Chapter 8
OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN
Oliver reached the stile at which the by-path terminated; and once more gained the high-road. It was eight o'clock now. Though he was nearly five miles away from the town, he ran, and hid behind the hedges, by turns, till noon: fearing that he might be pursued and overtaken. Then he sat down to rest by the side of the milestone, and began to think, for the first time, where he had better go and try to live.
The stone by which he was seated, bore, in large characters, an intimation that it was just seventy miles from that spot to London. The name awakened a new train of ideas in the boy's mind.
London!--that great place!--nobody--not even Mr. Bumble--could ever find him there! He had often heard the old men in the workhouse, too, say that no lad of spirit need want in London; and that there were ways of living in that vast city, which those who had been bred up in country parts had no idea of. It was the very place for a homeless boy, who must die in the streets unless some one helped him. As these things passed through his thoughts, he jumped upon his feet, and again walked forward.
He had diminished the distance between himself and London by full four miles more, before he recollected how much he must undergo ere he could hope to reach his place of destination. As this consideration forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse shirt, and two pairs of stockings, in his bundle. He had a penny too--a gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted himself more than ordinarily well--in his pocket. 'A clean shirt,' thought Oliver, 'is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a sixty-five miles' walk in winter time.' But Oliver's thoughts, like those of most other people, although they were extremely ready and active to point out his difficulties, were wholly at a loss to suggest any feasible mode of surmounting them; so, after a good deal of thinking to no particular purpose, he changed his little bundle over to the other shoulder, and trudged on.
Oliver walked twenty miles that day; and all that time tasted nothing but the crust of dry bread, and a few draughts of water, which he begged at the cottage-doors by the road-side. When the night came, he turned into a meadow; and, creeping close under a hay-rick, determined to lie there, till morning. He felt frightened at first, for the wind moaned dismally over the empty fields: and he was cold and hungry, and more alone than he had ever felt before. Being very tired with his walk, however, he soon fell asleep and forgot his troubles.
He felt cold and stiff, when he got up next morning, and so hungry that he was obliged to exchange the penny for a small loaf, in the very first village through which he passed. He had walked no more than twelve miles, when night closed in again. His feet were sore, and his legs so weak that they trembled beneath him. Another night passed in the bleak damp air, made him worse; when he set forward on his journey next morning he could hardly crawl along.
He waited at the bottom of a steep hill till a stage-coach came up, and then begged of the outside passengers; but there were very few who took any notice of him: and even those told him to wait till they got to the top of the hill, and then let them see how far he could run for a halfpenny. Poor Oliver tried to keep up with the coach a little way, but was unable to do it, by reason of his fatigue and sore feet. When the outsides saw this, they put their halfpence back into their pockets again, declaring that he was an idle young dog, and didn't deserve anything; and the coach rattled away and left only a cloud of dust behind.
In some villages, large painted boards were fixed up: warning all persons who begged within the district, that they would be sent to jail. This frightened Oliver very much, and made him glad to get out of those villages with all possible expedition. In others, he would stand about the inn-yards, and look mournfully at every one who passed: a proceeding which generally terminated in the landlady's ordering one of the post-boys who were lounging about, to drive that strange boy out of the place, for she was sure he had come to steal something. If he begged at a farmer's house, ten to one but they threatened to set the dog on him; and when he showed his nose in a shop, they talked about the beadle--which brought Oliver's heart into his mouth,--very often the only thing he had there, for many hours together.
In fact, if it had not been for a good-hearted turnpike-man, and a benevolent old lady, Oliver's troubles would have been shortened by the very same process which had put an end to his mother's; in other words, he would most assuredly have fallen dead upon the king's highway. But the turnpike-man gave him a meal of bread and cheese; and the old lady, who had a shipwrecked grandson wandering barefoot in some distant part of the earth, took pity upon the poor orphan, and gave him what little she could afford--and more--with such kind and gentle words, and such tears of sympathy and compassion, that they sank deeper into Oliver's soul, than all the sufferings he had ever undergone.
Early on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped slowly into the little town of Barnet. The window-shutters were closed; the street was 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 own lonesomeness and desolation, 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. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none relieved him, or troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to beg. And there he sat.
