prompt:
Chapter: 'Hallo!' cried a loud, hoarse voice, as soon as they set foot in the
passage.

'Don't make such a row,' said Sikes, bolting the door.  'Show a glim,
Toby.'

'Aha! my pal!' cried the same voice.  'A glim, Barney, a glim! Show the
gentleman in, Barney; wake up first, if convenient.'

The speaker appeared to throw a boot-jack, or some such article, at the
person he addressed, to rouse him from his slumbers:  for the noise of
a wooden body, falling violently, was heard; and then an indistinct
muttering, as of a man between sleep and awake.

'Do you hear?' cried the same voice.  'There's Bill Sikes in the
passage with nobody to do the civil to him; and you sleeping there, as
if you took laudanum with your meals, and nothing stronger.  Are you
any fresher now, or do you want the iron candlestick to wake you
thoroughly?'

A pair of slipshod feet shuffled, hastily, across the bare floor of the
room, as this interrogatory was put; and there issued, from a door on
the right hand; first, a feeble candle:  and next, the form of the same
individual who has been heretofore described as labouring under the
infirmity of speaking through his nose, and officiating as waiter at
the public-house on Saffron Hill.

'Bister Sikes!' exclaimed Barney, with real or counterfeit joy; 'cub
id, sir; cub id.'

'Here! you get on first,' said Sikes, putting Oliver in front of him.
'Quicker! or I shall tread upon your heels.'

Muttering a curse upon his tardiness, Sikes pushed Oliver before him;
and they entered a low dark room with a smoky fire, two or three broken
chairs, a table, and a very old couch:  on which, with his legs much
higher than his head, a man was reposing at full length, smoking a long
clay pipe.  He was dressed in a smartly-cut snuff-coloured coat, with
large brass buttons; an orange neckerchief; a coarse, staring,
shawl-pattern waistcoat; and drab breeches.  Mr. Crackit (for he it
was) had no very great quantity of hair, either upon his head or face;
but what he had, was of a reddish dye, and tortured into long corkscrew
curls, through which he occasionally thrust some very dirty fingers,
ornamented with large common rings.  He was a trifle above the middle
size, and apparently rather weak in the legs; but this circumstance by
no means detracted from his own admiration of his top-boots, which he
contemplated, in their elevated situation, with lively satisfaction.

'Bill, my boy!' said this figure, turning his head towards the door,
'I'm glad to see you.  I was almost afraid you'd given it up:  in which
case I should have made a personal wentur.  Hallo!'

Uttering this exclamation in a tone of great surprise, as his eyes
rested on Oliver, Mr. Toby Crackit brought himself into a sitting
posture, and demanded who that was.

'The boy.  Only the boy!' replied Sikes, drawing a chair towards the
fire.

'Wud of Bister Fagid's lads,' exclaimed Barney, with a grin.

'Fagin's, eh!' exclaimed Toby, looking at Oliver.  'Wot an inwalable
boy that'll make, for the old ladies' pockets in chapels!  His mug is a
fortin' to him.'

'There--there's enough of that,' interposed Sikes, impatiently; and
stooping over his recumbant friend, he whispered a few words in his
ear:  at which Mr. Crackit laughed immensely, and honoured Oliver with
a long stare of astonishment.

'Now,' said Sikes, as he resumed his seat, 'if you'll give us something
to eat and drink while we're waiting, you'll put some heart in us; or
in me, at all events.  Sit down by the fire, younker, and rest
yourself; for you'll have to go out with us again to-night, though not
very far off.'

Oliver looked at Sikes, in mute and timid wonder; and drawing a stool
to the fire, sat with his aching head upon his hands, scarecely knowing
where he was, or what was passing around him.

'Here,' said Toby, as the young Jew placed some fragments of food, and
a bottle upon the table,  'Success to the crack!'  He rose to honour
the toast; and, carefully depositing his empty pipe in a corner,
advanced to the table, filled a glass with spirits, and drank off its
contents.  Mr. Sikes did the same.

