16 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, Bill Sykes makes sure there is no way back for poor Oliver.

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 16 Relates what became of Oliver Twist after he had been claimed by Nancy. The narrow streets and courts at length terminated in a large open space scattered about which were pens for beasts and other indications of a cattle mark. Sykes slackened his pace when they reached this spot, The girl being quite unable to support any longer the rapid rate at which they had hitherto walked. Turning to Oliver, He roughly commanded him to take hold of Nancy's hand. Jew here, Growled Sykes as Oliver hesitated and looked around. They were in a dark corner quite out of the track of passengers. Oliver saw too plainly that resistance would be of no avail. He held out his hand which Nancy clasped tight in hers. Give me the other, Said Sykes, Seizing Oliver's unoccupied hand. Here, Bullseye. The dog looked up and growled. See here, Boy, Said Sykes, Putting his other hand to Oliver's throat. If he speaks ever so much a word, Hold him, Ye mind? The dog growled again and licking his lips eyed Oliver as if he was anxious to attach himself to his windpipe without delay. He's as willing as a Christian, Strike me blind if he isn't, Said Sykes, Regarding the animal with a kind of grim and ferocious approval. Now you know what you've got to expect, Master, So call away as quick as you like. The dog will soon stop that game. Get on, Young'un. Bullseye wagged his tail in acknowledgement of this unusually endearing form of speech. And giving vent to another and monetary growl for the benefit of Oliver led the way onward. It was Smithfield they were crossing, Although it might have been Grosvenor Square for anything Oliver knew. The night was dark and foggy. The lights in the shops could scarcely struggle through the heavy mist, Which thickened every moment and shrouded the streets and houses in gloom, Rendering the strange place still stranger in Oliver's eyes and making his uncertainty the more dismal and depressing. They hurried on for a few paces, Where a deep church bell struck the hour. With its first stroke, Its two conductors stopped and turned their heads in the direction whence the sound proceeded. Eight o'clock, Bill, Said Nancy when the bell ceased. What's the good of telling me that? I can hear it, Can't I? Replied Sykes. I wonder whether they can hear it, Said Nancy. Of course they can, Replied Sykes. Wait a minute, Said the girl. I wouldn't hurry by if it was you that was coming out to be hung the next time eight o'clock struck, Bill. I'd walk round and round the place till I dropped if the snow was on the ground and I had a shawl to cover me. And what good will that do? Inquired the unsentimental Mr Sykes. Unless you could pitch over a file and twenty yards of good stout rope, You might as well be walking fifty mile off or not walking at all for all the good it would do me. Come on and don't stand preaching there. The girl burst into a laugh, Drew her shawl more closely round her and they walked away, But Oliver felt her hand tremble and looking up in her face as they passed a gas lamp saw it had turned a deadly white. They walked on by little frequented and dirty ways for a full half hour, Meeting very few people and those appearing from their looks to hold much the same position in society as Mr Sykes himself. At length they turned into a very filthy narrow street, Nearly full of old clothes shops, The dog running forward as if conscience there was no further occasion for his keeping on guard. Stopped before the door of a shop that was closed and apparently untenanted. The house was in a ruinous condition and on the door was nailed a board intimating it was too lit, Which looked as if it had hung there for many years. All right, Cried Sykes, Glancing cautiously about. Nancy stooped below the shutters and Oliver heard the sound of a bell. They crossed to the opposite side of the street and stood for a few moments under a lamp. A noise as if a sash window were gently raised was heard and soon afterwards the door softly opened. Mr Sykes then seized the terrified boy by the collar with very little ceremony and all three were quickly inside the house. The passage was perfectly dark, They waited while the person who'd let them in chained and barred the door. Anybody here? Inquired Sykes. No, Replied a voice which Oliver thought he'd heard before. Is the old man here? Asked the robber. Yes, Replied the voice, Precious darling the mouth he's been, Won't he be glad to see you. Oh no. The style of this reply as well as the voice which delivered it seemed familiar to Oliver's ears but it was impossible to distinguish even the form of the speaker in the darkness. Let's have a glimpse, Said Sykes, Or we shall go breaking our necks or treading on the dog, Look after your legs if you do. Stand still a moment and I'll get you on, Replied the voice. The receding footsteps of the speaker were heard and in another minute the form of Mr John