44 Oliver Twist - Read By Stephanie Poppins

"Oliver Twist," written by Charles Dickens in the 19th century, tells the story of an orphan boy and his adventures in London's slums. In this episode, there is a shock in the night that disrupts the fragile peace of the darkened city streets, propelling Oliver into unforeseen challenges and encounters.

In this episode, The Artful Dodger is held to account.

Transcript

Hello.

Welcome to Sleep Stories with Steph,

Your go-to romantic podcast that guarantees you a calm and entertaining transition into a great night's sleep.

Come with me as we immerse ourselves in a romantic journey to a time long since forgotten.

But before we begin,

Let's take a moment to focus on where we are now.

Take a deep breath in through your nose and let it out with a long sigh.

Now close your eyes and feel yourself sink deeper into the support beneath you.

It is time to relax and fully let go.

There is nothing you need to be doing now and nowhere you need to go.

Happy listening.

Chapter 43,

Wherein is shown how the artful dodger got into trouble.

And so it was you that was your own friend,

Was it?

Asked Mr.

Claypole,

His disguised name Mr.

Bolter.

When by virtue of the compact entered into between them,

He'd remove next day to Fagin's house.

God,

I thought as much last night.

Every man's his own friend,

My dear,

Replied Fagin with his most insinuating grin.

He hasn't as good as one as himself anywhere.

Except sometimes,

Replied Bolter,

Assuming the air of a man of the world,

Some people are nobody's enemies but their own.

Don't believe that,

Said Fagin.

When a man's his own enemy,

It's only because he's too much his own friend,

Not because he's careful for everybody but himself.

You see,

Pursued Fagin,

We're so mixed up together and identified in our interest that it must be so.

For instance,

It's your object to take care of number one,

Meaning yourself.

Certainly,

Replied Mr.

Bolter,

You're about right there.

Well,

You can't take care of yourself,

Number one,

Without taking care of me,

Number one.

Number two,

You mean,

Said Mr.

Bolter.

No,

I don't,

Retorted Fagin.

I'm of the same importance to you as you are to yourself.

I say,

Said Mr.

Bolter,

You're a very nice man.

You've done a very pretty thing,

Bolter,

And what I love you for doing.

But what's at the same time going to put the crack around your throat that's so very easily tied and difficult to unloose?

In plain English,

The halter.

Mr.

Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief as if he felt it inconveniently tight.

The gallows,

Continued Fagin.

The gallows,

My dear,

Is an ugly finger post,

Which points out a very short and sharp turning that stopped many a bold fellow's career on the broad highway.

To keep in the easy road and keep it at a distance is object number one with you.

Of course it is,

Replied Mr.

Bolter.

What do you talk about such things for?

Only to show you my meaning clearly,

My dear,

Said the Jew.

To be able to do business,

You depend upon me.

To keep my little business all snug,

I depend upon you.

The first is your number one,

The second my number one.

The more you value your number one,

The more careful you must be of mine.

So at last we come to what I told you at first.

A regard for number one holds us all together and must do so unless we would all go to pieces in company.

That's true,

Rejoined Mr.

Bolter thoughtfully.

You're a cunning old codger.

Mr.

Fagin saw with delight this tribute to his powers was no mere compliment,

But that he had really impressed his recruit with a sense of his wily genius,

Which was most important that he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance.

To strengthen an impression so desirable and useful,

He followed up the blow by acquainting him in some detail with the magnitude and extent of his operations.

Mr.

Bolter's respect visibly increased.

He became tempered at the same time with a degree of wholesome fear,

Which it was highly desirable to awaken.

In this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me under heavy losses,

Said Fagin,

My best hand was taken from me yesterday morning.

You told me to say he died,

Cried Mr.

Bolter.

No,

No,

Not so bad as that.

Not quite so bad.

He was wanted.

He was charged with attempting to pick a pocket and they found a silver snuff box on him.

His own,

My dear,

His own,

For he took snuff himself and was very fond of it.

They remanded him today for they thought he knew the owner.

He was worth fifty boxes and I'd give the price of as many to have him back.

You should have known the Dodger,

My dear,

You should have known the Dodger.

Well,

I shall know him,

I hope,

Don't you think so?

I'm doubtful about it,

Replied Fagin with a sigh.

If they don't get any fresh evidence,

It'll be a summary conviction,

We'll have him back again after six weeks.

But if they do,

It's a case of lagging.

They know what a clever lad he is.

He'll be a lifer,

They'll make the artful nothing less than a lifer.

Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue,

When the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates.

His hands in his breeches pockets and his face twisted up into a look of self-comical woe.

It's all up,

Fagin,

Said Charlie,

When he and his new companion have been made known to each other.

What do you mean?

They found the gentleman who owns the box.