'A drain for the boy,' said Toby, half-filling a wine-glass. 'Down with
it, innocence.'

'Indeed,' said Oliver, looking piteously up into the man's face;
'indeed, I--'

'Down with it!' echoed Toby.  'Do you think I don't know what's good
for you?  Tell him to drink it, Bill.'

'He had better!' said Sikes clapping his hand upon his pocket. 'Burn my
body, if he isn't more trouble than a whole family of Dodgers.  Drink
it, you perwerse imp; drink it!'

Frightened by the menacing gestures of the two men, Oliver hastily
swallowed the contents of the glass, and immediately fell into a
violent fit of coughing:  which delighted Toby Crackit and Barney, and
even drew a smile from the surly Mr. Sikes.

This done, and Sikes having satisfied his appetite (Oliver could eat
nothing but a small crust of bread which they made him swallow), the
two men laid themselves down on chairs for a short nap.  Oliver
retained his stool by the fire; Barney wrapped in a blanket, stretched
himself on the floor:  close outside the fender.

They slept, or appeared to sleep, for some time; nobody stirring but
Barney, who rose once or twice to throw coals on the fire. Oliver fell
into a heavy doze:  imagining himself straying along the gloomy lanes,
or wandering about the dark churchyard, or retracing some one or other
of the scenes of the past day:  when he was roused by Toby Crackit
jumping up and declaring it was half-past one.

In an instant, the other two were on their legs, and all were actively
engaged in busy preparation.  Sikes and his companion enveloped their
necks and chins in large dark shawls, and drew on their great-coats;
Barney, opening a cupboard, brought forth several articles, which he
hastily crammed into the pockets.

'Barkers for me, Barney,' said Toby Crackit.

'Here they are,' replied Barney, producing a pair of pistols. 'You
loaded them yourself.'

'All right!' replied Toby, stowing them away.  'The persuaders?'

'I've got 'em,' replied Sikes.

'Crape, keys, centre-bits, darkies--nothing forgotten?' inquired Toby:
fastening a small crowbar to a loop inside the skirt of his coat.

'All right,' rejoined his companion.  'Bring them bits of timber,
Barney.  That's the time of day.'

With these words, he took a thick stick from Barney's hands, who,
having delivered another to Toby, busied himself in fastening on
Oliver's cape.

'Now then!' said Sikes, holding out his hand.

Oliver:  who was completely stupified by the unwonted exercise, and the
air, and the drink which had been forced upon him:  put his hand
mechanically into that which Sikes extended for the purpose.

'Take his other hand, Toby,' said Sikes.  'Look out, Barney.'

The man went to the door, and returned to announce that all was quiet.
The two robbers issued forth with Oliver between them. Barney, having
made all fast, rolled himself up as before, and was soon asleep again.

It was now intensely dark.  The fog was much heavier than it had been
in the early part of the night; and the atmosphere was so damp, that,
although no rain fell, Oliver's hair and eyebrows, within a few minutes
after leaving the house, had become stiff with the half-frozen moisture
that was floating about.  They crossed the bridge, and kept on towards
the lights which he had seen before.  They were at no great distance
off; and, as they walked pretty briskly, they soon arrived at Chertsey.

'Slap through the town,' whispered Sikes; 'there'll be nobody in the
way, to-night, to see us.'

Toby acquiesced; and they hurried through the main street of the little
town, which at that late hour was wholly deserted.  A dim light shone
at intervals from some bed-room window; and the hoarse barking of dogs
occasionally broke the silence of the night.  But there was nobody
abroad.  They had cleared the town, as the church-bell struck two.

Quickening their pace, they turned up a road upon the left hand. After
walking about a quarter of a mile, they stopped before a detached house
surrounded by a wall:  to the top of which, Toby Crackit, scarcely
pausing to take breath, climbed in a twinkling.

'The boy next,' said Toby.  'Hoist him up; I'll catch hold of him.'

