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.
That's it.
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 8 Continued Mr.
Dawkins' appearance did not say a vast deal in favour of the comforts which his patrons' interest obtained for those whom he took under his protection.
But,
As he had a rather flighty as he had a rather flighty and dissolute mode of conversing and furthermore avowed that among his intimate friends he was better known by the name The Artful Dodger,
Oliver concluded that being of a dissipated and careless turn,
The moral precepts of his benefactor had hitherto been thrown away upon him.
Under this impression,
He secretly resolved to cultivate the good opinion of the old gentleman as quickly as possible and if he found the Dodger incorrigible,
As he more than half suspected he should,
To decline the honour of his further acquaintance.
As John Dawkins objected to their entering London before nightfall,
It was nearly eleven o'clock when they reached the turnpike at Islington.
They crossed from the Angel into St.
John's Road,
Struck down the small street which terminates at Sadler's Wells Theatre,
Through Exmouth Street and Coppice Row,
Down the little court by the side of the workhouse,
Across the classic ground which once bore the name of Hockley in the Hall,
Thence into Little Saffron Hill and so into Saffron Hill the Great,
Along which the Dodger studded at a rapid pace,
Directing Oliver to follow close at his heels.
Although Oliver had enough to occupy his attention in keeping sight of his leader,
He could not help bestowing a few hasty glances on either side of the way as he passed along.
A dirtier or more wretched place he had never seen.
The street was very narrow and muddy and the air was impregnated with filthy odours.
There were a good many small shops,
But the only stock in trade appeared to be heaps of children who,
Even at that time of night,
Were crawling in and out at the doors or screaming from the inside.
The sole places that seemed to prosper,
Amid the general blight of the place,
Were the public houses,
And in them the lowest orders of Irish were wrangling with might and maim.
Covered ways and yards,
Which here and there diverged from the main street,
Disclosed little knots of houses,
Where drunken men and women were positively wallowing in filth,
And from several of the doorways,
Great ill-looking fellows were cautiously emerging,
Bound to all appearance,
On no very well-disposed or harmless errands.
Oliver was just considering whether he hadn't better run away when they reached the bottom of the hill.
His conductor,
Catching him by the arm,
Pushed open the door of a house near Field Lane and,
Drawing him into the passage,
Closed it behind them.
"'Now then!
' cried a voice from below,
In reply to a whistle from the dodger.
"'Plummy and slam!
' was the reply.
This seemed to be some watchword or signal that all was right,
For the light of a feeble candle gleamed on the wall at the remote end of the passage,
And a man's face peeped out from where a balustrade of the old kitchen staircase had been broken away.
"'There's two on you,
' said the man,
Thrusting the candle further out and shielding his eyes with his hand.
"'Who is that other one?
' "'A new pal,
' replied Jack Dawkins,
Pulling Oliver forward.
"'Where did he come from?
' "'Greenland.
' "'Is Fagin upstairs?
' "'Yeah,
He's sorting the wipes.
Up with you!
' The candle was drawn back,
And the face disappeared.
Oliver,
Grouping his way with one hand and having the other firmly grasped by his companion,
Ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken staircase,
Which his conductor mounted with an ease and expedition that showed he was well acquainted with them.
He threw open the door of the 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 ginger beer bottle,
Two or three pewter pots,
A loaf and butter and a plate.
In a frying pan which was on the fire,
And which was secured to the mantel shelf by a string.
Some sausages were cooking,
And standing over them with a toasting fork in his hand was a very old shriveled Jew,
Whose villainous looking and repulsive face was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair.
He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown with his throat bare,
And seemed to be dividing his tension between the frying pan and the clotheshorse,
Over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs were hanging.
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 a middle-aged man.
These all crowded about their associate as he whispered a few words to the Jew,
And then turned round and grinned at Oliver.
So did the Jew himself,
Toasting fork in hand.
This is him faking,
Said Jack Dawkins,
My friend,
Oliver Twist.
The Jew grinned,
And making a low obeisance to Oliver,
Took him by the hand and hoped he should have the honour of his intimate acquaintance.
Upon this the young gentleman 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 his pockets,
In order that,
As he was very tired,
He might not have the trouble of emptying them himself when he went to bed.
These civilities would probably be extended much further,
But for a liberal exercise of the Jew's toasting fork on the heads and shoulders of the affectionate youths who offered them.
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.
Ah,
You are staring at the pocket handkerchiefs,
Are you,
My dear?
There's a good many of them,
Ain't there?
We've just locked them out,
Ready for the wash.
That's all,
Oliver,
That's all.
The latter part of this speech was hailed by a boisterous shout from all the hopeful pupils of the merry old gentleman,
In the midst of which they went to supper.
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 onto one of the sacks,
And then he sunk into a deep sleep.
