Oliver Twist Or The Parish Boy's Progress 11 страница

“Well, my dear,” replied the Jew. —'Ah! Nancy.”

The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair, and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a cold night, and no mistake.

“It is cold, Nancy dear,” said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands over the fire. “It seems to go right through one,” added the old man, touching his side.

“It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,” said Mr. Sikes. “Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make haste! It's enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.”

Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.

“Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,” replied the Jew, putting down the glass after just setting his lips to it.

“What! You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?” inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. “Ugh!”

With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.

The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a “life-preserver” that hung over the chimney-piece.

“There,” said Sikes, smacking his lips. “Now I'm ready.”

“For business?” inquired the Jew.

“For business,” replied Sikes; “so say what you've got to say.”

“About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?” said the Jew, drawing his chair forward, and speaking in a very low voice.

“Yes. Wot about it?” inquired Sikes.

“Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,” said the Jew. “He knows what I mean, Nancy; don't he?”

“No, he don't,” sneered Mr. Sikes. “Or he won't, and that's the same thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you warn't the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?”

“Hush, Bill, hush!” said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop this burst of indignation; “somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody will hear us.”

“Let “em hear!” said Sikes; “I don't care.” But as Mr. Sikes DID care, on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew calmer.

“There, there,” said the Jew, coaxingly. “It was only my caution, nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such plate!” said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in a rapture of anticipation.

“Not at all,” replied Sikes coldly.

“Not to be done at all!” echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.

“No, not at all,” rejoined Sikes. “At least it can't be a put-up job, as we expected.”

“Then it hasn't been properly gone about,” said the Jew, turning pale with anger. “Don't tell me!”

“But I will tell you,” retorted Sikes. “Who are you that's not to be told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Bill,” said the Jew: softening as the other grew heated: “that neither of the two men in the house can be got over?”

 

“Yes, I do mean to tell you so,” replied Sikes. “The old lady has had “em these twenty years; and if you were to give “em five hundred pound, they wouldn't be in it.”

“But do you mean to say, my dear,” remonstrated the Jew, “that the women can't be got over?”

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes.

“Not by flash Toby Crackit?” said the Jew incredulously. “Think what women are, Bill,”

“No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,” replied Sikes. “He says he's worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's been loitering down there, and it's all of no use.”

“He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my dear,” said the Jew.

“So he did,” rejoined Sikes, “and they warn't of no more use than the other plant.”

The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said, with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared the game was up.

“And yet,” said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, “it's a sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.”

“So it is,” said Mr. Sikes. “Worse luck!”

A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time. Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.

“Fagin,” said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed; “is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?”

“Yes,” said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.

“Is it a bargain?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, my dear, yes,” rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had awakened.

“Then,” said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain, “let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one part we can crack, safe and softly.”

“Which is that, Bill?” asked the Jew eagerly.

“Why,” whispered Sikes, “as you cross the lawn—”

“Yes?” said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost starting out of it.

“Umph!” cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's face. “Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.”

“As you like, my dear, as you like” replied the Jew. “Is there no help wanted, but yours and Toby's?”

“None,” said Sikes. “Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've both got; the second you must find us.”

“A boy!” exclaimed the Jew. “Oh! then it's a panel, eh?”

“Never mind wot it is!” replied Sikes. “I want a boy, and he musn't be a big “un. Lord!” said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, “if I'd only got that young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from a trade where he was arning money, teaches him to read and write, and in time makes a “prentice of him. And so they go on,” said Mr. Sikes, his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, “so they go on; and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,) we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year or two.”

“No more we should,” acquiesed the Jew, who had been considering during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. “Bill!”

“What now?” inquired Sikes.

The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.

“You don't want any beer,” said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining her seat very composedly.

“I tell you I do!” replied Sikes.

“Nonsense,” rejoined the girl coolly, “Go on, Fagin. I know what he's going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me.”

The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some surprise.

“Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?” he asked at length. “You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?”

“I should think not!” replied the young lady: drawing her chair up to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.

“No, no, my dear, I know you're not,” said the Jew; “but—” and again the old man paused.

“But wot?” inquired Sikes.

“I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know, my dear, as she was the other night,” replied the Jew.

At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst into sundry exclamations of “Keep the game a-going!” “Never say die!” and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.

“Now, Fagin,” said Nancy with a laugh. “Tell Bill at once, about Oliver!”

“Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!” said the Jew, patting her on the neck. “It WAS about Oliver I was going to speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!”

“What about him?” demanded Sikes.

“He's the boy for you, my dear,” replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper; laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.

“He!” exclaimed. Sikes.

“Have him, Bill!” said Nancy. “I would, if I was in your place. He mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe one, Bill.”

“I know he is,” rejoined Fagin. “He's been in good training these last few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the others are all too big.”

“Well, he is just the size I want,” said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.

“And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,” interposed the Jew; “he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.”

“Frighten him!” echoed Sikes. “It'll be no sham frightening, mind you. If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin. Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!” said the robber, poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.

“I've thought of it all,” said the Jew with energy. “I've—I've had my eye upon him, my dears, close—close. Once let him feel that he is one of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about better! The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.

“Ours!” said Sikes. “Yours, you mean.”

“Perhaps I do, my dear,” said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. “Mine, if you like, Bill.”

“And wot,” said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, “wot makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you might pick and choose from?”

“Because they're of no use to me, my dear,” replied the Jew, with some confusion, “not worth the taking. Their looks convict “em when they get into trouble, and I lose “em all. With this boy, properly managed, my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides,” said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, “he has us now if he could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the way—which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.”

“When is it to be done?” asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.

“Ah, to be sure,” said the Jew; “when is it to be done, Bill?”

“I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,” rejoined Sikes in a surly voice, “if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.”

“Good,” said the Jew; “there's no moon.”

“No,” rejoined Sikes.

“It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?” asked the Jew.

Sikes nodded.

“And about—”

“Oh, ah, it's all planned,” rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. “Never mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to do.”

After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes; and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash Toby Crackit.

These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner; yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song, mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools: which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.

“Good-night, Nancy,” said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.

“Good-night.”

Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as Toby Crackit himself could be.

The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped downstairs.

“Always the way!” muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward. “The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!”

Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.

“Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,” was his first remark as they descended the stairs.

“Hours ago,” replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. “Here he is!”

The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.

“Not now,” said the Jew, turning softly away. “To-morrow. To-morrow.”

 

 

CHAPTER XX

WHEREIN OLVER IS DELIVERED OVER TO MR. WILLIAM SIKES

 

When Oliver awoke in the morning, he was a good deal surprised to find that a new pair of shoes, with strong thick soles, had been placed at his bedside; and that his old shoes had been removed. At first, he was pleased with the discovery: hoping that it might be the forerunner of his release; but such thoughts were quickly dispelled, on his sitting down to breakfast along with the Jew, who told him, in a tone and manner which increased his alarm, that he was to be taken to the residence of Bill Sikes that night.

“To—to—stop there, sir?” asked Oliver, anxiously.

“No, no, my dear. Not to stop there,” replied the Jew. “We shouldn't like to lose you. Don't be afraid, Oliver, you shall come back to us again. Ha! ha! ha! We won't be so cruel as to send you away, my dear. Oh no, no!”

The old man, who was stooping over the fire toasting a piece of bread, looked round as he bantered Oliver thus; and chuckled as if to show that he knew he would still be very glad to get away if he could.

“I suppose,” said the Jew, fixing his eyes on Oliver, “you want to know what you're going to Bill's for—eh, my dear?”

Oliver coloured, involuntarily, to find that the old thief had been reading his thoughts; but boldly said, Yes, he did want to know.

“Why, do you think?” inquired Fagin, parrying the question.

“Indeed I don't know, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Bah!” said the Jew, turning away with a disappointed countenance from a close perusal of the boy's face. “Wait till Bill tells you, then.”

The Jew seemed much vexed by Oliver's not expressing any greater curiosity on the subject; but the truth is, that, although Oliver felt very anxious, he was too much confused by the earnest cunning of Fagin's looks, and his own speculations, to make any further inquiries just then. He had no other opportunity: for the Jew remained very surly and silent till night: when he prepared to go abroad.

“You may burn a candle,” said the Jew, putting one upon the table. “And here's a book for you to read, till they come to fetch you. Good-night!”

“Good-night!” replied Oliver, softly.

The Jew walked to the door: looking over his shoulder at the boy as he went. Suddenly stopping, he called him by his name.

Oliver looked up; the Jew, pointing to the candle, motioned him to light it. He did so; and, as he placed the candlestick upon the table, saw that the Jew was gazing fixedly at him, with lowering and contracted brows, from the dark end of the room.