Before Oliver had time to look round, Sikes had caught him under the
arms; and in three or four seconds he and Toby were lying on the grass
on the other side.  Sikes followed directly.  And they stole cautiously
towards the house.

And now, for the first time, Oliver, well-nigh mad with grief and
terror, saw that housebreaking and robbery, if not murder, were the
objects of the expedition.  He clasped his hands together, and
involuntarily uttered a subdued exclamation of horror.  A mist came
before his eyes; the cold sweat stood upon his ashy face; his limbs
failed him; and he sank upon his knees.

'Get up!' murmured Sikes, trembling with rage, and drawing the pistol
from his pocket; 'Get up, or I'll strew your brains upon the grass.'

'Oh! for God's sake let me go!' cried Oliver; 'let me run away and die
in the fields.  I will never come near London; never, never!  Oh! pray
have mercy on me, and do not make me steal.  For the love of all the
bright Angels that rest in Heaven, have mercy upon me!'

The man to whom this appeal was made, swore a dreadful oath, and had
cocked the pistol, when Toby, striking it from his grasp, placed his
hand upon the boy's mouth, and dragged him to the house.

'Hush!' cried the man; 'it won't answer here.  Say another word, and
I'll do your business myself with a crack on the head.  That makes no
noise, and is quite as certain, and more genteel.  Here, Bill, wrench
the shutter open.  He's game enough now, I'll engage.  I've seen older
hands of his age took the same way, for a minute or two, on a cold
night.'

Sikes, invoking terrific imprecations upon Fagin's head for sending
Oliver on such an errand, plied the crowbar vigorously, but with little
noise.  After some delay, and some assistance from Toby, the shutter to
which he had referred, swung open on its hinges.

It was a little lattice window, about five feet and a half above the
ground, at the back of the house:  which belonged to a scullery, or
small brewing-place, at the end of the passage.  The aperture was so
small, that the inmates had probably not thought it worth while to
defend it more securely; but it was large enough to admit a boy of
Oliver's size, nevertheless.  A very brief exercise of Mr. Sike's art,
sufficed to overcome the fastening of the lattice; and it soon stood
wide open also.

'Now listen, you young limb,' whispered Sikes, drawing a dark lantern
from his pocket, and throwing the glare full on Oliver's face; 'I'm a
going to put you through there.  Take this light; go softly up the
steps straight afore you, and along the little hall, to the street
door; unfasten it, and let us in.'

'There's a bolt at the top, you won't be able to reach,' interposed
Toby. 'Stand upon one of the hall chairs.  There are three there, Bill,
with a jolly large blue unicorn and gold pitchfork on 'em:  which is
the old lady's arms.'

'Keep quiet, can't you?' replied Sikes, with a threatening look. 'The
room-door is open, is it?'

'Wide,' replied Toby, after peeping in to satisfy himself. 'The game of
that is, that they always leave it open with a catch, so that the dog,
who's got a bed in here, may walk up and down the passage when he feels
wakeful.  Ha! ha! Barney 'ticed him away to-night.  So neat!'

Although Mr. Crackit spoke in a scarcely audible whisper, and laughed
without noise, Sikes imperiously commanded him to be silent, and to get
to work.  Toby complied, by first producing his lantern, and placing it
on the ground; then by planting himself firmly with his head against
the wall beneath the window, and his hands upon his knees, so as to
make a step of his back. This was no sooner done, than Sikes, mounting
upon him, put Oliver gently through the window with his feet first;
and, without leaving hold of his collar, planted him safely on the
floor inside.

'Take this lantern,' said Sikes, looking into the room.  'You see the
stairs afore you?'

Oliver, more dead than alive, gasped out, 'Yes.'  Sikes, pointing to
the street-door with the pistol-barrel, briefly advised him to take
notice that he was within shot all the way; and that if he faltered, he
would fall dead that instant.

'It's done in a minute,' said Sikes, in the same low whisper. 'Directly
I leave go of you, do your work.  Hark!'