He had been crouching on the step for some time: wondering at the great number of public-houses (every other house in Barnet was a tavern, large or small), gazing listlessly at the coaches as they passed through, and thinking how strange it seemed that they could do, with ease, in a few hours, what it had taken him a whole week of courage and determination beyond his years to accomplish: when he was roused by observing that a boy, who had passed him carelessly some minutes before, had returned, and was now surveying him most earnestly from the opposite side of the way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the same attitude of close observation so long, that Oliver raised his head, and returned his steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over; and walking close up to Oliver, said,
'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?'
The boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer, was about his own age: but one of the queerest looking boys that Oliver had even seen. He was a snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a juvenile as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners of a man. He was short of his age: with rather bow-legs, and little, sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly, that it threatened to fall off every moment--and would have done so, very often, if the wearer had not had a knack of every now and then giving his head a sudden twitch, which brought it back to its old place again. He wore a man's coat, which reached nearly to his heels. He had turned the cuffs back, half-way up his arm, to get his hands out of the sleeves: apparently with the ultimate view of thrusting them into the pockets of his corduroy trousers; for there he kept them. He was, altogether, as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six, or something less, in the bluchers.
'Hullo, my covey! What's the row?' 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 sivin days!' said the young gentleman. 'Oh, I see. Beak's order, eh? But,' he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, 'I suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on.'
Oliver mildly replied, that he had always heard a bird's mouth described by the term in question.
'My eyes, how green!' exclaimed the young gentleman. 'Why, a beak's a madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight forerd, but always agoing up, and niver a coming down agin. Was you never on the mill?'
'What mill?' inquired Oliver.
'What mill! Why, _the_ mill--the mill as takes up so little room that it'll work inside a Stone Jug; and always goes better when the wind's low with people, than when it's high; acos then they can't get workmen. But come,' said the young gentleman; 'you want grub, and you shall have it. I'm at low-water-mark myself--only one bob and a magpie; but, as far as it goes, I'll fork out and stump. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then! 'Morrice!'
Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to an adjacent chandler's shop, where he purchased a sufficiency of ready-dressed ham and a half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, 'a fourpenny bran!' the ham being kept clean and preserved from dust, by the ingenious expedient of making a hole in the loaf by pulling out a portion of the crumb, and stuffing it therein. Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentlman turned into a small public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises. Here, a pot of beer was brought in, by direction of the mysterious youth; and Oliver, falling to, at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.
'Going to London?' said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
'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 to-night, don't you?'
'I do, indeed,' answered Oliver. 'I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.'
'Don't fret your eyelids on that score,' said the young gentleman. 'I've got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old gentleman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!'
The young gentleman smiled, as if to intimate that the latter fragments of discourse were playfully ironical; and finished the beer as he did so.
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 referred to, would doubtless provide Oliver with a comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential dialogue; from which Oliver discovered that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, and that he was a peculiar pet and protege of the elderly gentleman before mentioned.
Mr. Dawkin's appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patron's interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection; but, as he had a rather flightly and dissolute mode of conversing, and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the sobriquet of 'The Artful Dodger,' Oliver concluded that, being of a dissipated and careless turn, the moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him. Under this impression, he secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible; and, if he found the Dodger incorrigible, as he more than half suspected he should, to decline the honour of his farther acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington. They crossed from the Angel into St. John's Road; struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre; through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row; down the little court by the side of the workhouse; across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley-in-the-Hole; thence into Little Saffron Hill; and so into Saffron Hill the Great: along which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way, as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen. The street was very narrow and muddy, and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.
There were a good many small shops; but the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children, who, even at that time of night, were crawling in and out at the doors, or screaming from the inside. The sole places that seemed to prosper amid the general blight of the place, were the public-houses; and in them, the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and main. Covered ways and yards, which here and there diverged from the main street, disclosed little knots of houses, where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth; and from several of the door-ways, great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging, bound, to all appearance, on no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm, pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane; and drawing him into the passage, closed it behind them.
'Now, then!' cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the Dodger.
'Plummy and slam!' was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage; and a man's face peeped out, from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
'There's two on you,' said the man, thrusting the candle farther out, and shielding his eyes with his hand. 'Who's the t'other one?'
'A new pal,' replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.
'Where did he come from?'
'Greenland. Is Fagin upstairs?'
'Yes, he's a sortin' the wipes. 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: which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them.
He threw open the door of a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire: upon which were a candle, stuck in a ginger-beer bottle, two or three pewter pots, a loaf and butter, and a plate. In a frying-pan, which was on the fire, and which was secured to the mantelshelf by a string, some sausages were cooking; and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand, was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villainous-looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, with his throat bare; and seemed to be dividing his attention between the frying-pan and the clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging. Several rough beds made of old sacks, were huddled 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 all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then turned round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in hand.
