"May wolves tear your throats!" Sikes muttered, grinding his teeth in rage. "I wish I were among you; you would howl even louder then."
As Sikes growled this curse with the desperate ferocity that defined his nature, he rested the wounded boy's body across his knee. For a brief moment, he turned his head to look back at those pursuing him.
Very little could be seen through the thick mist and darkness. However, the loud shouting of men echoed through the air, and the barking of nearby dogs—awakened by the clanging of the alarm bell—resounded from every direction.
"Stop, you cowardly hound!" the robber shouted after Toby Crackit. Toby, making the best use of his long legs, was already far ahead. "Stop!"
The repetition of the command brought Toby to a sudden standstill. He was not entirely sure if he was out of range of a pistol shot, and he knew that Sikes was in no mood to be challenged.
"Give me a hand with the boy," Sikes cried, gesturing furiously to his partner. "Come back here!"
Toby made a show of returning, though he moved slowly. In a low voice, broken by his lack of breath, he expressed considerable reluctance as he approached.
"Move faster!" Sikes commanded, laying the boy in a dry ditch at his feet and drawing a pistol from his pocket. "Don’t you dare abandon me."
At that moment, the noise of the pursuit grew louder. Sikes looked around again and could see that the men were already climbing the gate of the field where he stood. A couple of dogs were several paces ahead of them.
"It’s all over, Bill!" Toby cried. "Drop the kid and run for your life!" With this final piece of advice, Mr. Crackit decided he would rather risk being shot by his friend than face the certainty of being captured by his enemies. He turned and darted off at full speed.
Sikes clenched his teeth and took one last look around. He threw a heavy cape over Oliver’s motionless form to hide him, then ran along the hedge to draw the pursuers’ attention away from the spot where the boy lay. He paused for a second before another hedge that met the first at a right angle, threw his pistol high into the air, cleared the obstacle with a single leap, and vanished.
"Ho there! Come back!" cried a trembling voice from behind. "Pincher! Neptune! Come here at once!"
The dogs, who seemed to have no more desire for the hunt than their masters did, readily obeyed the command. Three men, who had now advanced into the middle of the field, stopped to consult one another.
"My advice—or rather, my orders—are," said the fattest man of the group, "that we should return home immediately."
"I am agreeable to anything that Mr. Giles suggests," said a shorter man. He was not slim, and his face was remarkably pale. He spoke with great politeness, as frightened men often do.
"I wouldn’t want to seem rude, gentlemen," said the third man, who had called the dogs back, "but Mr. Giles ought to know best."
"Certainly," replied the shorter man. "Whatever Mr. Giles says, it is not our place to contradict him. I know my position. Thank my lucky stars, I know my position!" To tell the truth, the little man seemed to know his situation perfectly well, and he clearly found it undesirable; his teeth chattered as he spoke.
"You are afraid, Brittles," said Mr. Giles.
"I am not," Brittles replied.
"You are," insisted Giles.
"That is a falsehood, Mr. Giles," said Brittles.
"You are a liar, Brittles," Mr. Giles retorted.
These insults were the result of Mr. Giles’s irritation. He was annoyed that the responsibility for retreating had been placed entirely on his shoulders under the guise of a compliment. The third man ended the dispute quite logically.
"I’ll tell you the truth, gentlemen," he said. "We are all afraid."
"Speak for yourself, sir," said Mr. Giles, who was actually the palest of the three.
"I am doing exactly that," the man replied. "It is natural and proper to be afraid under such circumstances. I certainly am."
"So am I," added Brittles, "but there’s no need to be so blunt about it."
These honest admissions softened Mr. Giles’s anger. He finally admitted that he was also afraid. Consequently, they all turned around and ran back with complete agreement. They only stopped when Mr. Giles—who was out of breath and burdened by a heavy pitchfork—insisted on stopping to apologize for his earlier harsh words.
"But it is wonderful," Mr. Giles remarked once he had recovered, "what a man will do when his blood is up. I might have committed murder—I am sure of it—if we had caught those rascals."
As the other two felt a similar sense of relief, they began to speculate on why their courage had vanished so suddenly.
"I know what caused it," said Mr. Giles. "It was the gate."
"I wouldn’t be surprised if you were right," Brittles exclaimed, catching onto the idea.
"You can be sure of it," said Giles. "Climbing that gate stopped the flow of excitement. I felt mine disappear the moment I reached the top."
