"Hello!" cried a loud, hoarse voice as soon as they set foot in the hallway.
"Don’t make such a noise," said Sikes, bolting the door behind him. "Show a light, Toby."
"Aha! My friend!" cried the same voice. "A light, Barney, a light! Show the gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if you don't mind."
The speaker appeared to throw a heavy object at the person he was addressing to rouse him from his sleep. A loud thud followed, and then a confused muttering, like that of a man caught between sleep and wakefulness.
"Do you hear me?" cried the voice again. "Bill Sikes is in the hallway with nobody to greet him, and you’re sleeping there as if you’ve taken a heavy dose of medicine. Are you awake now, or do you need a strike from this iron candlestick to wake you up properly?"
A pair of loose shoes shuffled hastily across the bare floor. From a door on the right, a flickering candle appeared, followed by the man Oliver had seen before—the one with the strange nasal voice who had worked at the public house on Saffron Hill.
"Bister Sikes!" exclaimed Barney, with either real or fake joy. "Cub id, sir; cub id." (Come in, sir; come in.)
"Here! You go first," said Sikes, pushing Oliver in front of him. "Move faster, or I shall step on your heels."
Muttering a curse at the boy’s slowness, Sikes pushed Oliver ahead into a low, dark room. A smoky fire burned in the fireplace, and the room was furnished with a few broken chairs, a table, and a very old sofa. On the sofa, a man was lying at full length with his legs resting much higher than his head, smoking a long pipe. He was dressed in a stylishly cut brown coat with large brass buttons, a bright orange necktie, and a colorful, patterned waistcoat. Mr. Crackit—for that was his name—had very little hair, but what he did have was dyed red and twisted into long curls, which he occasionally ran his dirty, ring-covered fingers through. He was slightly taller than average and seemed to have weak legs, though he clearly admired his own expensive boots, which he was currently staring at with great satisfaction.
"Bill, my boy!" said Toby Crackit, turning his head toward the door. "I’m glad to see you. I was almost afraid you’d given up on the plan, in which case I would have attempted it alone. Hello!"
He uttered this last exclamation in great surprise as his eyes landed on Oliver. He sat up immediately and demanded to know who the boy was.
"The boy. Only the boy!" replied Sikes, pulling a chair toward the fire.
"Wud of Bister Fagid’s lads," (One of Mr. Fagin's lads) Barney added with a grin.
"Fagin’s, eh!" exclaimed Toby, studying Oliver. "What an invaluable boy he’ll be for picking the pockets of old ladies in church! His face is a fortune to him."
"That’s enough of that," interrupted Sikes impatiently. Leaning over his friend, he whispered a few words in his ear. Mr. Crackit laughed loudly and stared at Oliver with renewed astonishment.
"Now," said Sikes, sitting down. "Give us something to eat and drink while we wait. It will give us some courage—or at least it will give it to me. Sit by the fire, boy, and rest; you’ll have to go out with us again tonight, though not very far."
Oliver looked at Sikes in silent terror. Drawing a small stool to the fire, he sat with his aching head in his hands, hardly aware of his surroundings.
"Here," said Toby, as Barney placed food and a bottle on the table. "To a successful robbery!" He rose to honor the toast, finished a glass of spirits in one gulp, and Sikes did the same.
"A drink for the boy," said Toby, half-filling a small glass. "Drink this, young innocence."
"Indeed," said Oliver, looking up piteously at the man’s face. "Indeed, I—"
"Drink it!" echoed Toby. "Do you think I don’t know what’s good for you? Tell him to drink it, Bill."
"He had better!" said Sikes, placing his hand threateningly on his pocket. "I swear, he’s more trouble than a whole family of pickpockets. Drink it, you stubborn brat; drink it!"
Terrified by their menacing gestures, Oliver swallowed the contents of the glass. He immediately began coughing violently, which delighted Toby and Barney and even brought a small smile to Sikes’s grim face.
Once Sikes had eaten—Oliver could manage only a small crust of bread—the two men lay down on chairs for a short nap. Oliver stayed on his stool by the fire, while Barney wrapped himself in a blanket and slept on the floor. They remained there for some time, with no sound except for the occasional crackle of the fire. Oliver fell into a deep doze, dreaming of gloomy lanes and dark graveyards, until he was suddenly startled by Toby Crackit jumping up and announcing it was half-past one in the morning.
In an instant, the others were on their feet, preparing for the task ahead. Sikes and Toby wrapped large dark scarves around their necks and put on their heavy coats. Barney brought several items from a cupboard and stuffed them into their pockets.
"Guns for me, Barney," said Toby Crackit.
