For many days, Oliver remained in the old man’s room, carefully picking the marks out of the pocket-handkerchiefs—of which a great number were brought home—and occasionally taking part in the game already described. This game was played regularly every morning by the two boys and Fagin. Eventually, however, Oliver began to long for fresh air and took every opportunity to earnestly beg the old gentleman to allow him to go out to work with his two companions.
Oliver’s desire to be actively employed had been strengthened by what he observed of the old man’s strict moral code. Whenever the Dodger or Charley Bates returned home at night empty-handed, Fagin would lecture them with great intensity on the misery of idle and lazy habits. He would emphasize the necessity of an active life by sending them to bed without any supper. On one occasion, he even went so far as to knock them both down a flight of stairs; however, this was an unusually violent way of enforcing his virtuous principles.
At last, one morning, Oliver obtained the permission he had been seeking so eagerly. There had been no handkerchiefs to work on for two or three days, and their dinners had been rather small. Perhaps these were the reasons for the old gentleman’s sudden agreement; regardless, he told Oliver he could go out, placing him under the joint protection of Charley Bates and the Dodger.
The three boys set off together. The Dodger walked with his coat-sleeves tucked up and his hat tilted to one side, as usual; Master Bates strolled along with his hands in his pockets; and Oliver walked between them, wondering where they were going and which branch of "manufacturing" he would be taught first.
The pace at which they walked was such a lazy, suspicious stroll that Oliver soon began to think his companions intended to deceive the old gentleman by not going to work at all. Furthermore, the Dodger had a wicked habit of pulling the caps off small boys and tossing them into basement areas, while Charley Bates showed a very loose understanding of property rights. Charley frequently stole apples and onions from street stalls, stuffing them into pockets that were so surprisingly large they seemed to reach down to his very boots. These actions looked so dishonest that Oliver was on the point of announcing his intention to find his own way back, when his thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a mysterious change in the Dodger’s behavior.
They were just emerging from a narrow alley near the open square in Clerkenwell, a place still known as "The Green," when the Dodger suddenly stopped. Laying a finger on his lips, he drew his companions back with the greatest caution and care.
“What’s the matter?” Oliver whispered.
“Hush!” replied the Dodger. “Do you see that old fellow at the book-stall?”
“The old gentleman over the way?” said Oliver. “Yes, I see him.”
“He’ll do,” remarked the Dodger.
“A perfect target,” added Charley Bates.
Oliver looked from one to the other with great surprise, but he was not permitted to ask any questions. The two boys walked stealthily across the road and slunk behind the old gentleman whom they had been watching. Oliver followed a few paces behind them, standing still in silent amazement, unsure whether to move forward or retreat.
The old gentleman was a very respectable-looking person, with powdered hair and gold spectacles. He was dressed in a bottle-green coat with a black velvet collar, wore white trousers, and carried a smart bamboo cane under his arm. Having taken up a book from the stall, he stood there reading as intently as if he were sitting in an armchair in his own private study. In fact, he was so absorbed in his reading that he saw neither the book-stall, nor the street, nor the boys—nothing, in short, but the book itself. He read through it page by page with the greatest interest and eagerness.
To Oliver’s absolute horror and alarm, as he stood just a few feet away with his eyes wide with shock, he saw the Dodger plunge his hand into the old gentleman’s pocket and pull out a handkerchief. He saw the Dodger hand it to Charley Bates, and then, to his utter disbelief, he watched them both run away around the corner at full speed!
In an instant, the entire mystery of the handkerchiefs, the watches, the jewels, and the old man rushed upon the boy’s mind. He stood still for a moment, the blood tingling through his veins from pure terror until he felt as if he were on fire. Then, confused and frightened, he took to his heels and ran as fast as he could.
This all happened in less than a minute. At the very moment Oliver began to run, the old gentleman reached into his pocket, missed his handkerchief, and turned around sharply. Seeing the boy running away at such a rapid pace, he naturally concluded that Oliver was the thief. Shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might, he chased after him, still holding his book.
However, the old gentleman was not the only person who joined the pursuit. The Dodger and Master Bates, unwilling to attract attention by running down the main street, had simply hidden in the first doorway around the corner. As soon as they heard the cry and saw Oliver running, they realized what had happened. They stepped out immediately and, shouting “Stop thief!” as well, joined the chase like concerned citizens.
Although Oliver had been raised among people who spoke of philosophy, he was not familiar with the idea that "self-preservation is the first law of nature." If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this betrayal. Being unprepared, however, he was even more terrified. He flew like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring behind him.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a kind of magic in those words. The shopkeeper leaves his counter, and the driver leaves his wagon; the butcher drops his tray, and the baker his basket. Even the schoolboy leaves his games. They all run together, screaming and yelling, knocking down pedestrians as they turn corners, waking up dogs, and startling the birds. The streets and squares echo with the sound.
“Stop thief! Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices, and the crowd grows larger at every turn. They fly through the mud and rattle along the pavements. Windows are pushed up, people run out of their houses, and the mob grows even bigger. Even an audience watching a street performance will desert the show to join the rushing crowd, lending fresh energy to the cry, “Stop thief! Stop thief!”
There is a dark passion for hunting something deeply hidden in the human heart. Consider this wretched, breathless child, panting with exhaustion, with terror and agony in his eyes. Large drops of sweat stream down his face as he strains every muscle to stay ahead of his pursuers. As they gain on him every second, the crowd greets his decreasing strength with joy. “Stop thief!” Yes, stop him, for heaven’s sake, if only out of mercy!
He was stopped at last by a powerful blow. He fell onto the pavement, and the crowd eagerly gathered around him, everyone struggling to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him some air!” “Nonsense! He doesn’t deserve it!” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here he comes!” “Make room for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir?” “Yes.”
Oliver lay there, covered in mud and dust, bleeding from the mouth. He looked wildly at the circle of faces surrounding him as the old gentleman was pushed toward the center by the crowd.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”
“Afraid!” muttered the crowd. “That’s a good one!”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“I did that, sir,” said a large, clumsy man, stepping forward. “And I hurt my knuckle against his mouth. I stopped him, sir.”
The man touched his hat with a grin, expecting a reward for his trouble. However, the old gentleman looked at him with an expression of dislike and glanced anxiously around, as if he were thinking of running away himself. He might have attempted it, providing the crowd with another chase, had not a police officer made his way through the throng and seized Oliver by the collar.
“Come, get up,” the officer said roughly.
“It wasn't me, sir! Truly, it was two other boys,” said Oliver, clasping his hands and looking around in desperation. “They are here somewhere.”
“Oh no, they aren’t,” said the officer. He meant this to be sarcastic, but it was also true; the Dodger and Charley Bates had already escaped down a nearby alley.
“Come, get up!”
“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman compassionately.
“Oh, I won't hurt him,” replied the officer, nearly tearing the boy’s jacket off as he pulled him up. “I know your type. Will you stand on your own legs, you young devil?”
Oliver, who could hardly stand, managed to raise himself to his feet. He was immediately dragged through the streets by his collar at a fast pace. The gentleman walked beside the officer, while the crowd followed, staring back at Oliver from time to time. The local boys shouted in triumph, and on they went toward the police station.