CHAPTER XXI.

THE EXPEDITION.

IT was a cheerless morning when they got into the street, blowing and

raining hard, and the clouds looking dull and stormy. The night had

been very wet, for large pools of water had collected in the road and

the kennels were overflowing. There was a faint glimmering of the

coming day in the sky, but it rather aggravated than relieved the gloom

of the scene, the sombre light only serving to pale that which the

street-lamps afforded, without shedding any warmer or brighter tints

upon the wet housetops and dreary streets. There appeared to be nobody

stirring in that quarter of the town, for the windows of the houses

were all closely shut, and the streets through which they passed were

noiseless and empty.

By the time they had turned into the Bethnal Green road, the day had

fairly begun to break. Many of the lamps were already extinguished;

a few country waggons were slowly toiling on towards London; and now

and then a stagecoach, covered with mud, rattled briskly by, the

driver bestowing, as he passed, an admonitory lash upon the heavy

waggoner who, by keeping on the wrong side of the road, had endangered

his arriving at the office a quarter of a minute after his time. The

public-houses, with gas-lights burning inside, were already open. By

degrees other shops began to be unclosed, and a few scattered people

were met with. Then came straggling groups of labourers going to their

work; then men and women with fish-baskets on their heads; donkey-carts

laden with vegetables, chaise-carts filled with live-stock or whole

carcasses of meat; milkwomen with pails; and an unbroken concourse of

people trudging out with various supplies to the eastern suburbs of the

town. As they approached the City, the noise and traffic gradually

increased; and when they threaded the streets between Shoreditch and

Smithfield, it had swelled into a roar of sound and bustle. It was as

light as it was likely to be till night came on again, and the busy

morning of half the London population had begun.

Turning down Sun-street and Crown-street, and crossing Finsbury-square,

Mr. Sikes struck, by way of Chiswell-street, into Barbican, thence into

Long-lane, and so into Smithfield, from which latter place arose a

tumult of discordant sounds that filled Oliver Twist with surprise and

amazement.

It was market-morning. The ground was covered nearly ankle-deep with

filth and mire; and a thick steam perpetually rising from the reeking

bodies of the cattle, and mingling with the fog, which seemed to rest

upon the chimney-tops, hung heavily above. All the pens in the centre

of the large area, and as many temporary ones as could be crowded

into the vacant space, were filled with sheep; and tied up to posts

by the gutter side were long lines of beasts and oxen three or four

deep. Countrymen, butchers, drovers, hawkers, boys, thieves, idlers,

and vagabonds of every low grade, were mingled together in a dense

mass; the whistling of drovers, the barking of dogs, the bellowing and

plunging of beasts, the bleating of sheep, and grunting and squeaking

of pigs; the cries of hawkers, the shouts, oaths, and quarrelling on

all sides; the ringing of bells and roar of voices that issued from

every public-house; the crowding, pushing, driving, beating, whooping,

and yelling; the hideous and discordant din that resounded from every

corner of the market; and the unwashed, unshaven, squalid, and dirty

figures constantly running to and fro, and bursting in and out of the

throng, rendered it a stunning and bewildering scene, which quite

confounded the senses.

Mr. Sikes, dragging Oliver after him, elbowed his way through the

thickest of the crowd, and bestowed very little attention upon the

numerous sights and sounds which so astonished the boy. He nodded twice

or thrice to a passing friend, and, resisting as many invitations to

take a morning dram, pressed steadily onward until they were clear of

the turmoil, and had made their way through Hosier-lane into Holborn.

“Now, young un!” said Sikes surlily, looking up at the clock of St.

Andrew’s church, “hard upon seven! you must step out. Come, don’t lag

behind already, Lazy-legs!”

Mr. Sikes accompanied this speech with a fierce jerk at his little

companion’s wrist; and Oliver, quickening his pace into a kind of trot,

between a fast walk and a run, kept up with the rapid strides of the

housebreaker as well as he could.

They kept on their course at this rate until they had passed Hyde Park

corner, and were on their way to Kensington, when Sikes relaxed his

pace until an empty cart which was at some little distance behind, came

up: when, seeing “Hounslow” written upon it, he asked the driver, with

as much civility as he could assume, if he would give them a lift as

far as Isleworth.

“Jump up,” said the man. “Is that your boy?”

“Yes; he’s my boy,” replied Sikes, looking hard at Oliver, and putting

his hand abstractedly into the pocket where the pistol was.

“Your father walks rather too quick for you, don’t he, my man?”

inquired the driver, seeing that Oliver was out of breath.

“Not a bit of it,” replied Sikes, interposing. “He’s used to it. Here,

take hold of my hand, Ned. In with you!”

Thus addressing Oliver, he helped him into the cart; and the driver,

pointing to a heap of sacks, told him to lie down there, and rest

himself.

As they passed the different milestones, Oliver wondered more and

more where his companion meant to take him. Kensington, Hammersmith,

Chiswick, Kew Bridge, Brentford, were all passed; and yet they kept

on as steadily as if they had only begun their journey. At length

they came to a public-house called the Coach and Horses, a little way

beyond which another road appeared to turn off. And here the cart

stopped.

Sikes dismounted with great precipitation, holding Oliver by the hand

all the while; and, lifting him down directly, bestowed a furious

look upon him, and rapped the side-pocket with his fist in a very

significant manner.

“Good-bye, boy,” said the man.

“He’s sulky,” replied Sikes, giving him a shake; “he’s sulky,—a young

dog! Don’t mind him.”