'What's that?' whispered the other man.

They listened intently.

'Nothing,' said Sikes, releasing his hold of Oliver.  'Now!'

In the short time he had had to collect his senses, the boy had firmly
resolved that, whether he died in the attempt or not, he would make one
effort to dart upstairs from the hall, and alarm the family.  Filled
with this idea, he advanced at once, but stealthily.

'Come back!' suddenly cried Sikes aloud.  'Back! back!'

Scared by the sudden breaking of the dead stillness of the place, and
by a loud cry which followed it, Oliver let his lantern fall, and knew
not whether to advance or fly.

The cry was repeated--a light appeared--a vision of two terrified
half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes--a
flash--a loud noise--a smoke--a crash somewhere, but where he knew
not,--and he staggered back.

Sikes had disappeared for an instant; but he was up again, and had him
by the collar before the smoke had cleared away.  He fired his own
pistol after the men, who were already retreating; and dragged the boy
up.

'Clasp your arm tighter,' said Sikes, as he drew him through the
window.  'Give me a shawl here.  They've hit him.  Quick!  How the boy
bleeds!'

Then came the loud ringing of a bell, mingled with the noise of
fire-arms, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried
over uneven ground at a rapid pace.  And then, the noises grew confused
in the distance; and a cold deadly feeling crept over the boy's heart;
and he saw or heard no more.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Bill Sikes and Oliver walk into the old house, and are greeted in the dark by Toby Crackit, who throws things at the sleeping Barney until he wakes up enough to light a candle. Toby is wearing fancy-looking but cheaply-made clothes, and is stretched out on a table, smoking a long pipe. Oliver is quickly introduced to Toby. The men sit down to a small supper, and have a drink of some liquor to toast success to their plan. Toby and Sikes make Oliver have half a glass, too, which makes him cough terribly. The three men stretch out for a short nap before they go to work, but Oliver can't really sleep. They get up at about 1:30 a.m., and put on heavy, long coats and shawls that partially hide their faces, and load up their gear--most of which is listed in thieves' can't, so it's hard to tell exactly what they're taking. Some of it Dickens translates, though--"barkers" are the pistols, and "bits of timber" are thick sticks. Oliver's pretty out of it with the all the walking and the booze they made him drink, so he hardly knows what's going on as they take him out between them. They hurry through the main street of the town, even though it's unlikely anyone would be awake to see them . They go up to a house about a quarter mile outside of the town. Toby climbs over the wall quickly, and then Sikes hands Oliver over the wall before climbing over himself. Now Oliver realizes for the first time that they're about to rob the house, if not murder people. Oliver's horrified, and cries out to Sikes to let him run off, and promises that he'll never go back to London. Sikes is about to shoot him, when Toby knocks the pistol out of his hand and slaps a hand over Oliver's mouth to keep him quiet, and tells him to hush, or he'll kill him by bopping him on the head, which is a quieter way to do the same thing. Most of the windows of the house are barred, but there's one in a back kitchen that isn't--Sikes and Toby pull off its shutter with the crowbar, and then the lattice so that the window is wide open. Sikes gives Oliver a "dark lantern" , and tells Oliver what he has to do: go straight up the stairs in the room, down the hall to the front door, and unlock it. They pass him through the window, and Sikes points the pistol at Oliver's head. They think they hear something, but Sikes sends Oliver ahead anyway. Oliver's decided that he's going to make an effort to wake the family up to warn them, so he starts sneaking forward. Just then, Sikes calls him to come back. Oliver drops his lantern, and another light appears in the hallway ahead of him. There's a loud noise and a flash and he staggers backward. Sikes shoots his pistol from the window after the men , and then drags Oliver back out the window. He realizes that Oliver's been hit, so he wraps him in a shawl and runs off with him.


prompt:
Chapter: The night was bitter cold.  The snow lay on the ground, frozen into a
hard thick crust, so that only the heaps that had drifted into byways
and corners were affected by the sharp wind that howled abroad:  which,
as if expending increased fury on such prey as it found, caught it
savagely up in clouds, and, whirling it into a thousand misty eddies,
scattered it in air.  Bleak, dark, and piercing cold, it was a night
for the well-housed and fed to draw round the bright fire and thank God
they were at home; and for the homeless, starving wretch to lay him
down and die.  Many hunger-worn outcasts close their eyes in our bare
streets, at such times, who, let their crimes have been what they may,
can hardly open them in a more bitter world.