'This is him, Fagin,' said Jack Dawkins;'my friend Oliver Twist.'
The Jew grinned; and, making a low obeisance to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentleman with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard--especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in his pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them, himself, when he went to bed. These civilities would probably be extended much farther, but for a liberal exercise of the Jew's toasting-fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered them.
'We are very glad to see you, Oliver, very,' said the Jew. 'Dodger, take off the sausages; and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver. Ah, you're a-staring at the pocket-handkerchiefs! eh, my dear. There are a good many of 'em, ain't there? We've just looked 'em out, ready for the wash; that's all, Oliver; that's all. Ha! ha! ha!'
The latter part of this speech, was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman. In the midst of which they went to supper.
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin-and-water: telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks; and then he sunk into a deep sleep.
奥立弗到达小路尽头用来挡牲口的栅栏，重新上了公路。眼下是八点钟光景。尽管离城已经差不多有五英里了，他仍然时而跑几步，时而溜到路旁篱笆后面去躲一躲，生怕有人赶上来把他捉回去，这样一直折腾到中午。他在一块路碑旁边坐下来歇歇气，第一次开始盘算究竟上何处谋生为好。
他身边就是路碑，上边的大字表明此地距伦敦七十英里。伦敦，这个地名在奥立弗心中唤起了一连串新的想像。伦敦！――那地方大得不得了！――没有一个人――哪怕是邦布尔先生――能在那里找到自己。过去他常听济贫院里一些老头讲，血气方刚的小伙子在伦敦压根儿不愁吃穿，在那个大都市里，有的谋生之道是土生土长的乡巴佬想像不到的。对于一个无依无靠，如果得不到帮助就只能死在街头的孩子来说，伦敦是最合适的去处。这些东西从奥立弗脑海里掠过，他从地上跳起来，继续朝前走去。
