A Brave and Honest Boy, Oliver Twist Page #5

"A Brave and Honest Boy, Oliver Twist" is a retelling of Charles Dickens' classic tale, "Oliver Twist," which follows the journey of a young orphan boy named Oliver. Born into a life of poverty and hardship in a workhouse, Oliver escapes to seek a better life in London. Along the way, he encounters a colorful cast of characters, including kind-hearted souls and criminal elements, as he grapples with issues of morality, identity, and the search for belonging. Through his courage and innocence, Oliver's story highlights the struggles of the underprivileged and the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity. This adaptation emphasizes themes of bravery, honesty, and the quest for love and acceptance.

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miles more, before he thought how much he must undergo ere he could hope
to reach the place toward which he was going. As this consideration
forced itself upon him, he slackened his pace a little, and meditated
upon his means of getting there. He had a crust of bread, a coarse
shirt, and two pairs of stockings in his bundle. He had a penny too--a
gift of Sowerberry's after some funeral in which he had acquitted
himself more than ordinarily well--in his pocket. "A clean shirt,"
thought Oliver, "is a very comfortable thing; and so are two pairs of
darned stockings; and so is a penny; but they are small helps to a
sixty-five miles' walk in winter-time."

Thus day after day the weary but plucky little boy walked on, and early
on the seventh morning after he had left his native place, Oliver limped
slowly into the little town of Barnet, and sat down on a doorstep to
rest. Some few stopped to gaze at Oliver for a moment or two, or turned
round to stare at him as they hurried by; but none helped him, or
troubled themselves to inquire how he came there. He had no heart to
beg. And there he sat for some time when he was roused by observing
that a boy was watching him most earnestly from the opposite side of the
way. He took little heed of this at first; but the boy remained in the
same attitude so long that Oliver raised his head and returned his
steady look. Upon this, the boy crossed over, and, walking close up to
Oliver, said:

"Hullo, my covey! What's the row?"

The boy who had spoken to the young wayfarer was about his own age: but
one of the queerest-looking boys that Oliver had ever seen. He was a
snub-nosed, flat-browed, common-faced boy enough; and as dirty a youth
as one would wish to see; but he had about him all the airs and manners
of a man. He was short for his age; with rather bow-legs, and little,
sharp, ugly eyes. His hat was stuck on the top of his head so lightly
that it threatened to fall off every moment. He wore a man's coat, which
reached nearly to his heels.

"Hullo, my covey! What's the row?" said the stranger.

"I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver: the tears standing in his
eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these
seven days."

"Walking for sivin days!" said the young gentleman. "Oh, I see. Beak's
order, eh? But," he added, noticing Oliver's look of surprise, "I
suppose you don't know what a beak is, my flash com-pan-i-on."

Oliver mildly replied that he had always heard a bird's mouth described
by the word beak.

"My eyes, how green!" exclaimed the young gentleman. "Why, a beak's a
madgst'rate; and when you walk by a beak's order, it's not straight
forerd.

"But come," said the young gentleman; "you want grub, and you shall have
it. Up with you on your pins. There! Now then!"

Assisting Oliver to rise, the young gentleman took him to a near by
grocery store, where he bought a supply of ready-dressed ham and a
half-quartern loaf, or, as he himself expressed it, "a fourpenny bran!"
Taking the bread under his arm, the young gentleman turned into a small
public-house, and led the way to a tap-room in the rear of the premises.
Here a pot of beer was brought in by direction of the mysterious youth;
and Oliver, falling to at his new friend's bidding, made a long and
hearty meal, during which the strange boy eyed him from time to time
with great attention.

"Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length
concluded.

"Yes."

"Got any lodgings?"

"No."

"Money?"

"No."

The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as
the big coat-sleeves would let them go.

"Do you live in London?" inquired Oliver.

"Yes, I do, when I'm at home," replied the boy. "I suppose you want some
place to sleep in to-night, don't you?"

"I do, indeed," answered Oliver. "I have not slept under a roof since I
left the country."

"Don't fret your eyelids on that score," said the young gentleman. "I've
got to be in London to-night; and I know a 'spectable old genelman as
lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the
change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don't he
know me? Oh, no! not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!" which
was his queer way of saying he and the old gentleman were good friends.

This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted,
especially as it was immediately followed up by the assurance that the
old gentleman referred to would doubtless provide Oliver with a
comfortable place, without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and
free talk, from which Oliver learned that his friend's name was Jack
Dawkins--among his intimate friends better known as the "Artful
Dodger"--and that he was a peculiar pet of the elderly gentleman before
mentioned.

As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall, it
was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the small city street, along
which the Dodger scudded at a rapid pace, directing Oliver to follow
close at his heels.

Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of
his leader, he could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either
side of the way as he passed along. A dirtier or more wretched place he
had never seen.

Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away, when they
reached the bottom of the hill. His conductor, catching him by the arm,
pushed open the door of a house, and, drawing him into the passage,
closed it behind them.

"Now, then!" cried a voice from below, in reply to a whistle from the
Dodger.

"Plummy and slam!" was the reply.

This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right; for the
light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the
passage, and a man's face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old
kitchen staircase had been broken away.

"There's two of you," said the man, thrusting the candle farther out,
and shading his eyes with his hand. "Who's the t'other one?"

"A new pal," replied Jack Dawkins, pulling Oliver forward.

"Where did he come from?"

"Greenland. Is Fagin up-stairs?"

"Yes; he's a sortin' the wipes. Up with you!" The candle was drawn back,
and the face disappeared.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly
grasped by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and
broken stairs; which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition
that showed he was well acquainted with them. He threw open the door of
a back-room, and drew Oliver in after him.

The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and
dirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candle
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