“Not I!” rejoined the other, getting into his cart. “It’s a fine day,

after all.” And he drove away.

Sikes waited till he had fairly gone, and then, telling Oliver he might

look about him if he wanted, once again led him forward on his journey.

They turned round to the left a short way past the public-house, and

then, taking a right-hand road, walked on for a long time, passing many

large gardens and gentlemen’s houses on both sides of the way, and

stopping for nothing but a little beer, until they reached a town, in

which, against the wall of a house, Oliver saw written up in pretty

large letters, “Hampton.” Here they lingered about in the fields for

some hours. At length, they came back into the town, and keeping on,

past a public-house which bore the sign of the Red Lion, and by the

river-side for a short distance, they came to an old public-house with

a defaced sign-board, and ordered some dinner by the kitchen fire.

The kitchen was an old, low-roofed room, with a great beam across the

middle of the ceiling, and benches with high backs to them by the fire,

on which were seated several rough men in smock-frocks, drinking and

smoking. They took no notice of Oliver, and very little of Sikes; and,

as Sikes took very little notice of them, he and his young comrade sat

in a corner by themselves, without being much troubled by the company.

They had some cold meat for dinner, and sat here so long after it,

while Mr. Sikes indulged himself with three or four pipes, that Oliver

began to feel quite certain they were not going any further. Being

much tired with the walk and getting up so early, he dozed a little

at first, and then, quite overpowered by fatigue and the fumes of the

tobacco, fell fast asleep.

It was quite dark when he was awakened by a push from Sikes. Rousing

himself sufficiently to sit up and look about him, he found that worthy

in close fellowship and communication with a labouring man, over a pint

of ale.

“So, you’re going on to Lower Halliford, are you?” inquired Sikes.

“Yes, I am,” replied the man, who seemed a little the worse—or better,

as the case might be—for drinking; “and not slow about it neither. My

horse hasn’t got a load behind him going back, as he had coming up in

the mornin’, and he wont be long a-doing of it. Here’s luck to him!

Ecod! he’s a good un!”

“Could you give my boy and me a lift as far as there?” demanded Sikes,

pushing the ale towards his new friend.

“If you’re going directly, I can,” replied the man, looking out of the

pot. “Are you going to Halliford?”

“Going on to Shepperton,” replied Sikes.

“I’m your man as far as I go,” replied the other. “Is all paid, Becky?”

“Yes, the other gentleman’s paid,” replied the girl.

“I say!” said the man, with tipsy gravity, “that wont do, you know.”

“Why not?” rejoined Sikes. “You’re a-going to accommodate us, and wot’s

to prevent my standing treat for a pint or so, in return?”

The stranger reflected upon this argument with a very profound face,

and having done so, seized Sikes by the hand, and declared he was a

real good fellow. To which Mr. Sikes replied, he was joking;—as if he

had been sober, there would have been strong reason to suppose he was.

After the exchange of a few more compliments, they bade the company

good night, and went out, the girl gathering up the pots and glasses as

they did so, and lounging out to the door, with her hands full, to see

the party start.

The horse, whose health had been drunk in his absence, was standing

outside, ready harnessed to the cart. Oliver and Sikes got in without

any further ceremony, and the man, to whom he belonged, having lingered

a minute or two “to bear him up,” and to defy the hostler and the

world to produce his equal, mounted also. Then the hostler was told to

give the horse his head, and, his head being given him, he made a very

unpleasant use of it, tossing it into the air with great disdain, and

running into the parlour windows over the way; after performing which

feats, and supporting himself for a short time on his hind-legs, he

started off at great speed, and rattled out of the town right gallantly.

The night was very dark. A damp mist rose from the river and the

marshy ground about, and spread itself over the dreary fields. It was

piercing cold, too; all was gloomy and black. Not a word was spoken,

for the driver had grown sleepy, and Sikes was in no mood to lead him

into conversation. Oliver sat huddled together in a corner of the cart,

bewildered with alarm and apprehension, and figuring strange objects in

the gaunt trees, whose branches waved grimly to and fro, as if in some

fantastic joy at the desolation of the scene.

As they passed Sunbury church, the clock struck seven. There was a

light in the ferry-house window opposite, which streamed across the

road, and threw into more sombre shadow a dark yew-tree with graves

beneath it. There was a dull sound of falling water not far off, and

the leaves of the old tree stirred gently in the night wind. It seemed

like quiet music for the repose of the dead.

Sunbury was passed through, and they came again into the lonely road.

Two or three miles more, and the cart stopped. Sikes alighted, and,

taking Oliver by the hand, they once again walked on.

They turned into no house at Shepperton, as the weary boy had expected,

but still kept walking on, in mud and darkness, through gloomy lanes

and over cold open wastes, until they came within sight of the lights

of a town at no great distance. On looking intently forward, Oliver saw

that the water was just below them, and that they were coming to the

foot of a bridge.

Sikes kept straight on till they were close upon the bridge, and then

turned suddenly down a bank upon the left. “The water!” thought Oliver,

turning sick with fear. “He has brought me to this lonely place to

murder me!”

He was about to throw himself on the ground, and make one struggle

for his young life, when he saw that they stood before a solitary

house, all ruinous and decayed. There was a window on each side of the

dilapidated entrance, and one story above; but no light was visible. It

was dark, dismantled, and, to all appearance, uninhabited.

Sikes, with Oliver’s hand still in his, softly approached the low

porch, and raised the latch. The door yielded to the pressure, and they

passed in together.