到伦敦的距离缩短了足足四英里有余，到底还要走多久才能到目的地的念头冒了出来。他顾虑重重，步伐也随着放慢下来，心里老在琢磨自己到那儿去有些什么本钱。他有一片干面包和一件粗布衬衫，包袱里有两双长袜深刻、最全面、最详细的证明和运用”。马克思主义的社会主，口袋里还有一个便士――那是在一次葬礼后苏尔伯雷给的，那一次他发挥得异常出色。“一件干净衬衫，”奥立弗寻思着，“穿上肯定很舒服，两双长袜子，打过补丁，也还行，一个便士也挺不错。不过，这些东西对于冬天里走七十英里的路，可帮不了什么大忙。”但奥立弗的想法和大多数人碰上这类情形时一样，对于自己的难处，心中一点不糊涂，也不是漠然对待，却往往想不出任何行之有效的方法。奥立弗想了好半天仍不得要领，便把小包袱换换肩，拖着沉重的双腿往前走。
一天下来，奥立弗走了二十英里，饿了啃两口干面包，渴了喝几口从路旁住户家里讨来的水。夜幕降临了，他拐进一片牧场，偷偷钻到一个干草堆底下，决定就在那里过夜。一开始他吓得心惊肉跳，晚风呜呜咽咽，一路哀号着掠过空旷的原野，他又冷又饿，孤独的感觉比以往任何时候都更加强烈，然而，他毕竟走得太疲倦了，不一会儿就睡着了，把烦恼忧愁全都抛到了脑后。
第二天早晨醒来的时候，他简直冻僵了，也饿得熬不过去了，他只好在经过的头一个村子就用那枚便士换了一个面包。他走了不到十二英里，夜幕就又垂落下来。他的双脚肿了，两条腿软得直哆嗦。又一个夜晚在阴冷潮湿的露天里度过，情况更糟糕了，当他天亮以后登上旅途时，几乎得要爬着走了。
他在一座陡坡下停住，一直等到一辆公共马车开到近前。奥立弗求外座上的乘客给几个钱，可是没有几个人理睬。有人要他等一会，待马车开上坡了，再让他们瞧瞧书》。，他为了半个便士跑得了多远。可怜的奥立弗竭力想跟上马车跑一小段路，然而由于疲乏，双脚肿痛，他连这一点也做不到。那几位外座乘客一看，又把半个便士放回钱包去了，并宣称他是一只懒惰的小狗，不配得到任何赏赐。马车嘎嗒嘎嗒地开走了，只在车后留下一团烟尘。
有几个村子里张挂着油漆的大木牌，上边警告说，凡在本地行乞者，一律处以监禁。奥立弗吓坏了，巴不得尽快离开这些村子。在另外一些村子，他站在旅店附近，眼巴巴地望着过往的每一个行人，老板娘照例要支使某个四下里闲逛的邮差来把这个陌生的孩子撵走，她断定这孩子是来偷东西的。若是上一户农家去讨点什么，别人十有八九会吓唬他，说是要唤狗出来咬他。他刚在一家铺子门口探了探头，就听见里边的人在议论教区干事如何如何――奥立弗的心好像一下子跳到了他的口中――而这往往是一连好几个钟头唯一进到他嘴里的东西。
说真的，要不是碰上一位好心肠的收税员和一位仁慈的老太太，奥立弗的苦难可能已经结束了，落得和他母亲一样的下场，换句话说就是，他必定已经死在通衢大道上了。那位收税员请他吃了一顿便饭，老太太有一个孙子，因船只失事流落异乡，她把这份心情倾注到可怜的孤儿身上，把拿得出来的东西都给了他――不仅如此――还说了一大堆体贴而亲切的话语，洒下了浸满同情与怜悯的泪水，此情此景胜过奥立弗以往遭受的一切痛苦，深深地沉人了他的心田。
奥立弗离开故乡七天了。这天一大早，他一瘸一拐地走进小城巴涅特。各家各户的窗户紧闭着，街道上冷冷清清，还没有人起来做当天的生意。太阳升起来了，霞光五彩缤纷。然而识。但理智的能力是有限的，要认识上帝及其所属的超验世，朝霞仅仅是使这个孩子看到，他自己是多么的孤独与凄凉，他坐在一个冰冷的台阶上，脚上的伤口在淌血，浑身沾满尘土。
沿街的窗板一扇扇打开了，窗帘也拉了上去，人们开始来来去去。有几位停下来，打量了奥立弗两眼，有的匆匆走过时扭头看看。没有一个人接济他，也没有人费心问一声他是怎么上这儿来的。他没有勇气去向人家乞讨，便一动不动地坐在那里。
他蜷作一团，在台阶上坐了一阵子，街对面有那么多的酒馆，他感到有些纳闷（在巴涅特，每隔一个门面，或大或小就是一家酒馆），他无精打采地看着一辆辆马车开过去，心想这倒也真怪，他拿出超过自己年龄的勇气和决心，走了足足七天的路，马车却毫不费事，几个小时就走完了。就在这时，他猛一定神，看到几分钟前漫不经心从自己身边走过的一个少年又倒转回来，这功夫正在街对面仔仔细细地上下打量自己。奥立弗开初一点没在意，但少年一直盯着他看，奥立弗便抬起头来，也以专注的目光回敬对方。那孩子见了，就穿过马路，缓步走近奥立弗，说道：
