Chapter 14 Chapter Thirteen

(Introducing a few new acquaintances to the intelligent reader, with incidental recounts of their various anecdotes that pertain to this biography.) "Where's Oliver?" said the Jew, rising murderously. "Where's the boy?" The two young pickpockets stared blankly at their master, as if taken aback by his anger, they glanced at each other anxiously without answering. "What's the matter with the boy?" Fagin held the Dodger by the collar, and threatened him with terrible curses. "Say it, or I'll strangle you to death." Mr. Fagin's expression didn't look like he was joking at all. Charlie Bates always believed that no matter what happened, it was the best policy to protect himself wisely. He guessed that he must be the second one to be strangled to death. He immediately fell to his knees and let out a burst of pain. There was a loud, continuous howl—something like a mad bull bleating, or something like talking through a megaphone.

"Are you going to tell me?" Fagin jumped into a rage, and shook the Dodger violently. It was inconceivable that the baggy coat didn't shake him out completely. "Well, he's caught, that's all," said the Ghost, despondently. "Hey, let it go, will you let it go?" and remained in Fagin's hands.The Dodger snatched up the toast-fork jerkily, and smacked the jolly old gentleman on the waistcoat, and a hit would cost him a lot of fun, from which he would never recover easily. At this critical moment, Fagin dodged back with a dodge, which was really unpredictable. He looked very old, but he was very quick in his advances and retreats.He grabbed the white tin pot and prepared to smash it on the enemy's head.At that moment, Charlie Bates uttered a horrific howl, distracted his attention, and suddenly changed his target, aiming the pot at the little gentleman and throwing it down.

"Hey, it's really exciting." A deep voice said angrily, "Who poured beer on me? Fortunately, it was beer that hit me, not the pot, otherwise I would have been killed." Find someone to settle the account. I knew that, except for a lawless jewish old man who took advantage of the spoils, I am afraid that no one can afford it. He grabs drinks and makes messes. Back. Fagin, what's the matter? Damn it, if it's not beer on my scarf, hum. Come in, you rascal bastard, if you don't want to come in, you can't be ashamed of your master. .Come in!" The complainer was a well-built man about thirty-five or sixteen years old.The man wore a black velveteen coat, dirty ecru breeches, half-boots, and lead gray stockings wrapped in two thick legs with bulging calf muscles—these legs, It was such an attire again, it always looked like an unfinished semi-finished product, only missing a pair of shackles as a decoration.He wore a gray hat and a dirty blue and white flowered scarf round his neck, and he wiped the beer off his face with the long, frayed end of the scarf as he talked.The beer had wiped it off, revealing a broad, rigid face, three days' beard unshaven, and two dark eyes, one of which was of any color around it, from a recent blow.

"Come in, do you hear me?" the eye-catching Fiend roared. A shaggy white dog dodged in, with a dozen cuts and gashes on its face. "Why didn't you come in earlier?" said the man, "You are too proud, you don't even recognize me in front of everyone, don't you? Lie down." The order, accompanied by a kick, sent the brute across the room.However, the dog has obviously gotten used to it. It curled up quietly in the corner without making a sound. It blinked its thief eyes about twenty times a minute, and it seemed that it was inspecting the room. "What are you? Are you abusing these children, you greedy, greedy-insufficient old miser?" The man sat down carelessly. "I really wonder why they didn't kill you. If I were them, I would have killed you. If I were your apprentice, I would have done it a long time ago, um—no, you can't sell it after killing it, and you still Just worth it as a hideous antique in a glass bottle they probably can't blow out."

"Hush, hush! Mr. Sikes," said the old Jew, trembling all over, "don't speak so loudly." "Mr. or not," answered the villain, "you have never been kind enough to do this. You know my name, and you may call me by it. When the time comes, I shall not be disgraced." "Well, well, then—Bill Sikes," said Fagin in a low voice, "you don't seem very pleased, Bill." "Probably," replied Sikes, "I don't think you're very comfortable, unless you don't make a big deal about throwing tin pans about, and you're talking nonsense—"

"Are you crazy?" Fagin tugged at Sikes' sleeve and pointed to the two teenagers. Mr. Sykes broke off, made a knotted motion under his right ear, and tilted his head on the right shoulder—the old Jew evidently knew the kind of mime.Next, Sikes ordered a glass of wine, as the assistant had said.There are so many such things in his words, if they are recorded one by one, I am afraid no one will be able to understand them. "Be careful you don't poison it," said Mr. Sikes, laying his hat on the table. This is a joke, but if the speaker sees the old Jew biting his pale lips and turning to the cupboard with an evil look, he will probably think that this warning is not purely superfluous, or hope that the brewer The idea (wording aside) of a slight improvement of the old man's trick was not at all absent in the optimist mind of the old gentleman.

After two or three glasses of brandy, Mr. Sikes made inquiries of the two young gentlemen himself, and this act of kindness gave rise to a conversation, during which Oliver's arrest was given at length, and the circumstances of his arrest. , By the way, some revisions have been made, and the clever ghost thinks that some revisions are necessary on this occasion. "I'm afraid," said Fagin, "that he's going to tell something that will involve us." "Very likely," said Sikes, with a wicked grin. "You're out of luck, Fagin." "You see, I'm a little worried," said the old Jew, as if he didn't care about the interruption, and kept his eyes on the other party as he spoke. "What worries me is that if we get involved in that trick, it will make a big mess, and it's worse for you than it is for me, my dear."

With a start, Sikes turned towards Fagin.But the old gentleman just shrugged his shoulders almost to his ears, and stared intently at the opposite wall. There was a long pause, and each member of the venerable company seemed lost in thought in his own way.Even the dog was no exception. It licked its lips more or less fiercely, as if it was planning to bite the ankle of the first gentleman or lady it met on the street anyway. "Somebody has to go to the Bureau and make inquiries." Mr. Sikes' voice was much lower than when he entered the door. Fagin nodded his approval. "As long as he doesn't confess, and is sentenced, there's nothing to worry about till he comes out," said Mr. Sikes. "You'll have to watch him then. You must try to get him in your hands."

The old Jew nodded again. Indeed, the course of action was clearly well thought out.Unfortunately, there is one formidable hurdle to adoption.That is, it so happened that the Sharpshooter, and Charlie Bates, and Mr. Fagin and William Sykes, each had a strong, deep-rooted aversion to approaching a police station, for whatever reason or excuse. go. They sat like this, looking at each other, and this uncertainty must be the most unpleasant situation, and it is difficult to guess how long they will sit there.There was no need, however, to speculate on this, for the two young ladies whom Oliver had seen once before floated in, and the conversation was immediately lively again.

"What a coincidence," said Fagin. "Bette will be there, won't she, my dear?" "Where are you going?" asked Miss Bette. "Run to the bureau, my dear," teased the Jew. To do justice to the young lady, she did not outright admit that she did not want to go, but expressed an earnest and strong desire that she would rather be "struck by lightning" if she wanted to, to use a polite but ingenious phrase , avoiding a positive answer.From this it appears that the young lady was naturally well-bred, and could not bear to subject a fellow human being to the pain of categorical refusal and face-to-face payment.