Two or three more's coming to identify him and the artful's booked for a passage out.

I must have a full suit of mourning,

Fagin,

And a hatband to visit him in before he sets out.

To think of Jack Dawkins,

The dodger,

The artful dodger,

Going abroad for a common tuckney apenny sneeze box.

I never thought he'd have done it under a gold watch,

Chain and seals at the lowest.

Why didn't he rob some rich old gentleman of all his wallaballs and go out as a gentleman,

Like a common prick without no honour,

No glory?

With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend,

Master Bates sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and despondency.

What are you talk about his having no honour or glory for?

Exclaimed Fagin.

Wasn't he always the top sawyer among you all?

Is there one of you who could touch him or come near him on any scent?

Not one,

Replied Master Bates in a voice rendered husky by regret.

Then what are you talk of?

What are you blubbering for?

Because it isn't on the record,

Is it?

Because it can't come out in the indictment,

Because nobody will ever know half of what he was.

How will he stand in the Newgate calendar,

Perhaps not being there at all?

My eye,

My eye,

What a blow this is!

Huh,

Cried Fagin,

Extending his right hand and turning to Mr Balter in a fit of chuckling,

Which shook him as though he had the palsy.

See what a pride they take in their profession,

My dear.

Ain't it beautiful?

Mr Balter nodded assent and Fagin,

After contemplating the grief of Charlie Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction,

Stepped up to that young gentleman and patted him on the shoulder.

Never mind,

Charlie,

Said Fagin soothingly.

It'll come out.

It'll be sure to come out.

They'll all know what a clever fellow he was.

He'll show it himself.

And not disgrace his old pals and teachers.

Think how young he is,

Too.

What a distinction,

Charlie,

To be lagged at this time in life.

Well,

It's an honour,

That is,

Said Charlie,

A little consoled.

He shall have all he wants,

Continued the Jew.

He'll be kept in the stone jug,

Charlie,

Like a gentleman,

Like a gentleman,

With his beer every day and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with.

He can't spend it.

Shall he,

Though?

That he shall.

And we'll have a big week,

Charlie,

One that's got the greatest gift of the gab to carry on his defence.

And he'll make a speech for himself,

Too,

If he likes.

And we'll read it all in the papers.

Artful dodger shrieks a laughter.

Here the court was convulsed.

Eh,

Charlie,

Eh?

Ha ha,

Laughed Master Bates.

What a lark that'll be.

What a lark.

I say,

How the Artful would bother him,

Wouldn't he?

He would,

Cried Fagin.

He shall.

He will.

To be sure,

So he will,

Repeated Charlie,

Rubbing his hands.

I think I see him now,

Cried the Jew.

So do I,

Cried Charlie Bates.

So do I.

I see it all before me,

Upon my soul.

What a game.

What a regular game.

All the bigwigs trying to look solemn.

And Jack Dawkins addresses them as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge's own son.

In fact,

Mr Fagin had so well humoured his young friend's eccentric disposition that Master Bates,

Who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned dodger rather in the light of a victim,

Now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of the most uncommon and exquisite humour.

He felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.

We must know how he gets on today by some handy means,

Said Fagin.

Let me think.

Shall I go?

Said Charlie.

Not for the world.

Are you mad,

My dear?

Start mad that you'd walk into the very place where.

.

.

No,

Charlie,

No.

One is enough to lose at a time.

You don't mean to go yourself,

I suppose,

Said Charlie.

That wouldn't quite fit,

Replied Fagin.

Then why don't you send this new cove?

Charlie Bates laid his hand on Mr Bolter's arm.

Nobody knows him.

Why,

If he didn't mind,

Observed Fagin.

Mind?

Why should he have to mind?

Really nothing,

My dear.

Fagin turned to Mr Bolter.

Noah backed towards the door and shook his head with a kind of sober alarm.

And none of that.

It's not in my department,

That ain't.

What department has he got,

Fagin?

Never mind,

Retorted Mr Bolter.

Don't take your liberties with your superiors,

Little boy,

Or you'll find yourself in the wrong shop.

Charlie Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat,

It was some time before Fagin could interpose and represent to Mr Bolter he incurred no possible danger in visiting the police office.

That,

Inasmuch as no account of the little affair in which he had engaged,

Nor any description of his person had yet been forwarded to the Metropolis,

It was very probable he was not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter.

And that,

If he were properly disguised,

It would be as safe as any spot to visit as any in London,

Insomuch as it would be,

Of all places,

To the very last to which he could be supposed likely to resort of his own free will.

Persuaded in part by these representations,

But overborne in a much greater degree by his fear of Fagin,

Mr Bolter,

A Mr Claypole,

At length consented with a very bad grace to undertake the expedition.