“哈罗。伙计，怎么回事啊？”
向小流浪者发问的这个孩子同奥立弗年龄相仿，但样子十分古怪，奥立弗从来没有见到过。他长着一个狮头鼻，额头扁平，其貌不扬，像他这样邋遢的少年确实不多见，偏偏他又摆出一副十足的成年人派头。就年龄而言，他个子偏矮，一副罗圈腿，敏锐的小眼睛怪怪的，帽子十分潇洒地扣在头上，好像随时都会掉下来似的，要不是戴的人自有一套妙法，帽子保准经常掉下来，他时不时地猛一摆头，帽子便重新回到老地方去了。他身上穿着一件成年人的上衣，差点儿拖到脚后跟，袖口往胳臂上挽了一半，以便让两只手从袖子里伸出来，看样子是为了能把手插进灯芯绒裤子的口袋里去，事实也是如此。他整个是一个派头十足、装模作样的年轻绅士，身高四英尺六英寸，也许还不到，脚上穿一双高帮皮鞋。
“哈罗。伙计，怎么回事啊？”这位奇怪的小绅士对奥立弗说道。
“我饿极了，又累得要死，”奥立弗回答时泪水在眼睛里直打转，“我走了很远的路，七天以来我一直在走。”
“走了七天。”小绅士叫了起来，“喔，我知道了，是铁嘴的命令吧？不过，”他见奥立弗显出迷惑不解的神色，便又接着说，“我的好伙――计，恐怕你还不知道铁嘴是怎么回事吧。”
奥立弗温驯地回答，他早就听说有人管鸟的嘴巴叫铁嘴。
“瞧瞧，有多嫩。”小绅士大叫一声，“嗨，铁嘴就是治安推事，铁嘴要你开步走，并不是一直向前，那可是上去了就下不来的。你从来没踩过踏车？”
“什么踏车？”
“什么踏车。嗨，就是踏车――就是石瓮里的那种，用不了多大地方就能开动起来的。老百姓日子不好过的时候，倒是蛮兴旺，要是老百姓还过得去，他们就找不到人手了。嗳嗳，你想吃东西，我包下了。我手头也不宽裕――只有一个先令，外带半便士，不过，管他呢，我请客了，站起来吧。起来。开步走。乖乖。”
小绅士扶着奥立弗站起来，一块儿来到附近的一家杂货店，在那里买了好些熟火腿和一个两磅重的面包，或者用他的话来说，就是“四便士麦”。小绅士露了一手，他把面包心掏了一些出来，挖成一个洞，然后把火腿塞进去，这样火腿既保持了新鲜，又不会沾上灰尘。小绅士把面包往胳肢窝下边一夹，领着奥立弗拐进一家小酒馆，到里边找了一间僻静的酒室。接着这位神秘的少年叫了一罐啤酒，奥立弗在新朋友的邀请下，狼吞虎咽地大吃起来，吃的过程中，陌生少年的目光十分专注，时不时地落到他身上。
“打算去伦敦？”小绅士见奥立弗终于吃好了，便问道。
“是的。”
“找到住处了没有？”
“还没哩。”
“钱呢？”
“没有。”
古怪的少年吹了一声口哨，尽力摆脱肥大衣袖的牵绊，把手插进口袋里。
“你住在伦敦吗？”奥立弗问。
“不错。只要不出远门，就住在伦敦，”少年说道，“我琢磨你今儿晚上还想找个地方睡觉，是不是？”
“是啊，真的，自从我离开家乡以来，就没睡过安稳觉。”
“你也别为这点小事揉眼睛了，”小绅士说道，“今儿晚上我得去伦敦，我知道有一位体面的老绅士也住在那儿，他会给你安排一个住处，一个钱也不收你的――就是说，只要是他认识的随便哪一位绅士介绍的，都行。他是不是认识我？喔，不。完全不认识。门都没有。肯定不认识。”
小绅士微笑起来，似乎想暗示末了几句说的是反话，是说着玩的，他一边说，一边喝干了啤酒。
有个落脚的地方，这个突如其来的提议太诱人了，叫人无法谢绝，尤其是紧跟着又来了那位老先生提出的保证，完全可以断言，他会毫不拖延地为奥立弗提供一个舒适的位置。接下来的谈话进行得更为友好，更加推心置腹，奥立弗从中了解到，这位朋友名叫杰克达金斯，乃是先前提到的那一位绅士的得意门生。
单看达金斯先生的外貌，并不足以说明他的恩人替那些受他保护的人谋取到了多少福利，不过，达金斯的交际方式倒是相当轻浮油滑，进而又承认自己在一帮亲密朋友中有个更出名的绰号，叫“逮不着的机灵鬼”，奥立弗得出结论，对方由于天性浪荡不羁，早就把恩人在道德方面的训诫抛到脑后去了。出于这种印象，他暗暗下定决心，尽快取得那位老绅士的好感，要是机灵鬼大致上应了自己的猜测，果真无可救药的话，就一定要敬而远之。