Such was the aspect of out-of-doors affairs, when Mrs. Corney, the
matron of the workhouse to which our readers have been already
introduced as the birthplace of Oliver Twist, sat herself down before a
cheerful fire in her own little room, and glanced, with no small degree
of complacency, at a small round table:  on which stood a tray of
corresponding size, furnished with all necessary materials for the most
grateful meal that matrons enjoy.  In fact, Mrs. Corney was about to
solace herself with a cup of tea. As she glanced from the table to the
fireplace, where the smallest of all possible kettles was singing a
small song in a small voice, her inward satisfaction evidently
increased,--so much so, indeed, that Mrs. Corney smiled.

'Well!' said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking
reflectively at the fire; 'I'm sure we have all on us a great deal to
be grateful for!  A great deal, if we did but know it.  Ah!'

Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental
blindness of those paupers who did not know it; and thrusting a silver
spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin
tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.

How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds!  The
black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs.
Corney was moralising; and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney's
hand.

'Drat the pot!' said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on
the hob; 'a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups!
What use is it of, to anybody!  Except,' said Mrs. Corney, pausing,
'except to a poor desolate creature like me.  Oh dear!'

With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more
resting her elbow on the table, thought of her solitary fate.  The
small teapot, and the single cup, had awakened in her mind sad
recollections of Mr. Corney (who had not been dead more than
five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.

'I shall never get another!' said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; 'I shall
never get another--like him.'

Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is
uncertain.  It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it
as she spoke; and took it up afterwards.  She had just tasted her first
cup, when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.

'Oh, come in with you!' said Mrs. Corney, sharply.  'Some of the old
women dying, I suppose.  They always die when I'm at meals. Don't stand
there, letting the cold air in, don't.  What's amiss now, eh?'

'Nothing, ma'am, nothing,' replied a man's voice.

'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, 'is that Mr.
Bumble?'

'At your service, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping
outside to rub his shoes clean, and to shake the snow off his coat; and
who now made his appearance, bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a
bundle in the other.  'Shall I shut the door, ma'am?'

The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any
impropriety in holding an interview with Mr. Bumble, with closed doors.
Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation, and being very cold
himself, shut it without permission.

'Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.

'Hard, indeed, ma'am,' replied the beadle.  'Anti-porochial weather
this, ma'am.  We have given away, Mrs. Corney, we have given away a
matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half, this very
blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.'

'Of course not.  When would they be, Mr. Bumble?' said the matron,
sipping her tea.

'When, indeed, ma'am!' rejoined Mr. Bumble.  'Why here's one man that,
in consideration of his wife and large family, has a quartern loaf and
a good pound of cheese, full weight.  Is he grateful, ma'am?  Is he
grateful?  Not a copper farthing's worth of it!  What does he do,
ma'am, but ask for a few coals; if it's only a pocket handkerchief
full, he says!  Coals! What would he do with coals?  Toast his cheese
with 'em and then come back for more.  That's the way with these
people, ma'am; give 'em a apron full of coals to-day, and they'll come
back for another, the day after to-morrow, as brazen as alabaster.'

The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible
simile; and the beadle went on.

