Weak with recent illness, stupefied by the blows and the suddenness of the attack, terrified by the brutality of the man—­who was none other than Bill Sikes, the roughest of all Fagin’s pupils—­what could one poor child do?  Darkness had set in; it was a low neighbourhood; resistance was useless.  Sikes and Nancy hurried the boy on between them through courts and alleys till, once more, he was within the dreadful house where the Dodger had first brought him.  Long after the gas-lamps were lighted, Mr. Brownlow sat waiting in his parlour.  The servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of Oliver.  The housekeeper had waited anxiously at the open door.  But no Oliver returned.

IV.—­Oliver Falls among Friends

Mr. Bill Sikes having an important house-breaking engagement with his fellow-robber, Mr. Toby Crackit, at Shepperton, decided that Oliver must accompany him.

It was a detached house, and the night was dark as pitch when Sikes and Crackit, dragging Oliver along, climbed the wall and approached a narrow, shuttered window.  In vain Oliver implored them to let him go.

“Listen, you young limb,” whispered Sikes, when a crowbar had overcome the shutter, and the lattice had been opened.  “I’m going to put you through there.”  Drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, he added, “Take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the hall to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in.”

The boy was put through the window, and Sikes, pointing to the door with his pistol, told him if he faltered he would shoot him.

Hardly had Oliver advanced a few yards before Sikes called out, “Back! back!”

Startled, the boy dropped the lantern, uncertain 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—­and he staggered back.

Sikes got him out of the window before the smoke cleared away, and fired his pistol after the men, who were already in retreat.

“Clasp your arm tighter,” said Sikes.  “Give me a shawl here.  They’ve hit him.  Quick!  The boy is bleeding.”

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, 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 Oliver saw and heard no more.

Sikes, finding the chase too hot, was compelled to leave Oliver in a ditch and make his escape with his friend Crackit.

It was morning when Oliver awoke.  His left arm was rudely bandaged in a shawl, and the bandage was saturated with blood.  Weak and dizzy, he yet felt that if he remained where he was he would surely die, and so he staggered to his feet.  The only house in sight was the one he had entered a few hours earlier, and he bent his steps towards it.  He pushed against the garden-gate—­it was unlocked.  He tottered across the lawn, climbed the steps, knocked faintly at the door, and, his whole strength failing him, sank down against the little portico.