Oliver Twist
“I can’t manage any more,” said Noah. “I’m very sorry. Come here,
Charlotte, and I’ll kiss yer.”
“What!” said Mr. Bumble, bursting into the room. “Say that again, sir.”
Charlotte uttered a scream, and hid her face in her apron. Mr.
Claypole, without making any further change in his position than
suffering his legs to reach the ground, gazed at the beadle in drunken
terror.
“Say it again, you wile, owdacious fellow!” said Mr. Bumble. “How dare
you mention such a thing, sir? And how dare you encourage him, you
insolent minx? Kiss her!” exclaimed Mr. Bumble, in strong indignation.
“Faugh!”
“I didn’t mean to do it!” said Noah, blubbering. “She’s always
a-kissing of me, whether I like it, or not.”
“Oh, Noah,” cried Charlotte, reproachfully.
“Yer are; yer know yer are!” retorted Noah. “She’s always a-doin’ of
it, Mr. Bumble, sir; she chucks me under the chin, please, sir; and
makes all manner of love!”
“Silence!” cried Mr. Bumble, sternly. “Take yourself downstairs, ma’am.
Noah, you shut up the shop; say another word till your master comes
home, at your peril; and, when he does come home, tell him that Mr.
Bumble said he was to send a old woman’s shell after breakfast
tomorrow morning. Do you hear sir? Kissing!” cried Mr. Bumble, holding
up his hands. “The sin and wickedness of the lower orders in this
porochial district is frightful! If Parliament don’t take their
abominable courses under consideration, this country’s ruined, and the
character of the peasantry gone for ever!” With these words, the beadle
strode, with a lofty and gloomy air, from the undertaker’s premises.
And now that we have accompanied him so far on his road home, and have
made all necessary preparations for the old woman’s funeral, let us set
on foot a few inquires after young Oliver Twist, and ascertain whether
he be still lying in the ditch where Toby Crackit left him.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LOOKS AFTER OLIVER, AND PROCEEDS WITH HIS ADVENTURES
“Wolves tear your throats!” muttered Sikes, grinding his teeth. “I wish
I was among some of you; you’d howl the hoarser for it.”
As Sikes growled forth this imprecation, with the most desperate
ferocity that his desperate nature was capable of, he rested the body
of the wounded boy across his bended knee; and turned his head, for an
instant, to look back at his pursuers.
There was little to be made out, in the mist and darkness; but the loud
shouting of men vibrated through the air, and the barking of the
neighbouring dogs, roused by the sound of the alarm bell, resounded in
every direction.
“Stop, you white-livered hound!” cried the robber, shouting after Toby
Crackit, who, making the best use of his long legs, was already ahead.
“Stop!”
The repetition of the word, brought Toby to a dead stand-still. For he
was not quite satisfied that he was beyond the range of pistol-shot;
and Sikes was in no mood to be played with.
“Bear a hand with the boy,” cried Sikes, beckoning furiously to his
confederate. “Come back!”
Toby made a show of returning; but ventured, in a low voice, broken for
want of breath, to intimate considerable reluctance as he came slowly
along.
“Quicker!” cried Sikes, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet, and
drawing a pistol from his pocket. “Don’t play booty with me.”
At this moment the noise grew louder. Sikes, again looking round, could
discern that the men who had given chase were already climbing the gate
of the field in which he stood; and that a couple of dogs were some
paces in advance of them.
“It’s all up, Bill!” cried Toby; “drop the kid, and show ’em your
heels.” With this parting advice, Mr. Crackit, preferring the chance of
being shot by his friend, to the certainty of being taken by his
enemies, fairly turned tail, and darted off at full speed. Sikes
clenched his teeth; took one look around; threw over the prostrate form
of Oliver, the cape in which he had been hurriedly muffled; ran along
the front of the hedge, as if to distract the attention of those
behind, from the spot where the boy lay; paused, for a second, before
another hedge which met it at right angles; and whirling his pistol
high into the air, cleared it at a bound, and was gone.
“Ho, ho, there!” cried a tremulous voice in the rear. “Pincher!
Neptune! Come here, come here!”
The dogs, who, in common with their masters, seemed to have no
particular relish for the sport in which they were engaged, readily
answered to the command. Three men, who had by this time advanced some
distance into the field, stopped to take counsel together.
“My advice, or, leastways, I should say, my _orders_, is,” said the
fattest man of the party, “that we ’mediately go home again.”
“I am agreeable to anything which is agreeable to Mr. Giles,” said a
shorter man; who was by no means of a slim figure, and who was very
pale in the face, and very polite: as frightened men frequently are.
“I shouldn’t wish to appear ill-mannered, gentlemen,” said the third,
who had called the dogs back, “Mr. Giles ought to know.”
“Certainly,” replied the shorter man; “and whatever Mr. Giles says, it
isn’t our place to contradict him. No, no, I know my sitiwation! Thank
my stars, I know my sitiwation.” To tell the truth, the little man
_did_ seem to know his situation, and to know perfectly well that it
was by no means a desirable one; for his teeth chattered in his head as
he spoke.
