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

rducesyou.Anddon’theknowme?Oh,no!Notintheleast!Bynomeans.Certainlynot!” Theyounggentlemansmiled,asiftointimatethatthelatterfragmentsofdiscoursewereplayfullyironicalandfinishedthebeerashedidso. Thisunexpectedofferofshelterwastootemptingtoberesistedespeciallyasitwasimmediatelyfollowedup,bytheassurancethattheoldgentlemanreferredto,woulddoubtlessprovideOliverwithacomfortableplace,withoutlossoftime.ThisledtoamorefriendlyandconfidentialdialoguefromwhichOliverdiscoveredthathisfriend’snamewasJackDawkins,andthathewasapeculiarpetandprotegeoftheelderlygentlemanbeforementioned. Mr.Dawkin’sappearancedidnotsayavastdealinfavourofthecomfortswhichhispatron’sinterestobtainedforthosewhomhetookunderhisprotectionbut,ashehadaratherflightlyanddissolutemodeofconversing,andfurthermoreavowedthatamonghisintimatefriendshewasbetterknownbythesobriquetof“TheArtfulDodger,”Oliverconcludedthat,beingofadissipatedandcarelessturn,themoralpreceptsofhisbenefactorhadhithertobeenthrownawayuponhim.Underthisimpression,hesecretlyresolvedtocultivatethegoodopinionoftheoldgentlemanasquicklyaspossibleand,ifhefoundtheDodgerincorrigible,ashemorethanhalfsuspectedheshould,todeclinethehonourofhisfartheracquaintance. AsJohnDawkinsobjectedtotheirenteringLondonbeforenightfall,itwasnearlyeleveno’clockwhentheyreachedtheturnpikeatIslington.TheycrossedfromtheAngelintoSt.John’sRoadstruckdownthesmallstreetwhichterminatesatSadler’sWellsTheatrethroughExmouthStreetandCoppiceRowdownthelittlecourtbythesideoftheworkhouseacrosstheclassicgroundwhichonceborethenameofHockley-in-the-HolethenceintoLittleSaffronHillandsointoSaffronHilltheGreat:alongwhichtheDodgerscuddedatarapidpace,directingOlivertofollowcloseathisheels. AlthoughOliverhadenoughtooccupyhisattentioninkeepingsightofhisleader,hecouldnothelpbestowingafewhastyglancesoneithersideoftheway,ashepassedalong.Adirtierormorewretchedplacehehadneverseen.Thestreetwasverynarrowandmuddy,andtheairwasimpregnatedwithfilthyodours. Therewereagoodmanysmallshopsbuttheonlystockintradeappearedtobeheapsofchildren,who,evenatthattimeofnight,werecrawlinginandoutatthedoors,orscreamingfromtheinside.Thesoleplacesthatseemedtoprosperamidthegeneralblightoftheplace,werethepublic-housesandinthem,thelowestordersofIrishwerewranglingwithmightandmain.Coveredwaysandyards,whichhereandtheredivergedfromthemainstreet,disclosedlittleknotsofhouses,wheredrunkenmenandwomenwerepositivelywallowinginfilthandfromseveralofthedoor-ways,greatill-lookingfellowswerecautiouslyemerging,bound,toallappearance,onnoverywell-disposedorharmlesserrands. Oliverwasjustconsideringwhetherhehadn’tbetterrunaway,whentheyreachedthebottomofthehill.Hisconductor,catchinghimbythearm,pushedopenthedoorofahousenearFieldLaneanddrawinghimintothepassage,closeditbehindthem. “Now,then!”criedavoicefrombelow,inreplytoawhistlefromtheDodger. “Plummyandslam!”wasthereply. Thisseemedtobesomewatchwordorsignalthatallwasrightforthelightofafeeblecandlegleamedonthewallattheremot