"Hullo! my covey, what's the row?" said this strange young gentleman to Oliver.
"I am very hungry and tired," replied Oliver, the tears standing in his eyes as he spoke. "I have walked a long way. I have been walking these seven days."
The boy looked at him narrowly, and asked him some questions. He took Oliver for a vagrant or worse, but led him into a small tavern, and gave him a feast of ham and bread; and Oliver, falling to at his new friend's bidding, made a long and hearty meal, during the progress of which the strange boy eyed him from time to time with great attention.
"Going to London?" said the strange boy, when Oliver had at length concluded.
The strange boy whistled, and put his arms into his pockets as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go.
"Yes, I do when I'm at home," replied the strange boy. "Want to go along with me? I know an old gen'elman as lives there wot'll give you lodgings for nothink."
The unexpected offer was too tempting to be resisted, especially when Oliver was told that the old gentleman would doubtless get him a good place without loss of time. This led to a more friendly and confidential chat, in which Oliver learned that his new friend's name was Jack Dawkins, commonly called "The Artful Dodger."
As Dawkins objected to entering London before nightfall, it was nearly eleven o'clock before he piloted Oliver down some of the worst streets of the city's worst section. Finally they entered a tumbledown building, and groped their way up a rickety stairway. Then Dawkins threw open the door of a 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 bottle, some pewter pots, bread and butter. Several rough beds were huddled side by side upon the floor. Seated around 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. But the chief figure was an old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous face was offset by a mass of matted red hair. He was dressed in a greasy flannel gown, and was busily at work frying sausages over a fire.
The boys crowded around Dawkins as he whispered a few words in the ear of the Jew. Then they all turned, as did the Jew, and grinned at Oliver.