II.—­The Artful Dodger

It was on the seventh morning after he had left his native place that Oliver limped slowly into the town of Barnet.  Tired and hungry he sat down on a doorstep, and presently was roused by the question “Hallo, 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 ever seen.  He was short for his age, and dirty, and he had about him all the airs and manners of a man.  He wore a man’s coat which reached nearly to his heels, and he had turned the cuffs back half-way up his arm to get his hands out of the sleeves.  Altogether he was as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six in his bluchers.

“You want grub,” said this strange boy, helping Oliver to rise; “and you shall have it.  I’m at low-watermark myself, only one bob and a magpie; but as far as it goes, I’ll fork out and stump.”

“Going to London?” said the strange boy, while they sat and finished a meal in a small public-house.

“Yes.”

“Got any lodgings?”

“No.”

“Money?”

“No.”

The strange boy whistled.

“I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?  Well, I’ve got to be in London to-night, and I know a ’spectable old genelman 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.”

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted, and on the way to London, where they arrived at nightfall, Oliver learnt that his friend’s name was Jack Dawkins, but that he was known among his intimates as “The Artful Dodger.”

In Field Lane, in the slums of Saffron Hill, the Dodger pushed open the door of a house, and drew Oliver within.

“Now, then,” cried a voice, in reply to his whistle.

“Plummy and slam,” said the Dodger.

This seemed to be a watchword, for a man at once appeared with a candle.

“There’s two on you,” said the man.  “Who’s the t’other one, and where does he come from?”

“A new pal from Greenland,” replied Jack Dawkins.  “Is Fagin upstairs?”

“Yes, he’s sortin the wipes.  Up with you.”

The room that Oliver was taken into was black with age and dirt.  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.  An old shrivelled Jew, of repulsive face, was standing over the fire, dividing his attention between a frying-pan and a clothes-horse full of silk handkerchiefs.

The Dodger whispered a few words to the Jew, and then said aloud, “This is him, Fagin, my friend Oliver Twist.”

The Jew grinned.  “We are very glad to see you, Oliver—­very.”