'I never,' said Mr. Bumble, 'see anything like the pitch it's got to.
The day afore yesterday, a man--you have been a married woman, ma'am,
and I may mention it to you--a man, with hardly a rag upon his back
(here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor), goes to our overseer's door
when he has got company coming to dinner; and says, he must be
relieved, Mrs. Corney.  As he wouldn't go away, and shocked the company
very much, our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a
pint of oatmeal.  "My heart!" says the ungrateful villain, "what's the
use of _this_ to me?  You might as well give me a pair of iron
spectacles!"  "Very good," says our overseer, taking 'em away again,
"you won't get anything else here."  "Then I'll die in the streets!"
says the vagrant.  "Oh no, you won't," says our overseer.'

'Ha! ha!  That was very good!  So like Mr. Grannett, wasn't it?'
interposed the matron.  'Well, Mr. Bumble?'

'Well, ma'am,' rejoined the beadle, 'he went away; and he _did_ die in
the streets.  There's a obstinate pauper for you!'

'It beats anything I could have believed,' observed the matron
emphatically.  'But don't you think out-of-door relief a very bad
thing, any way, Mr. Bumble?  You're a gentleman of experience, and
ought to know.  Come.'

'Mrs. Corney,' said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious
of superior information, 'out-of-door relief, properly managed:
properly managed, ma'am: is the porochial safeguard.  The great
principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what
they don't want; and then they get tired of coming.'

'Dear me!' exclaimed Mrs. Corney.  'Well, that is a good one, too!'

'Yes.  Betwixt you and me, ma'am,' returned Mr. Bumble, 'that's the
great principle; and that's the reason why, if you look at any cases
that get into them owdacious newspapers, you'll always observe that
sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese.  That's the
rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,' said the
beadle, stopping to unpack his bundle, 'these are official secrets,
ma'am; not to be spoken of; except, as I may say, among the porochial
officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma'am, that the
board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine; only
out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!'

Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to
test its excellence, Mr. Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of
drawers; folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it
carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.

'You'll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,' said the matron.

'It blows, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar,
'enough to cut one's ears off.'

The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was
moving towards the door; and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to
bidding her good-night, bashfully inquired whether--whether he wouldn't
take a cup of tea?

Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat
and stick upon a chair; and drew another chair up to the table.  As he
slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady.  She fixed her eyes upon
the little teapot.  Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.

Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she
sat down, her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle;
she coloured, and applied herself to the task of making his tea.  Again
Mr. Bumble coughed--louder this time than he had coughed yet.

'Sweet?  Mr. Bumble?' inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.

'Very sweet, indeed, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble.  He fixed his eyes on
Mrs. Corney as he said this; and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr.
Bumble was that beadle at that moment.

The tea was made, and handed in silence.  Mr. Bumble, having spread a
handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the
splendour of his shorts, began to eat and drink; varying these
amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which, however, had
no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary, rather
seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.

'You have a cat, ma'am, I see,' said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who,
in the centre of her family, was basking before the fire; 'and kittens
too, I declare!'

'I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can't think,' replied the
matron.  'They're _so_ happy, _so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that
they are quite companions for me.'

'Very nice animals, ma'am,' replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; 'so very
domestic.'

'Oh, yes!' rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; 'so fond of their home
too, that it's quite a pleasure, I'm sure.'

'Mrs. Corney, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time
with his teaspoon, 'I mean to say this, ma'am; that any cat, or kitten,
that could live with you, ma'am, and _not_ be fond of its home, must be
a ass, ma'am.'

'Oh, Mr. Bumble!' remonstrated Mrs. Corney.

'It's of no use disguising facts, ma'am,' said Mr. Bumble, slowly
flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him
doubly impressive; 'I would drown it myself, with pleasure.'

'Then you're a cruel man,' said the matron vivaciously, as she held out
her hand for the beadle's cup; 'and a very hard-hearted man besides.'

'Hard-hearted, ma'am?' said Mr. Bumble.  'Hard?'  Mr. Bumble resigned
his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs. Corney's little finger as
she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced
waistcoat, gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little
morsel farther from the fire.