由于约翰达金斯反对天黑以前进入伦敦，当他们走到爱灵顿税卡时，已经快十一点了。他们经过安琪尔酒家到了圣约翰大道，又快步走过到沙德勒街泉水戏院就到头的那条小街，通过伊克茅士街，柯皮斯路，走下伦敦贫民院旁边的小巷，再经过以前叫“绝境中的哈雷”的古迹，过小红花山，到了大红花山。机灵鬼吩咐奥立弗一步也别落下，自己飞一般朝前跑去。
尽管奥立弗一门心思盯住自己的向导，却仍然好几次不由自主地往经过的街道两侧偷眼望去。他从来没有见到过比这儿更为肮脏或者说更为破败的地方。街道非常狭窄，满地泥泞，空气中充满了各种污浊的气味。小铺子倒是不少，仅有的商品好像只有一群群的孩子，那些孩子这么晚了还在门口爬进爬出，或者是在屋里哇哇大哭。在这个一片凄凉的地方，看起来景气一些的只有酒馆，一帮最下层的爱尔兰人扯着嗓子，在酒馆里大吵大闹。一些黑洞洞的过道和院落从街上分岔而去，露出几处挤在一起的破房子，在那些地方，喝得烂醉的男男女女实实在在是在污泥中打滚。有好几户的门口，一些凶相毕露的家伙正小心翼翼地往外走，一看就知道不是去干什么好事或者无伤大雅的事。
奥立弗正在盘算是否溜掉为妙，他俩已经到了山脚下。他的那位向导推开菲尔胡同附近的一扇门，抓住奥立弗的一条胳臂，拉着他进了走廊，又随手把门关上了。
“喔，喂。”随着机灵鬼的一声口哨，一个声音从下边传了过来。
机灵鬼答道：“李子全赢。”
这看来是某种表示一切正常的口令或者暗号什么的。走廊尽头的墙上闪出一团微弱的烛光，一个男人的面孔从一个旧厨房的楼梯栏杆缺口露了出来。
“你是两个人来的？”那个男子把蜡烛挪远一些，用一只手替眼睛挡住光，说道。“那一个是谁？”
“一个新伙伴。”杰克达金斯把奥立弗推到前边，答道。
“哪儿来的？”
“生地方。费金在不在楼上？”
“在，他正在挑选手帕。上去吧。”蜡烛缩了回去，那张脸消失了。
奥立弗一只手摸索着，另一只手紧紧地抓住自己的同伴，高一脚低一步地登上又黑又破的楼梯，他的向导却上得轻松利落，眼见得他对这一路相当熟悉。他推开一间后室的门，拖着奥立弗走了进去。
这间屋子的墙壁和天花板因年深日久，满是污垢，黑黝黝的。壁炉前边放着一张松木桌子。桌子上有一个姜汁啤酒瓶，里边插着一支蜡烛，还有两三个锡铅合金酒杯，一块奶油面包，一只碟子。火上架着的一口煎锅里煮着几段香肠，一根绳子把锅绑在壁炉架上。一个枯瘦如柴的犹太老头手拿烤叉，站在旁边，一大团乱蓬蓬的红头发掩住了他脸上那副令人恶心的凶相。他裹着一件油腻腻的法兰绒长大衣，脖子露在外边。看来他既要兼顾炉子上的煎锅，又要为一个衣架分心，衣架上挂着许多丝手绢。几张用旧麻袋铺成的床在地板上一张挨一张排开。桌子周围坐了四五个比机灵鬼小一些的孩子，一个个都摆出中年人的架式，一边吸着长长的陶制烟斗，一边喝酒。机灵鬼低声向犹太老头嘀咕了几句。这帮孩子围了上去，跟着又一起把头转了过来，冲着奥立弗嘻嘻直笑，犹太老头也一样，一只手握着烤叉，转过头来。
“费金，就是他，”杰克达金斯说，“我朋友奥立弗退斯特，”
老犹太露出大牙笑了笑，向奥立弗深深鞠了一躬，又握住奥立弗的手，说自己希望有幸和他结为知己。小绅士们一见这光景，也都叼着烟斗，围了过来，使劲和他握手――尤其是他们之中替奥立弗接过小包袱的那一位。一位小绅士极为热心地替他把帽子挂起来，另一位来得更是殷勤，竟把双手插进他的衣袋里，为的是省去他睡觉时掏空腰包的麻烦，因为他已经非常累了。要不是费金的烤叉大大方方地落在这班热心小伙子的头上、肩膀上，这一番殷勤可说不准会献到哪儿去。
“见到你我们非常高兴，奥立弗――非常非常，”费金说道，“机灵鬼，把香肠捞起来，拖一个桶到火炉边上，奥立弗好坐。啊，我亲爱的，你是在看那些手帕吧，哦。这地方手帕可真不少，是不是？我们正在选一选，打算洗一下。就这么回事，奥立弗，没别的。哈哈哈！”
后边几句话引来一阵喝彩，快活老绅土的那班得意门生乐得大喊大叫。吆喝声中，他们开始吃饭。
奥立弗吃了分得的一份，费金给他兑了一杯热乎乎的掺水杜松子酒，叫他赶紧喝下去，还有一位绅士等着要用杯于。奥立弗照办了。顿时，他感到自已被人轻轻地抱起来，放到麻袋床铺上，不一会儿便陷入了沉睡。