As Dawkins objected to entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock before he piloted Oliver down some of the worst streets of the city's worst section. Finally they entered a tumbledown building, and groped their way up a rickety stairway. Then Dawkins threw open the door of a back room and drew Oliver in after him.
The walls and ceiling of the room were perfectly black with age and dirt. There was a deal table before the fire, upon which were a candle stuck in a bottle, some pewter pots, bread and butter. Several rough beds were huddled side by side upon the floor. Seated around the table were four or five boys, none older than the Dodger, smoking long clay pipes and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men. But the chief figure was an old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous face was offset by a mass of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, and was busily at work frying sausages over a fire.
The boys crowded around Dawkins as he whispered a few words in the ear of the Jew. Then they all turned, as did the Jew, and grinned at Oliver.
"This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend Oliver Twist."
The Jew made a low bow to Oliver, took him by the hand, and hoped he should have the honor of his intimate acquaintance. Upon this, the young gentlemen with the pipes came round him, and shook both his hands very hard—especially the one in which he held his little bundle. One young gentleman was very anxious to hang up his cap for him; and another was so obliging as to put his hands in Oliver's pockets, in order that, as he was very tired, he might not have the trouble of emptying them himself when he went to bed.
"We are very glad to see you, Oliver—very," said the Jew. "Dodger, take off the sausages, and draw a tub near the fire for Oliver."
Oliver ate his share, and the Jew then mixed him a glass of hot gin and water, telling him he must drink it off directly, because another gentleman wanted the tumbler. Oliver did as he was desired. Immediately afterwards, he felt himself gently lifted on to one of the sacks, and then he sank into a deep sleep.
The next morning, Oliver watched the Jew, Dawkins, and Charley Bates, another of the boys, play a curious game. The old man would place a purse and other valuables in his pockets, whereupon the boys would try to slip them out without his knowledge.
Oliver didn't understand in the least what it was all about, even when Fagin gave him some lessons in the same game. But he was to learn with a shock, a few days later, when Bates and Dawkins took him with them for a walk about town.
They were just emerging from a narrow court not far from the open square in Clerkenwell, when the Dodger made a sudden stop, and, laying his finger on his lip, drew his companions back again with the greatest caution.