Fagin's countenance darkened, and he took his eyes off the young lady in a long crimson overcoat, green boots, and yellow curling papers in her hair. She was not elegant, but she was well-dressed.Fagin turned to the other girl. "Nancy, my dear," said Fagin, in a coaxing tone, "what do you say?" "I say it won't work. Don't even try, Fagin," answered Nancy. "What do you mean?" said Mr. Sikes, looking gravely, and lifting his eyes upward. "That's what I mean, Bill," said the missus slowly. "Well, you just happen to be the right man," explained Mr. Sikes, "and no one around here knows anything about you." "I don't want them to know," said Nancy, still quite calmly. "Bill, I think it's better to have less than to have more." "She will, Fagin," said Sikes. "No, Fagin, she won't go," said Nancy. "Oh, she will, Fagin," said Sikes. Mr. Sikes was right after all.After rounds of intimidation and coaxing, and vowing to make a wish, the lady finally gave in and accepted the task.To tell the truth, her considerations were different from those of her good friend, for she had recently moved from the distant but respectable suburb of Ratcliffe to the vicinity of Fell Lane, and she was not worried about calling her innumerable Qing's acquaintances recognized it. So a crisp white apron was tied over her long coat, and a bonnet covered her hair full of curling papers, both from Fagin's inexhaustible stock—Nancy Miss is ready to go out to run errands. "Wait a moment, my dear," said Fagin, producing a little covered basket. "Hold this with one hand and look more respectable, my dear." "Give her a port key, Fagin, in the other hand," said Sikes, "to look respectable, like that." "Yes, yes, my dear, that's what it is," said Fagin, hanging a large key to the street gate on the girl's right forefinger. "Well, very well. Very well, my dear," said Fagin, rubbing his hands. "Oh, my brother. My poor, dear, dear, innocent little brother," cried Nancy, wringing the basket and the gate key back and forth in agony. "Don't know what has become of him. Where have they taken him? Oh, poor pity, gentlemen, tell me what has become of the dear boy, please, sir, please, sir. .” Miss Nancy uttered this very sad and heartbreaking line, and the few present were overwhelmed with joy. She stopped, winked at her companions, smiled and nodded comprehensively, and went out. "Ah. What a clever girl, you good people." said the old Jew, turning to a group of young friends, and shaking his head gravely, as if to use this silent exhortation, asking them to pay attention to what they had just seen. That shining role model seems to be learning a little bit. "A great part of the ladies," said Mr. Sikes, filling his glass, and pounding the table with his great fist; "this drink to her health, and if they were all like her. " While such compliments were being poured into the head of the gifted Nancy, the lady was hurrying at full speed to the police station, showing a little of her inherent timidity, though she crossed the street alone and unprotected, But still it didn't take long to arrive peacefully. She entered by the road behind the police station, tapped lightly on a cell door with her key, and listened.There was no sound inside.She coughed twice and listened again.Still seeing no reply, she spoke. "Is Nolly there, hello?" whispered Nancy, very softly. "Is Nolly here?" In this room was a hapless, shoeless convict, who had been imprisoned for playing the flute. The charge of disturbing the peace had been established, and Mr. Fanon passed a very proper sentence: a sympathetic prison moon.Mr. Fanon pointed out very pertinently and wittily that since he had so much energy that he had no place to use it, it would be more hygienic to spend it on a treadmill than on a musical instrument.The prisoner made no answer, and was still absorbed in mourning the loss of the flute, which had been confiscated by the county.So Nancy went to the next cell and knocked on the door. "Oh." A weak voice called. "Is there a little boy locked up here?" Nancy's voice began with a choked mouth. "No," replied the voice, "nothing." This is a sixty-five-year-old vagabond. He went to prison because he didn't play the flute. In other words, he was caught begging on the street because he didn't work to make ends meet.The next one was locked up by another man, who was charged with selling iron pots without a license. In order to make a living, he even ignored the Stamp Duty and Taxation Bureau. Who would not go to prison? The prisoners, however, heard no answer from Oliver, nor had they heard of him at all.Nancy went straight to the good-natured police officer in the striped waistcoat, and begged him, with the bitterest lamentations, to return her little brother, and the gate key and the little basket had an instant effect on making her all the more attractive. "I didn't catch him, dear," said the old man. "Where is he then?" cried Nancy, distraught. "Well, the gentleman took him away," replied the policeman. "What gentleman? Oh, thank God. What gentleman?" cried Nancy. In reply to this nonsensical questioning, the old man told the feigned sister that Oliver fell ill in the police station, and the results of the verification proved that it was another child who stole the things, not the one in custody. The prosecutor, finding him unconscious, took him to his lodgings, at a place the policeman knew only to be somewhere near Bentonville, when he heard a cab called. mentioned this place. Full of doubts, the troubled girl staggered towards the gate, and when she was out her hesitation changed to a brisk trot, and she took pains to take the most circuitous route back to Fagin's abode. Bill Sikes, as soon as he heard the report of his expedition, woke the white dog in haste, put on his hat, and hurried off without even a formal greeting of good morning to his companions. "Got to find out where he is, my dear, and find him," said Fagin excitedly. "Charlie, don't do anything but wander around and hear from him Bring it back. Nancy, dear, I must find him. I trust you, dear--in you and the Dodger in all things. Hold on, hold on," added the old Jew, with one With trembling hands, he opened the drawer. "Baby, take some money. The shop has to be closed tonight. You know where to find me. Don't stay a minute longer. Go, baby." As he spoke, he pushed them out of the room, then carefully double-locked the door, bolted it, and took out from the shadows the box which Oliver had inadvertently exposed, and frantically removed the gold watch and jewels. Stuff it in your clothes. There was a heavy knock on the door, which startled him in his haste. "Who is it?" he snapped. "It's me." Came the Dodger's voice through the keyhole. "What's the matter?" cried Fagin impatiently. "Say, Nancy, find him and take him to another nest?" asked the Sharpshooter. "Yes," replied Fagin, "wherever she finds him. He must be found, and found, that's all. I know what to do next. Don't be afraid." The child agreed in a low voice, "Understood," and hurried downstairs to catch up with his companions. "He has not confessed so far," said Fagin, going on with his business. "He's gonna have to gag him if he wants to spit us out in a bunch of new friends."