‘Let me see; he’ll be back in twenty minutes,
at the longest,’ said Mr. Brownlow, pulling
out his watch, and placing it on the table.
‘It will be dark by that time.’
‘Oh! you really expect him to come back, do
you?’ inquired Mr. Grimwig.
‘Don’t you?’ asked Mr. Brownlow,
smiling.
The spirit of contradiction was strong in Mr. Grimwig’s
breast, at the moment; and it was rendered stronger
by his friend’s confident smile.
‘No,’ he said, smiting the table with
his fist, ’I do not. The boy has a new
suit of clothes on his back, a set of valuable books
under his arm, and a five-pound note in his pocket.
He’ll join his old friends the thieves, and
laugh at you. If ever that boy returns to this
house, sir, I’ll eat my head.’
With these words he drew his chair closer to the table;
and there the two friends sat, in silent expectation,
with the watch between them.
It is worthy of remark, as illustrating the importance
we attach to our own judgments, and the pride with
which we put forth our most rash and hasty conclusions,
that, although Mr. Grimwig was not by any means a
bad-hearted man, and though he would have been unfeignedly
sorry to see his respected friend duped and deceived,
he really did most earnestly and strongly hope at that
moment, that Oliver Twist might not come back.
It grew so dark, that the figures on the dial-plate
were scarcely discernible; but there the two old gentlemen
continued to sit, in silence, with the watch between
them.
SHOWING HOW VERY FOND OF OLIVER TWIST, THE MERRY OLD
JEW AND MISS NANCY WERE
In the obscure parlour of a low public-house, in the
filthiest part of Little Saffron Hill; a dark and
gloomy den, where a flaring gas-light burnt all day
in the winter-time; and where no ray of sun ever shone
in the summer: there sat, brooding over a little
pewter measure and a small glass, strongly impregnated
with the smell of liquor, a man in a velveteen coat,
drab shorts, half-boots and stockings, whom even by
that dim light no experienced agent of the police
would have hesitated to recognise as Mr. William Sikes.
At his feet, sat a white-coated, red-eyed dog; who
occupied himself, alternately, in winking at his master
with both eyes at the same time; and in licking a large,
fresh cut on one side of his mouth, which appeared
to be the result of some recent conflict.
‘Keep quiet, you warmint! Keep quiet!’
said Mr. Sikes, suddenly breaking silence. Whether
his meditations were so intense as to be disturbed
by the dog’s winking, or whether his feelings
were so wrought upon by his reflections that they
required all the relief derivable from kicking an
unoffending animal to allay them, is matter for argument
and consideration. Whatever was the cause, the
effect was a kick and a curse, bestowed upon the dog
simultaneously.
Dogs are not generally apt to revenge injuries inflicted
upon them by their masters; but Mr. Sikes’s
dog, having faults of temper in common with his owner,
and labouring, perhaps, at this moment, under a powerful
sense of injury, made no more ado but at once fixed
his teeth in one of the half-boots. Having given
in a hearty shake, he retired, growling, under a form;
just escaping the pewter measure which Mr. Sikes levelled
at his head.