It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been
sitting opposite each other, with no great space between them, and
fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble, in receding from
the fire, and still keeping at the table, increased the distance
between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding, some prudent readers
will doubtless be disposed to admire, and to consider an act of great
heroism on Mr. Bumble's part:  he being in some sort tempted by time,
place, and opportunity, to give utterance to certain soft nothings,
which however well they may become the lips of the light and
thoughtless, do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the
land, members of parliament, ministers of state, lord mayors, and other
great public functionaries, but more particularly beneath the
stateliness and gravity of a beadle:  who (as is well known) should be
the sternest and most inflexible among them all.

Whatever were Mr. Bumble's intentions, however (and no doubt they were
of the best): it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before
remarked, that the table was a round one; consequently Mr. Bumble,
moving his chair by little and little, soon began to diminish the
distance between himself and the matron; and, continuing to travel
round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time, close
to that in which the matron was seated.

Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble
stopped.

Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have
been scorched by the fire; and if to the left, she must have fallen
into Mr. Bumble's arms; so (being a discreet matron, and no doubt
foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was,
and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.

'Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?' said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and
looking up into the matron's face; 'are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs.
Corney?'

'Dear me!' exclaimed the matron, 'what a very curious question from a
single man.  What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?'

The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;
whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately
kissed the matron.

'Mr. Bumble!' cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was
so great, that she had quite lost her voice, 'Mr. Bumble, I shall
scream!'  Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner,
put his arm round the matron's waist.

As the lady had stated her intention of screaming, of course she would
have screamed at this additional boldness, but that the exertion was
rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door:  which was no
sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine
bottles, and began dusting them with great violence:  while the matron
sharply demanded who was there.

It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy
of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear, that
her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.

'If you please, mistress,' said a withered old female pauper, hideously
ugly:  putting her head in at the door, 'Old Sally is a-going fast.'

'Well, what's that to me?' angrily demanded the matron.  'I can't keep
her alive, can I?'

'No, no, mistress,' replied the old woman, 'nobody can; she's far
beyond the reach of help.  I've seen a many people die; little babes
and great strong men; and I know when death's a-coming, well enough.
But she's troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,--and
that's not often, for she is dying very hard,--she says she has got
something to tell, which you must hear.  She'll never die quiet till
you come, mistress.'

At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of
invectives against old women who couldn't even die without purposely
annoying their betters; and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which
she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr. Bumble to stay till she
came back, lest anything particular should occur.  Bidding the
messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs, she
followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.

Mr. Bumble's conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable.
He opened the closet, counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,
closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the
genuine metal, and, having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put
on his cocked hat corner-wise, and danced with much gravity four
distinct times round the table.

Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off
the cocked hat again, and, spreading himself before the fire with his
back towards it, seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact
inventory of the furniture.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The second book opens with Mrs. Corney , the matron at the workhouse where Oliver was born, making herself a comfortable cup of tea on a cold and bitter night. She's in the middle of reflecting on how lonely she is when there's a knock at the door. She assumes it's one of the workhouse paupers, come to tell her that someone or other is dying, and she's annoyed by it: "they always die when I'm at meals," she complains . But it's not a pauper, it's Mr. Bumble. Mrs. Corney quickly changes her tone of voice. Mr. Bumble complains about how demanding the poor people all are--even after being given bread and cheese, a man with a large family asked if he could have "a pocket-handkerchief full" of coals to make a fire . He tells another story of a man who came looking for relief at the overseer's house when the overseer was having a dinner party--the man hardly had any clothes on , and the overseer offered him a pound of potatoes and some oatmeal. The man said that the food wouldn't save him, and that he'd go die in the streets. And that's exactly what he did. Mr. Bumble thinks that shows how "obstinate" paupers are. Even as he finishes telling Mrs. Corney about the man who died in the street of the cold, he pulls out two bottles of good port wine that he's brought with him, "for the infirmary," and puts on his hat as though to go. But then he stays when Mrs. Corney invites him to a cup of tea. Mrs. Corney gets him a cup of tea, and asks him if he wants it sweet. He says he wants it "very sweet," and gives her a tender look . He eats his toast and drinks his tea in silence, until he comments on her cat and kittens. She says that they make good companions, because they are "so happy, so frolicsome, and so cheerful" . Mr. Bumble uses this as an awkward way to hit on her: he says that "any cat or kitten that could live with you, ma'am, and not be fond of its home, must be an ass, ma'am," and that he would himself "drown" any cat so ungrateful . Mrs. Corney tells him that drowning cats is "cruel" and "hard-hearted" . Mr. Bumble doesn't argue with "cruel" but objects to "hard-hearted." He scoots his chair away from the fire . And then he scoots it again--and again--until he's quite close to her again on the other side. Mrs. Corney is now pinned between the fire and Mr. Bumble . Mr. Bumble asks Mrs. Corney if she is "hard-hearted," and when she wants to know why he asks, he kisses her. She threatens to scream, but then there's a knock at the door. This time it is a pauper, letting Mrs. Corney know that "old Sally" is dying, and has something she wants to tell Mrs. Corney before she dies. Mrs. Corney is very put out about all this, but does get up to go, and asks Mr. Bumble to wait until she gets back. While she's out, Mr. Bumble goes around her room weighing and counting her silver sugar-tongs, milk pot, spoons, and examining all her furniture.


