'Tush, tush, my dear!' said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old
manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it
down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in
mere sport. 'Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to
frighten you. You're a brave boy. Ha! ha! you're a brave boy,
Oliver.' The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced
uneasily at the box, notwithstanding.

'Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?' said the Jew,
laying his hand upon it after a short pause.

'Yes, sir,' replied Oliver.

'Ah!' said the Jew, turning rather pale. 'They--they're mine,
Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old
age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that's
all.'

Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live
in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that
perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him
a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew,
and asked if he might get up.

'Certainly, my dear, certainly,' replied the old gentleman.
'Stay. There's a pitcher of water in the corner by the door.
Bring it here; and I'll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.'

Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant
to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone.