CHAPTER VIII. OLIVER WALKS TO LONDON. HE ENCOUNTERS ON THE ROAD A STRANGE SORT OF YOUNG GENTLEMAN

theirhalfpencebackintotheirpocketsagain,declaringthathewasanidleyoungdog,anddidn’tdeserveanythingandthecoachrattledawayandleftonlyacloudofdustbehind. Insomevillages,largepaintedboardswerefixedup:warningallpersonswhobeggedwithinthedistrict,thattheywouldbesenttojail.ThisfrightenedOliververymuch,andmadehimgladtogetoutofthosevillageswithallpossibleexpedition.Inothers,hewouldstandabouttheinn-yards,andlookmournfullyateveryonewhopassed:aproceedingwhichgenerallyterminatedinthelandlady’sorderingoneofthepost-boyswhowereloungingabout,todrivethatstrangeboyoutoftheplace,forshewassurehehadcometostealsomething.Ifhebeggedatafarmer’shouse,tentoonebuttheythreatenedtosetthedogonhimandwhenheshowedhisnoseinashop,theytalkedaboutthebeadle—whichbroughtOliver’sheartintohismouth,—veryoftentheonlythinghehadthere,formanyhourstogether. Infact,ifithadnotbeenforagood-heartedturnpike-man,andabenevolentoldlady,Oliver’stroubleswouldhavebeenshortenedbytheverysameprocesswhichhadputanendtohismother’sinotherwords,hewouldmostassuredlyhavefallendeadupontheking’shighway.Buttheturnpike-mangavehimamealofbreadandcheeseandtheoldlady,whohadashipwreckedgrandsonwanderingbarefootinsomedistantpartoftheearth,tookpityuponthepoororphan,andgavehimwhatlittleshecouldafford—andmore—withsuchkindandgentlewords,andsuchtearsofsympathyandcompassion,thattheysankdeeperintoOliver’ssoul,thanallthesufferingshehadeverundergone. Earlyontheseventhmorningafterhehadlefthisnativeplace,OliverlimpedslowlyintothelittletownofBarnet.Thewindow-shutterswereclosedthestreetwasemptynotasoulhadawakenedtothebusinessoftheday.Thesunwasrisinginallitssplendidbeautybutthelightonlyservedtoshowtheboyhisownlonesomenessanddesolation,ashesat,withbleedingfeetandcoveredwithdust,uponadoor-step. Bydegrees,theshutterswereopenedthewindow-blindsweredrawnupandpeoplebeganpassingtoandfro.SomefewstoppedtogazeatOliverforamomentortwo,orturnedroundtostareathimastheyhurriedbybutnonerelievedhim,ortroubledthemselvestoinquirehowhecamethere.Hehadnohearttobeg.Andtherehesat. Hehadbeencrouchingonthestepforsometime:wonderingatthegreatnumberofpublic-houses(everyotherhouseinBarnetwasatavern,largeorsmall),gazinglistlesslyatthecoachesastheypassedthrough,andthinkinghowstrangeitseemedthattheycoulddo,withease,inafewhours,whatithadtakenhimawholeweekofcourageanddeterminationbeyondhisyearstoaccomplish:whenhewasrousedbyobservingthataboy,whohadpassedhimcarelesslysomeminutesbefore,hadreturned,andwasnowsurveyinghimmostearnestlyfromtheoppositesideoftheway.Hetooklittleheedofthisatfirstbuttheboyremainedinthesameattitudeofcloseobservationsolong,thatOliverraisedhishead,andreturnedhissteadylook.Uponthis,theboycrossedoverandwalkingcloseuptoOliver,said, “Hullo,mycovey!What’stherow?” Theboywhoaddressedthisinquirytotheyoungwayfarer,wasabouthisownage:butoneofthequeerestlookingboysthatOliverhadevenseen.Hewasasnub-nosed,flat-browed,common-facedboyenoughandasdirtyajuvenileasonewouldwishtoseebuthehadabouthimalltheairsandman