
defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of
Oliver’s size, nevertheless. A very brief exercise of Mr. Sikes’s art,
sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood
wide open also.
“Now listen, you young limb,” whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern
from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver’s face; “I’m a
going to put you through there. Take this light; go softly up the steps
straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street door;
unfasten it, and let us in.”
“There’s a bolt at the top, you won’t be able to reach,” interposed
Toby. “Stand upon one of the hall chairs. There are three there, Bill,
with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on ’em: which is the
old lady’s arms.”
“Keep quiet, can’t you?” replied Sikes, with a threatening look. “The
room-door is open, is it?”
“Wide,” replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. “The game of
that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog,
who’s got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels
wakeful. Ha! ha! Barney ’ticed him away tonight. So neat!”
Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed
without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get
to work. Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it
on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against
the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to
make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting
upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first;
and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the
floor inside.
“Take this lantern,” said Sikes, looking into the room. “You see the
stairs afore you?”
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, “Yes.” Sikes, pointing to the
street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take notice
that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he would
fall dead that instant.
“It’s done in a minute,” said Sikes, in the same low whisper. “Directly
I leave go of you, do your work. Hark!”
“What’s that?” whispered the other man.
They listened intently.
“Nothing,” said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver. “Now!”
In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly
resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one
effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family. Filled
with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.
“Come back!” suddenly cried Sikes aloud. “Back! back!”
Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and
by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew
not whether to advance or fly.
The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two terrified
half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—a
flash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash somewhere, but where he knew
not,—and he staggered back.
Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him
by the collar before the smoke had cleared away. He fired his own
pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy
up.
“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes, as he drew him through the
window. “Give me a shawl here. They’ve hit him. Quick! How the boy
bleeds!”
Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of
fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried
over uneven ground at a rapid pace. And then, the noises grew confused
in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy’s heart;
and he saw or heard no more.
CHAPTER XXIII.
WHICH CONTAINS THE SUBSTANCE OF A PLEASANT CONVERSATION BETWEEN MR.
BUMBLE AND A LADY; AND SHOWS THAT EVEN A BEADLE MAY BE SUSCEPTIBLE ON
SOME POINTS
The night was bitter cold. The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a
hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways
and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad: which,
as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it
savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,
scattered it in air. Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night for
the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God
they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him
down and die. Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare
streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,
can hardly open them in a more bitter world.
Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the
matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already
introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a
cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree
of complacency, at a small round table: on which stood a tray of
corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most
grateful meal that matrons enjoy. In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to
solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the
fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a
small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently
increased,—so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.
“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking
reflectively at the fire; “I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to
be grateful for! A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental
blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver
spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin
tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds! The
black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.
Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s
hand.
“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on
the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups! What
use is it of, to anybody! Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except
to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more
resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate. The small
teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad recollections
of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years);
and she was overpowered.
“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall
never get another—like him.”
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is
uncertain. It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it
as she spoke; and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first
cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old
women dying, I suppose. They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand
there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”
“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr.
Bumble?”
“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping
outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and
who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a
bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any
impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors.
Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold
himself, shut it without permission.
“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather
this, ma’am. We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a
matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very
blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”
“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron,
sipping her tea.
“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that,
in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and
a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am? Is he
grateful? Not a copper farthing’s worth of it! What does he do, ma’am,
but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he
says! Coals! What would he do with coals? Toast his cheese with ’em and
then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am; give
’em a apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another,
the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible
simile; and the beadle went on.
“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to.
The day afore yesterday, a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am,
and I may mention it to you—a man, with hardly a rag upon his back
(here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer’s door
when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be
relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company
very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a
pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s the
use of _this_ to me? You might as well give me a pair of iron
spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again,
‘you won’t get anything else here.’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’
says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”
“Ha! ha! That was very good! So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?”
interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”
“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he _did_ die in
the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”
“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron
emphatically. “But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing,
any way, Mr. Bumble? You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to
know. Come.”
“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious
of superior information, “out-of-door relief, properly managed:
properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard. The great
principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what
they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”
“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the
great principle; and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases
that get into them owdacious newspapers, you’ll always observe that