“You are afraid, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
“I an’t,” said Brittles.
“You are,” said Giles.
“You’re a falsehood, Mr. Giles,” said Brittles.
“You’re a lie, Brittles,” said Mr. Giles.
Now, these four retorts arose from Mr. Giles’s taunt; and Mr. Giles’s
taunt had arisen from his indignation at having the responsibility of
going home again, imposed upon himself under cover of a compliment. The
third man brought the dispute to a close, most philosophically.
“I’ll tell you what it is, gentlemen,” said he, “we’re all afraid.”
“Speak for yourself, sir,” said Mr. Giles, who was the palest of the
party.
“So I do,” replied the man. “It’s natural and proper to be afraid,
under such circumstances. I am.”
“So am I,” said Brittles; “only there’s no call to tell a man he is, so
bounceably.”
These frank admissions softened Mr. Giles, who at once owned that _he_
was afraid; upon which, they all three faced about, and ran back again
with the completest unanimity, until Mr. Giles (who had the shortest
wind of the party, as was encumbered with a pitchfork) most handsomely
insisted on stopping, to make an apology for his hastiness of speech.
“But it’s wonderful,” said Mr. Giles, when he had explained, “what a
man will do, when his blood is up. I should have committed murder—I
know I should—if we’d caught one of them rascals.”
As the other two were impressed with a similar presentiment; and as
their blood, like his, had all gone down again; some speculation ensued
upon the cause of this sudden change in their temperament.
“I know what it was,” said Mr. Giles; “it was the gate.”
“I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” exclaimed Brittles, catching at the
idea.
“You may depend upon it,” said Giles, “that that gate stopped the flow
of the excitement. I felt all mine suddenly going away, as I was
climbing over it.”
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had been visited with the
same unpleasant sensation at that precise moment. It was quite obvious,
therefore, that it was the gate; especially as there was no doubt
regarding the time at which the change had taken place, because all
three remembered that they had come in sight of the robbers at the
instant of its occurance.
This dialogue was held between the two men who had surprised the
burglars, and a travelling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse,
and who had been roused, together with his two mongrel curs, to join in
the pursuit. Mr. Giles acted in the double capacity of butler and
steward to the old lady of the mansion; Brittles was a lad of all-work:
who, having entered her service a mere child, was treated as a
promising young boy still, though he was something past thirty.
Encouraging each other with such converse as this; but, keeping very
close together, notwithstanding, and looking apprehensively round,
whenever a fresh gust rattled through the boughs; the three men hurried
back to a tree, behind which they had left their lantern, lest its
light should inform the thieves in what direction to fire. Catching up
the light, they made the best of their way home, at a good round trot;
and long after their dusky forms had ceased to be discernible, the
light might have been seen twinkling and dancing in the distance, like
some exhalation of the damp and gloomy atmosphere through which it was
swiftly borne.
The air grew colder, as day came slowly on; and the mist rolled along
the ground like a dense cloud of smoke. The grass was wet; the
pathways, and low places, were all mire and water; the damp breath of
an unwholesome wind went languidly by, with a hollow moaning. Still,
Oliver lay motionless and insensible on the spot where Sikes had left
him.
Morning drew on apace. The air became more sharp and piercing, as its
first dull hue—the death of night, rather than the birth of
day—glimmered faintly in the sky. The objects which had looked dim and
terrible in the darkness, grew more and more defined, and gradually
resolved into their familiar shapes. The rain came down, thick and
fast, and pattered noisily among the leafless bushes. But, Oliver felt
it not, as it beat against him; for he still lay stretched, helpless
and unconscious, on his bed of clay.
At length, a low cry of pain broke the stillness that prevailed; and
uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl,
hung heavy and useless at his side; the bandage was saturated with
blood. He was so weak, that he could scarcely raise himself into a
sitting posture; when he had done so, he looked feebly round for help,
and groaned with pain. Trembling in every joint, from cold and
exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from
head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long
plunged, Oliver: urged by a creeping sickness at his heart, which
seemed to warn him that if he lay there, he must surely die: got upon
his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to
and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his
head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew
not whither.
And now, hosts of bewildering and confused ideas came crowding on his
mind. He seemed to be still walking between Sikes and Crackit, who were
angrily disputing—for the very words they said, sounded in his ears;
and when he caught his own attention, as it were, by making some
violent effort to save himself from falling, he found that he was
talking to them. Then, he was alone with Sikes, plodding on as on the
previous day; and as shadowy people passed them, he felt the robber’s
grasp upon his wrist. Suddenly, he started back at the report of
firearms; there rose into the air, loud cries and shouts; lights
gleamed before his eyes; all was noise and tumult, as some unseen hand
bore him hurriedly away. Through all these rapid visions, there ran an
undefined, uneasy consciousness of pain, which wearied and tormented
him incessantly.
Thus he staggered on, creeping, almost mechanically, between the bars
of gates, or through hedge-gaps as they came in his way, until he
reached a road. Here the rain began to fall so heavily, that it roused
him.
He looked about, and saw that at no great distance there was a house,
which perhaps he could reach. Pitying his condition, they might have