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

nersofaman.Hewasshortofhisage:withratherbow-legs,andlittle,sharp,uglyeyes.Hishatwasstuckonthetopofhisheadsolightly,thatitthreatenedtofalloffeverymoment—andwouldhavedoneso,veryoften,ifthewearerhadnothadaknackofeverynowandthengivinghisheadasuddentwitch,whichbroughtitbacktoitsoldplaceagain.Heworeaman’scoat,whichreachednearlytohisheels.Hehadturnedthecuffsback,half-wayuphisarm,togethishandsoutofthesleeves:apparentlywiththeultimateviewofthrustingthemintothepocketsofhiscorduroytrousersfortherehekeptthem.Hewas,altogether,asroysteringandswaggeringayounggentlemanaseverstoodfourfeetsix,orsomethingless,inthebluchers. “Hullo,mycovey!What’stherow?”saidthisstrangeyounggentlemantoOliver. “Iamveryhungryandtired,”repliedOliver:thetearsstandinginhiseyesashespoke.“Ihavewalkedalongway.Ihavebeenwalkingthesesevendays.” “Walkingforsivindays!”saidtheyounggentleman.“Oh,Isee.Beak’sorder,eh?But,”headded,noticingOliver’slookofsurprise,“Isupposeyoudon’tknowwhatabeakis,myflashcom-pan-i-on.” Olivermildlyreplied,thathehadalwaysheardabird’smouthdescribedbytheterminquestion. “Myeyes,howgreen!”exclaimedtheyounggentleman.“Why,abeak’samadgst’rateandwhenyouwalkbyabeak’sorder,it’snotstraightforerd,butalwaysagoingup,andniveracomingdownagin.Wasyouneveronthemill?” “Whatmill?”inquiredOliver. “Whatmill!Why,themill—themillastakesupsolittleroomthatit’llworkinsideaStoneJugandalwaysgoesbetterwhenthewind’slowwithpeople,thanwhenit’shighacosthentheycan’tgetworkmen.Butcome,”saidtheyounggentleman“youwantgrub,andyoushallhaveit.I’matlow-water-markmyself—onlyonebobandamagpiebut,asfarasitgoes,I’llforkoutandstump.Upwithyouonyourpins.There!Nowthen!Morrice!” AssistingOlivertorise,theyounggentlemantookhimtoanadjacentchandler’sshop,wherehepurchasedasufficiencyofready-dressedhamandahalf-quarternloaf,or,ashehimselfexpressedit,“afourpennybran!”thehambeingkeptcleanandpreservedfromdust,bytheingeniousexpedientofmakingaholeintheloafbypullingoutaportionofthecrumb,andstuffingittherein.Takingthebreadunderhisarm,theyounggentlmanturnedintoasmallpublic-house,andledthewaytoatap-roomintherearofthepremises.Here,apotofbeerwasbroughtin,bydirectionofthemysteriousyouthandOliver,fallingto,athisnewfriend’sbidding,madealongandheartymeal,duringtheprogressofwhichthestrangeboyeyedhimfromtimetotimewithgreatattention. “GoingtoLondon?”saidthestrangeboy,whenOliverhadatlengthconcluded. “Yes.” “Gotanylodgings?” “No.” “Money?” “No.” Thestrangeboywhistledandputhisarmsintohispockets,asfarasthebigcoat-sleeveswouldletthemgo. “DoyouliveinLondon?”inquiredOliver. “Yes.Ido,whenI’mathome,”repliedtheboy.“Isupposeyouwantsomeplacetosleepinto-night,don’tyou?” “Ido,indeed,”answeredOliver.“IhavenotsleptunderaroofsinceIleftthecountry.” “Don’tfretyoureyelidsonthatscore,”saidtheyounggentleman.“I’vegottobeinLondonto-nightandIknowa’spectableoldgentlemanaslivesthere,wot’llgiveyoulodgingsfornothink,andneveraskforthechange—thatis,ifanygenelmanheknowsinte