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.