A Brave and Honest Boy, Oliver Twist Page #8

"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.

• Children

								

moment, with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror
that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then, confused and
frightened, he took to his heels, and, not knowing what he did, made off
as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.

This was all done in a minute's space. In the very instant when Oliver
began to run, the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket, and
missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round. Seeing the boy scudding
away at such a rapid pace, he very naturally concluded him to be the
thief; and, shouting "Stop thief!" with all his might, made off after
him, book in hand.

But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the
hue-and-cry. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract public
attention by running down the open street, had merely retired into the
very first doorway round the corner. They no sooner heard the cry, and
saw Oliver running, than, guessing exactly how the matter stood, they
issued forth with great quickness; and shouting "Stop thief!" too,
joined in the pursuit like good citizens.

Away they ran, pell-mell, helter-skelter, slap-dash; tearing, yelling,
screaming, knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners,
rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls; and making streets,
squares, and courts re-echo with the sound.

At last a burly fellow struck Oliver a terrible blow and he went down
upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gathered round him, each
newcomer jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse.
"Stand aside!" "Give him a little air!" "Nonsense! he don't deserve it!"
"Where's the gentleman?" "Here he is, coming down the street." "Make
room there for the gentleman!" "Is this the boy, sir?"

Oliver lay covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth,
looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when
the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by
the foremost of the pursuers.

"Yes," said the gentleman, "I am afraid it is the boy."

"Afraid!" murmured the crowd. "That's a good 'un!"

"Poor fellow!" said the gentleman, "he has hurt himself."

"I did that, sir," said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; "and
preciously I cut my knuckle agin his mouth. I stopped him, sir."

The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his
pains; but the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike,
looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself;
which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus have
afforded another chase, had not a police officer (who is generally the
last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through
the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.

"Come, get up," said the man, roughly.

"It wasn't me, indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed, it was two other boys," said
Oliver, clasping his hands passionately and looking round. "They are
here somewhere."

"Oh no, they ain't," said the officer. He meant this to be ironical, but
it was true besides; for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down
the first convenient court they came to. "Come, get up!"

"Don't hurt him," said the old gentleman, compassionately.

"Oh no, I won't hurt him," replied the officer, tearing his jacket half
off his back, in proof thereof. "Come, I know you; it won't do. Will you
stand upon your legs, you young devil?"

Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself on his
feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar at a
rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer's side.

At last they came to a place called Mutton Hill. Here he was led beneath
a low archway, and up a dirty court, where they saw a stout man with a
bunch of whiskers on his face and a bunch of keys in his hand.

"What's the matter now?" said the man carelessly.

"A young fogle-hunter," replied the officer who had Oliver in charge.

"Are you the party that's been robbed, sir?" inquired the man with the
keys.

"Yes, I am," replied the old gentleman; "but I am not sure that this boy
actually took the handkerchief. I would rather not press the case."

"Must go before the magistrate now, sir," replied the man. "His worship
will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!"

This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he
unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was
searched, and, nothing being found upon him, locked up.

The old gentleman looked almost as unhappy as Oliver when the key grated
in the lock.

At last this gentleman, Mr. Brownlow, was summoned before the
magistrate--a very mean man, whose name was Fang. Oliver was brought in,
and the magistrate, after using very abusive language to Mr. Brownlow,
had him sworn, but would not let him tell his story. He flew into a rage
and told the policeman to tell what happened.

The policeman, with becoming humility, related how he had taken the boy;
how he had searched Oliver, and found nothing on his person; and how
that was all he knew about it.

"Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang.

"None, your worship," replied the policeman.

Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to Mr.
Brownlow, said in a towering passion:

"Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, man, or
do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to
give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench."

With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to
state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had
run after the boy because he saw him running away.

"He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman, in conclusion. "And
I fear," he added, with great energy, looking toward the bar, "I really
fear that he is ill."

"Oh! yes, I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come, none of your
tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?"

Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale;
and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

"What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" demanded Mr. Fang.

At this point of the inquiry, Oliver raised his head, and, looking
round with imploring eyes, asked feebly for a drink of water.

"Stuff and nonsense!" said Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me."

"I think he really is ill, your worship," said the officer.

"I know better," said Mr. Fang.

"Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes