"I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you? Well, I've got to be in London to-night, and I know a 'spectable old genelman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change--that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you."
This unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted, and on the way to London, where they arrived at nightfall, Oliver learnt that his friend's name was Jack Dawkins, but that he was known among his intimates as "The Artful Dodger."
In Field Lane, in the slums of Saffron Hill, the Dodger pushed open the door of a house, and drew Oliver within.
"Now, then," cried a voice, in reply to his whistle.
"Plummy and slam," said the Dodger.
This seemed to be a watchword, for a man at once appeared with a candle.
"There's two on you," said the man. "Who's the t'other one, and where does he come from?"
"A new pal from Greenland," replied Jack Dawkins. "Is Fagin upstairs?"
"Yes, he's sortin the wipes. Up with you."
The room that Oliver was taken into was black with age and dirt. Several rough beds, made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor. Seated round 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. An old shrivelled Jew, of repulsive face, was standing over the fire, dividing his attention between a frying-pan and a clothes-horse full of silk handkerchiefs.