off with his new friend. Into the city they passed, and through the worst
and darkest streets, the sight of which filled Oliver with alarm. At
length they reached the door of a house, which Jack entered, drawing
Oliver after him, into its dark passage-way, and closing the door after
them.

Oliver, groping his way with one hand, and having the other firmly grasped
by his companion, ascended with much difficulty the dark and broken
stairs, which his conductor mounted with an expedition that showed he was
well acquainted with them. He 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 clothes-horse, over which a great number of silk handkerchiefs
were hanging; and 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, some sausages
were cooking, and standing over them, with a toasting-fork in his hand,
was a very old shrivelled Jew, whose villanous-looking and repulsive face
was obscured by a quantity of matted red hair.

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 Jack
Dawkins, familiarly called the Dodger. The boys all crowded about their
associate, as he whispered a few words to the Jew; and then they turned
round and grinned at Oliver. So did the Jew himself, toasting-fork in
hand.

"This is him, Fagin," said Jack Dawkins; "my friend Oliver Twist."