"Give me the other," said Sikes. "Here, Bull's-eye!"
The dog looked up and growled.
"See here, boy!" said Sikes, putting his other hand to Oliver's throat; "if he speaks ever so soft a word, hold him! D'ye mind?"
The dog growled again, and, licking his lips, eyed Oliver as if he were anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay.
And in this fashion Oliver saw with unspeakable horror that he was being taken back to the Jew. What would the trusting Mr. Brownlow think of him? What, indeed! The hot tears blinded Oliver's eyes at the bare thought.
Presently they arrived before the house but found it perfectly dark.
"Let's have a glim," said Sikes, "or we shall go breaking our necks, or treading on the dog. Look after your legs if you do! That's all."
"Stand still a moment, and I'll get you one," replied a voice. The footsteps of the speaker were heard, and in another minute the form of Mr. John Dawkins, otherwise the Artful Dodger, appeared. He bore in his right hand a tallow candle stuck in the end of a cleft stick.
The young gentleman did not stop to bestow any other mark of recognition upon Oliver than a humorous grin; but, turning away, beckoned the visitors to follow him. As they entered the low, dingy room, they were received with a shout of laughter.
"Oh, my wig, my wig!" cried Charley Bates; "here he is! oh, cry, here he is! Oh, Fagin, look at him; Fagin, do look at him! I can't bear it; it is such a jolly game, I can't bear it! Hold me, somebody, while I laugh it out."