Accordingly, one raw evening they set forth—Oliver, Sikes, and another burglar, Toby Crackit—the ruffians threatening to shoot the boy if he so much as uttered one word. On account of his small size he was chosen to creep through a little window of the house which was to be robbed. The opening was about five feet from the ground, and so small that the inmates did not think it worth while to defend it securely. But it was large enough to admit a boy of Oliver's size, nevertheless.
"Now listen, you young limb," whispered Sikes, drawing a dark-lantern from his pocket and throwing the glare full in Oliver's face: "I'm going to put you through there. Take this light and go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the little hall to the street door. Unfasten it and let us in."
So saying, the burglar boosted Oliver up on his back, and put him through the window.
"You see the stairs, don't you?"
Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out "Yes." Sikes pointed the pistol at him, and advised him to take notice that he was within shot all the way. Nevertheless, the boy had firmly resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one effort to dart upstairs from the hall and alarm the family. Filled with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.
"Come back!" suddenly cried Sikes aloud. "Back! back!"
Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew not whether to advance or fly.
The cry was repeated—a light appeared—a vision of two terrified half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes—a flash—a loud noise—a smoke—a crash somewhere, but where he knew not,—and he staggered back.
Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again and had him by the collar before the smoke had cleared away.
He fired his own pistol after the men, who were already retreating, and dragged the boy up.