By a remarkable coincidence, the other two had experienced the same unpleasant sensation at that exact moment. It was obvious, therefore, that the gate was to blame.
This conversation took place between the two servants who had surprised the burglars and a traveling tinker who had been sleeping in an outhouse. The tinker and his two dogs had been woken up to join the chase. Mr. Giles served as both butler and steward to the old lady of the house, while Brittles was a general worker. Although Brittles was over thirty, he had started working there as a child and was still treated as a young lad.
Encouraging each other with this talk, but staying very close together nonetheless, the three men hurried back to a tree where they had hidden their lantern. They had left it there so the thieves wouldn’t know where to aim their guns. They grabbed the light and hurried home at a quick pace. Long after they had disappeared into the darkness, the light could be seen flickering in the distance like a ghost in the damp, gloomy air.
The air grew colder as the day slowly approached, and the mist rolled along the ground like a thick cloud of smoke. The grass was wet, and the paths were filled with mud and water. A damp, unhealthy wind moaned through the trees. Still, Oliver lay motionless and unconscious where Sikes had left him.
Morning arrived quickly. The air became sharp and piercing as the first dull light of dawn appeared in the sky. Objects that had looked terrifying in the darkness gradually took on their familiar shapes. Rain began to fall heavily, pattering against the leafless bushes. But Oliver felt nothing as it beat against him; he remained stretched out, helpless, on his bed of cold earth.
At last, a low cry of pain broke the silence. Oliver woke up. His left arm, roughly bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side, the cloth soaked with blood. He was so weak that he could barely sit up. When he finally managed it, he looked feebly around for help and groaned. Trembling from cold and exhaustion, he tried to stand, but he shuddered from head to foot and fell back to the ground.
After a brief period of fainting, Oliver was driven by a sickening feeling in his heart—a warning that if he stayed there, he would surely die. He forced himself onto his feet and attempted to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered like a drunken man. Nevertheless, he kept going, his head drooping on his chest as he stumbled forward into the unknown.
Confused and bewildering ideas began to crowd his mind. He hallucinated that he was still walking between Sikes and Crackit, hearing their angry arguments in his ears. Sometimes he realized he was talking to them aloud. Then he imagined he was back on the road with Sikes, feeling the robber’s tight grip on his wrist. Suddenly, he would startle at the imaginary sound of gunfire or see flashing lights before his eyes. Throughout these visions, there was a constant, underlying ache of pain that exhausted him.
He staggered on, mechanically crawling through gates or gaps in hedges, until he reached a road. Here, the heavy rain finally cleared his mind.
He looked around and saw a house nearby. He thought that if the inhabitants saw his condition, they might have compassion for him. Even if they didn't, it would be better to die near other human beings than alone in the open fields. Gathering his remaining strength for one final effort, he turned his staggering steps toward the building.
As he drew closer, a strange feeling came over him. He didn’t remember the details, but the shape of the house seemed familiar.
That garden wall! He remembered falling on his knees on that very grass the night before, begging the two men for mercy. It was the exact house they had tried to rob.
Oliver was filled with such terror that, for a moment, he forgot the agony of his wound and thought only of escaping. But he could barely stand. Even if he were healthy and strong, where could he go? He pushed against the garden gate; it was unlocked and swung open. He tottered across the lawn, climbed the steps, and knocked faintly at the door. Then, his strength completely failed him, and he collapsed against one of the pillars of the porch.
At that same time, Mr. Giles, Brittles, and the tinker were recovering from the terrors of the night with tea in the kitchen. Usually, Mr. Giles did not associate familiarly with the humbler servants, preferring to treat them with a distant politeness that reminded them of his superior status. However, danger and near-death make all men equals. Thus, Mr. Giles sat with his legs stretched out by the fire, telling a dramatic and detailed story of the robbery. The cook and housemaid listened with breathless interest.
"It was about half-past two," Mr. Giles said, "or perhaps closer to three, when I woke up. I turned in my bed—like this—" (here he turned in his chair and pulled the tablecloth over him to demonstrate) "and I thought I heard a noise."
The cook turned pale and asked the housemaid to shut the door. The housemaid asked Brittles, who asked the tinker, who pretended to be asleep.
"—I heard a noise," Giles continued. "At first, I told myself it was just my imagination. I was about to go back to sleep when I heard it again, very clearly."
"What kind of noise?" the cook whispered.
"A kind of breaking noise," Giles replied, looking around.
"More like the sound of a metal bar on a grater," Brittles suggested.