"Here they are," replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols.
"Got the crowbars?" asked Toby, fastening a small iron bar inside his coat.
"Everything is ready," Sikes replied. He took a thick stick from Barney, who then helped fasten Oliver’s cape.
"Now then!" said Sikes, holding out his hand.
Oliver, who was completely dazed by the late hour and the drink he had been forced to consume, mechanically put his hand into Sikes’s.
"Take his other hand, Toby," said Sikes. "Check outside, Barney."
The man went to the door and returned to report that all was quiet. The two robbers stepped out into the night with Oliver between them. It was now intensely dark and the fog was much heavier than before. The air was so damp that Oliver’s hair and eyebrows became stiff with frozen moisture within minutes. They crossed the bridge and walked briskly toward Chertsey.
"Straight through the town," whispered Sikes. "Nobody will be awake to see us tonight."
They hurried through the deserted main street. Occasionally, a dim light shone from a bedroom window or a dog barked in the distance, but the streets were empty. As the church bell struck two, they had already left the town behind.
They quickened their pace and turned onto a road on the left. After walking a short distance, they stopped before a large, isolated house surrounded by a wall. Toby Crackit climbed to the top of the wall in an instant.
"The boy next," said Toby. "Lift him up; I’ll catch him."
Before Oliver could even react, Sikes had grabbed him under the arms, and a few seconds later, he and Toby were lying on the grass on the other side. Sikes followed immediately, and they crept cautiously toward the house.
Now, for the first time, Oliver realized with horror that robbery, and perhaps even murder, were the goals of this expedition. He clasped his hands together and let out a quiet cry of terror. His face turned pale, his limbs began to shake, and he sank to his knees.
"Get up!" whispered Sikes, trembling with rage as he drew his pistol. "Get up, or I’ll scatter your brains upon the grass."
"Oh! For God’s sake, let me go!" cried Oliver. "Let me run away and die in the fields. I will never go near London again! Please, have mercy on me, and do not make me steal!"
Sikes swore a dreadful oath and cocked the pistol, but Toby quickly struck it from his hand and covered Oliver’s mouth, dragging him toward the house.
"Hush!" hissed Toby. "That won't work here. Say another word and I'll settle the matter myself with a blow to the head. That makes no noise and is much more professional. Here, Bill, force the shutter open."
Sikes, cursing Fagin for sending such a weak boy, used his crowbar vigorously but quietly. After a brief struggle, the shutter swung open. It was a small window, about five feet above the ground, at the back of the house. The opening was so small that the residents had likely thought it didn't need much protection, but it was just large enough for a boy of Oliver’s size. Sikes quickly broke the lock of the window itself.
"Now listen," whispered Sikes, shining a dark lantern into Oliver’s face. "I’m going to put you through there. Take this light, go softly up the steps in front of you, and walk along the hall to the front door. Unfasten it and let us in."
"There’s a bolt at the top you won’t reach," Toby added. "Stand on one of the chairs in the hall."
Sikes told him to be quiet and then mounted Toby’s back to reach the window. He put Oliver through the opening feet-first and lowered him safely to the floor inside.
"Take the lantern," Sikes whispered, looking in. "You see the stairs?"
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped, "Yes." Sikes pointed his pistol at him through the window, warning him that he was within range the entire time and that if he hesitated, he would be shot instantly.
"It will be over in a minute," Sikes whispered. "As soon as I let go of you, do your job. Listen!"
"What’s that?" whispered Toby. They listened intently.
"Nothing," said Sikes, releasing Oliver's collar. "Go!"
In the few seconds he had to think, Oliver had firmly resolved that, even if he died for it, he would run up the stairs and warn the family. Filled with this idea, he moved forward quickly but quietly.
"Come back!" Sikes suddenly shouted. "Back! Back!"
Terrified by the sudden noise, Oliver dropped his lantern. He didn't know whether to run forward or back. A cry echoed through the house—a light appeared—and Oliver saw two terrified, half-dressed men at the top of the stairs. Then came a flash, a loud bang, smoke, and a crash. Oliver staggered back.
Sikes reached through the window and grabbed Oliver by the collar before the smoke had even cleared. He fired his own pistol at the men, who were already retreating, and dragged the boy out.
"Hold your arm tighter!" said Sikes as he pulled him through the window. "Give me a scarf. They’ve hit him. Look how the boy is bleeding!"
Then came the loud ringing of a bell, the sound of more gunfire, and the shouting of men. Oliver felt himself being carried rapidly over uneven ground. The noises grew faint in the distance, a deadly cold feeling spread over his heart, and then he saw and heard no more.