“Take heed, Oliver! take heed!” said the old man, shaking his right hand before him in a warning manner. “He's a rough man, and thinks nothing of blood when his own is up. W hatever falls out, say nothing; and do what he bids you. Mind!” Placing a strong emphasis on the last word, he suffered his features gradually to resolve themselves into a ghastly grin, and, nodding his head, left the room.

Oliver leaned his head upon his hand when the old man disappeared, and pondered, with a trembling heart, on the words he had just heard. The more he thought of the Jew's admonition, the more he was at a loss to divine its real purpose and meaning.

He could think of no bad object to be attained by sending him to Sikes, which would not be equally well answered by his remaining with Fagin; and after meditating for a long time, concluded that he had been selected to perform some ordinary menial offices for the housebreaker, until another boy, better suited for his purpose could be engaged. He was too well accustomed to suffering, and had suffered too much where he was, to bewail the prospect of change very severely. He remained lost in thought for some minutes; and then, with a heavy sigh, snuffed the candle, and, taking up the book which the Jew had left with him, began to read.

He turned over the leaves. Carelessly at first; but, lighting on a passage which attracted his attention, he soon became intent upon the volume. It was a history of the lives and trials of great criminals; and the pages were soiled and thumbed with use. Here, he read of dreadful crimes that made the blood run cold; of secret murders that had been committed by the lonely wayside; of bodies hidden from the eye of man in deep pits and wells: which would not keep them down, deep as they were, but had yielded them up at last, after many years, and so maddened the murderers with the sight, that in their horror they had confessed their guilt, and yelled for the gibbet to end their agony. Here, too, he read of men who, lying in their beds at dead of night, had been tempted (so they said) and led on, by their own bad thoughts, to such dreadful bloodshed as it made the flesh creep, and the limbs quail, to think of. The terrible descriptions were so real and vivid, that the sallow pages seemed to turn red with gore; and the words upon them, to be sounded in his ears, as if they were whispered, in hollow murmers, by the spirits of the dead.

In a paroxysm of fear, the boy closed the book, and thrust it from him. Then, falling upon his knees, he prayed Heaven to spare him from such deeds; and rather to will that he should die at once, than be reserved for crimes, so fearful and appaling. By degrees, he grew more calm, and besought, in a low and broken voice, that he might be rescued from his present dangers; and that if any aid were to be raised up for a poor outcast boy who had never known the love of friends or kindred, it might come to him now, when, desolate and deserted, he stood alone in the midst of wickedness and guilt.

He had concluded his prayer, but still remained with his head buried in his hands, when a rustling noise aroused him.

“What's that!” he cried, starting up, and catching sight of a figure standing by the door. “Who's there?”

“Me. Only me,” replied a tremulous voice.

Oliver raised the candle above his head: and looked towards the door. It was Nancy.

“Put down the light,” said the girl, turning away her head. “It hurts my eyes.”

Oliver saw that she was very pale, and gently inquired if she were ill. The girl threw herself into a chair, with her back towards him: and wrung her hands; but made no reply.

“God forgive me!” she cried after a while, “I never thought of this.”

“Has anything happened?” asked Oliver. “Can I help you? I will if I can. I will, indeed.”

She rocked herself to and fro; caught her throat; and, uttering a gurgling sound, gasped for breath.

“Nancy!” cried Oliver, “What is it?”

The girl beat her hands upon her knees, and her feet upon the ground; and, suddenly stopping, drew her shawl close round her: and shivered with cold.

Oliver stirred the fire. Drawing her chair close to it, she sat there, for a little time, without speaking; but at length she raised her head, and looked round.

“I don't know what comes over me sometimes,” said she, affecting to busy herself in arranging her dress; “it's this damp dirty room, I think. Now, Nolly, dear, are you ready?”

“Am I to go with you?” asked Oliver.

“Yes. I have come from Bill,” replied the girl. “You are to go with me.”

“What for?” asked Oliver, recoiling.

“What for?” echoed the girl, raising her eyes, and averting them again, the moment they encountered the boy's face. “Oh! For no harm.”

“I don't believe it,” said Oliver: who had watched her closely.

“Have it your own way,” rejoined the girl, affecting to laugh. “For no good, then.”

Oliver could see that he had some power over the girl's better feelings, and, for an instant, thought of appealing to her compassion for his helpless state. But, then, the thought darted across his mind that it was barely eleven o'clock; and that many people were still in the streets: of whom surely some might be found to give credence to his tale. As the reflection occured to him, he stepped forward: and said, somewhat hastily, that he was ready.

Neither his brief consideration, nor its purport, was lost on his companion. She eyed him narrowly, while he spoke; and cast upon him a look of intelligence which sufficiently showed that she guessed what had been passing in his thoughts.

“Hush!” said the girl, stooping over him, and pointing to the door as she looked cautiously round. “You can't help yourself. I have tried hard for you, but all to no purpose. You are hedged round and round. If ever you are to get loose from here, this is not the time.”

Struck by the energy of her manner, Oliver looked up in her face with great surprise. She seemed to speak the truth; her countenance was white and agitated; and she trembled with very earnestness.

“I have saved you from being ill-used once, and I will again, and I do now,” continued the girl aloud; “for those who would have fetched you, if I had not, would have been far more rough than me. I have promised for your being quiet and silent; if you are not, you will only do harm to yourself and me too, and perhaps be my death. See here! I have borne all this for you already, as true as God sees me show it.”

She pointed, hastily, to some livid bruises on her neck and arms; and continued, with great rapidity:

“Remember this! And don't let me suffer more for you, just now. If I could help you, I would; but I have not the power. They don't mean to harm you; whatever they make you do, is no fault of yours. Hush! Every word from you is a blow for me. Give me your hand. Make haste! Your hand!

She caught the hand which Oliver instinctively placed in hers, and, blowing out the light, drew him after her up the stairs. The door was opened, quickly, by some one shrouded in the darkness, and was as quickly closed, when they had passed out. A hackney-cabriolet was in waiting; with the same vehemence which she had exhibited in addressing Oliver, the girl pulled him in with her, and drew the curtains close. The driver wanted no directions, but lashed his horse into full speed, without the delay of an instant.

The girl still held Oliver fast by the hand, and continued to pour into his ear, the warnings and assurances she had already imparted. All was so quick and hurried, that he had scarcely time to recollect where he was, or how he came there, when to carriage stopped at the house to which the Jew's steps had been directed on the previous evening.

For one brief moment, Oliver cast a hurried glance along the empty street, and a cry for help hung upon his lips. But the girl's voice was in his ear, beseeching him in such tones of agony to remember her, that he had not the heart to utter it. While he hesitated, the opportunity was gone; he was already in the house, and the door was shut.

“This way,” said the girl, releasing her hold for the first time.

“Bill!”

“Hallo!” replied Sikes: appearing at the head of the stairs, with a candle. “Oh! That's the time of day. Come on!”

This was a very strong expression of approbation, an uncommonly hearty welcome, from a person of Mr. Sikes” temperament. Nancy, appearing much gratified thereby, saluted him cordially.

“Bull's-eye's gone home with Tom,” observed Sikes, as he lighted them up. “He'd have been in the way.”

“That's right,” rejoined Nancy.

“So you've got the kid,” said Sikes when they had all reached the room: closing the door as he spoke.

“Yes, here he is,” replied Nancy.

“Did he come quiet?” inquired Sikes.

“Like a lamb,” rejoined Nancy.

“I'm glad to hear it,” said Sikes, looking grimly at Oliver; “for the sake of his young carcase: as would otherways have suffered for it. Come here, young “un; and let me read you a lectur”, which is as well got over at once.”

Thus addressing his new pupil, Mr. Sikes pulled off Oliver's cap and threw it into a corner; and then, taking him by the shoulder, sat himself down by the table, and stood the boy in front of him.

“Now, first: do you know wot this is?” inquired Sikes, taking up a pocket-pistol which lay on the table.

Oliver replied in the affirmative.

“Well, then, look here,” continued Sikes. “This is powder; that “ere's a bullet; and this is a little bit of a old hat for waddin”.”

Oliver murmured his comprehension of the different bodies referred to; and Mr. Sikes proceeded to load the pistol, with great nicety and deliberation.

“Now it's loaded,” said Mr. Sikes, when he had finished.

“Yes, I see it is, sir,” replied Oliver.

“Well,” said the robber, grasping Oliver's wrist, and putting the barrel so close to his temple that they touched; at which moment the boy could not repress a start; “if you speak a word when you're out o” doors with me, except when I speak to you, that loading will be in your head without notice. So, if you DO make up your mind to speak without leave, say your prayers first.”