"It might have sounded like that by the time you heard it," Giles countered, "but at first, it was a breaking sound. I pushed back the blankets—" he pushed back the tablecloth— "sat up, and listened."
The cook and housemaid cried out in fear and moved their chairs closer together.
"I realized then that someone was forcing open a door or window," Giles resumed. "I thought to myself, I must wake up that poor lad Brittles and save him from being murdered in his sleep."
All eyes turned to Brittles, who stared at the speaker with his mouth wide open, looking horrified.
"I got out of bed softly," Giles said, "and put on a pair of—"
"There are ladies present, Mr. Giles," the tinker interrupted.
"—Of shoes, sir!" Giles snapped. "I grabbed the loaded pistol and walked on tiptoe to his room. 'Brittles,' I said, 'don't be frightened!'"
"You did say that," Brittles whispered.
"'I think we are dead men, Brittles,' I said, 'but don't be afraid.'"
"Was he scared?" the cook asked.
"Not at all," Giles lied. "He was almost as firm as I was."
"I would have died of fright," the housemaid remarked.
"That's because you're a woman," Brittles said, regaining a bit of his confidence.
"Brittles is right," Giles nodded. "From a woman, nothing else is expected. We, being men, took a lantern and felt our way downstairs in the pitch dark."
Mr. Giles stood up and took two steps with his eyes shut to act out the scene. Suddenly, he started violently, as did everyone else. The cook and housemaid screamed.
"It was a knock," Mr. Giles said, trying to look calm. "Someone open the door."
Nobody moved.
"It is very strange to have a knock at this hour," Giles said, looking at the pale faces around him. He looked quite worried himself. "But the door must be opened. Do you hear me?"
He looked at Brittles, but the young man pretended the order wasn't for him. He looked at the tinker, but the man had suddenly fallen asleep again. The women were out of the question.
"If Brittles would prefer to open the door with a witness," Giles said after a silence, "I am willing to go with him."
"So am I," said the tinker, waking up instantly.
Brittles agreed to these terms. Seeing that it was now broad daylight outside, the group felt slightly more courageous. They went upstairs with the dogs in front. The women, afraid to stay behind, followed. On Mr. Giles’s advice, they all talked loudly to warn any criminals that they were a large group. Giles even pinched the dogs' tails to make them bark fiercely.
With these precautions taken, Mr. Giles held onto the tinker's arm and gave the command to open the door. Brittles obeyed. The group, peeping over each other’s shoulders, saw nothing more dangerous than poor little Oliver Twist. He was exhausted and speechless, raising his heavy eyes to beg for their mercy.
"A boy!" Mr. Giles exclaimed, suddenly acting brave and pushing the tinker aside. "What's the matter with—wait—Brittles, look! Don't you recognize him?"
Brittles saw Oliver and let out a loud cry. Mr. Giles seized the boy by an arm and a leg and dragged him into the hall, laying him on the floor.
"Here he is!" Giles shouted up the stairs in great excitement. "We’ve caught one of the thieves, ma'am! I shot him, miss, and Brittles held the light!"
"—In a lantern, miss!" Brittles added, shouting so his voice would carry.
The servants ran to spread the news that a robber had been captured. The tinker began trying to revive Oliver, fearing the boy might die before he could be brought to justice. In the middle of the noise, a sweet female voice suddenly silenced everyone.
"Giles!" the voice whispered from the top of the stairs.
"I’m here, miss," Giles replied. "Don't be alarmed; I’m not hurt. He didn't put up much of a fight!"
"Hush!" the young lady replied. "You are frightening my aunt. Is the poor creature badly hurt?"
"Wounded severely, miss," Giles replied with great pride.
"He looks like he's dying, miss," Brittles shouted. "Would you like to see him before he goes?"
"Please, be quiet!" the lady replied. "Wait just a moment while I speak to my aunt."
With a soft footstep, she disappeared and soon returned. She gave orders that the wounded boy was to be carried carefully to Mr. Giles’s room. Brittles was told to ride the pony to the nearby town immediately to fetch a doctor and a constable.
"But won't you take one look at him first, miss?" Giles asked, as proud as if Oliver were a rare bird he had hunted.
"Not now, for the world," the young lady replied. "Poor boy! Oh, Giles, treat him kindly for my sake."
The old servant looked at her with admiration, as if she were his own child. Then, bending over Oliver, he helped carry him upstairs with the gentle care of a mother.