Dawkins, Otherwise known as 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 down a flight of steps. They crossed an empty kitchen and opening the door of a low earthy smelling room, Which seemed to have been built in a small backyard, Were received with a shout of laughter. Oh my wig, My wig, Cried Master Charles Bates from whose lungs the laughter proceeded. Here he is, I'll cry, Here he is. Fagin, Look at him, Fagin, Look at him, I can't bear it, It's such a jolly game, I can't bear it, Hold me somebody while I laugh it out. With this irrepressible ebullition of mirth, Master Bates laid himself flat on the floor and kicked convulsively for five minutes in an ecstasy of facetious joy. Then jumping to his feet he snatched the cleft stick from the dodger and advancing to Oliver viewed him round and round while the Jew, Taking off his nightcap, Made a great number of low bows to the bewildered boy. The dodger meanwhile, Who was of a rather saturnine disposition and seldom gave way to merriment when it interfered with business, Rifled Oliver's pockets with steady assiduity. Look at his togs, Fagin, Said Charlie, Putting the light so close to his new jacket as nearly to set him on fire, Look at his togs, Superfine cloth and their heavy swell cut, Oh my eye, What a game, And his boots too, Nothing but a gentleman, Fagin. Delighted to see you looking so well, My dear, Said the Jew, Bowing with mock humility. The artful will give you another suit, My dear, For fear you should spoil that Sunday one. Why didn't you write, My dear, And say you were coming, Or we'd have got something warm for supper. At this, Master Bates roared again so loud that Fagin himself relaxed and even the dodger smiled. But as the artful drew forth the five-pound note at that instant, It is doubtful whether the sally of the discovery awakened his merriment. Hello, What's that? Inquired Sykes, Stepping forward as the Jew sees the note. That's mine, Fagin. No, No, No, My dear, Said the Jew, Mine be all mine, You shall have the books. If that ain't mine, Said Bill Sykes, Putting on his hat with a determined air, Mine and Nancy's that is, I'll take the boy back again. The Jew started. Oliver started too, Though from a very different cause, For he hoped the dispute might really end in his being taken back. Come, Hand over, Will you, Said Sykes. This is hardly fair, Bill, Hardly fair, Is it, Nancy? Inquired the Jew. Fair or not fair, Retorted Sykes, Hand over, I tell you. Do you think Nancy and me's got nothing else to do with our precious time but to spend it scouting, Artering, Kidnapping every young boy as gets grabbed through you? Give it here, You avaricious old skeleton, Give it here. With this gentle remonstrance, Mr. Sykes plucked the note from between the Jew's finger and thumb, And looking the old man coolly in the face, Folded it up small and tied it in his neckerchief. That's for our share of the trouble, Said Sykes, Not half enough neither, You may keep the books if you're fond of reading, If you ain't sell them. They're very pretty, Said Charlie Beats, Who with sundry grimaces had been effecting to read one of the volumes in question. Beautiful writing, Innit, Oliver? At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Beats, Who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, Fell into another ecstasy more boisterous than the last. They belong to the old gentleman, Said Oliver, Wringing his hands, To the good kind old gentleman who took me into his house and had me nursed when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, Pray send them back, Send him back the books and the money, Keep me here all my life long, But pray send them back, He'll think I stole them. All of them who were so kind to me will think I stole them. Oh, Do have mercy upon me and send them back. With these words, Which were uttered with all the energy of passionate grief, Oliver fell upon his knees at the Jew's feet and beat his hands together in perfect desperation. The boy's right, Remarked Fagin, Looking covertly around and knitting his shaggy eyebrows into a hard knot. You're right, Oliver, You're right, They will think you've stolen them, Ha ha ha, Chuckled the Jew, Rubbing his hands. It couldn't have happened better if we'd chosen our time. Of course it couldn't, Replied Sykes. Now I'd know that directly, I see him coming through Clerkenwell with the books under his arm. It's all right enough, They're soft-hearted psalms, Singers or they wouldn't have taken them in at all, And they'll ask no questions after him, Fear they should be obliged to prosecute and so get him lagged. He's safe enough with us. Oliver looked from one to the other, While these words were being spoken, As if he were bewildered, But when Bill Sykes concluded, He jumped suddenly to his feet and tore wildly from the room, Uttering shrieks for help, Which made the bare old house echo to the roof.

Reviews

Ugh…what do these wretches want with poor Oliver anyway? Not like he was a good robber even…Dickens is doing his thing though!
Thank you, dear 🙏🏼❤️