prompt:
Chapter: It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the
matron's room.  Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with
palsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer, resembled more the
grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature's hand.

Alas!  How few of Nature's faces are left alone to gladden us with
their beauty!  The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world,
change them as they change hearts; and it is only when those passions
sleep, and have lost their hold for ever, that the troubled clouds pass
off, and leave Heaven's surface clear.  It is a common thing for the
countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state, to
subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy, and
settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they
grow again, that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by
the coffin's side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.

The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs, muttering
some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion; being at
length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand,
and remained behind to follow as she might: while the more nimble
superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.

It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end.
There was another old woman watching by the bed; the parish
apothecary's apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick
out of a quill.

'Cold night, Mrs. Corney,' said this young gentleman, as the matron
entered.

'Very cold, indeed, sir,' replied the mistress, in her most civil
tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.

'You should get better coals out of your contractors,' said the
apothecary's deputy, breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the
rusty poker; 'these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.'

'They're the board's choosing, sir,' returned the matron. 'The least
they could do, would be to keep us pretty warm:  for our places are
hard enough.'

The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.

'Oh!' said the young mag, turning his face towards the bed, as if he
had previously quite forgotten the patient, 'it's all U.P. there, Mrs.
Corney.'

'It is, is it, sir?' asked the matron.

'If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,' said the
apothecary's apprentice, intent upon the toothpick's point. 'It's a
break-up of the system altogether.  Is she dozing, old lady?'

The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the
affirmative.

'Then perhaps she'll go off in that way, if you don't make a row,' said
the young man.  'Put the light on the floor.  She won't see it there.'

The attendant did as she was told:  shaking her head meanwhile, to
intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so, she
resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time
returned.  The mistress, with an expression of impatience, wrapped
herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.

The apothecary's apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the
toothpick, planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it
for ten minutes or so:  when apparently growing rather dull, he wished
Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.

When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from
the bed, and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to
catch the heat.  The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled
faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible, as, in this position,
they began to converse in a low voice.

'Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?' inquired the
messenger.

'Not a word,' replied the other.  'She plucked and tore at her arms for
a little time; but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off.  She
hasn't much strength in her, so I easily kept her quiet.  I ain't so
weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!'

'Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?' demanded
the first.

'I tried to get it down,' rejoined the other.  'But her teeth were
tight set, and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I
could do to get it back again.  So I drank it; and it did me good!'

Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard,
the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.

'I mind the time,' said the first speaker, 'when she would have done
the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.'

'Ay, that she would,' rejoined the other; 'she had a merry heart. 'A
many, many, beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as
waxwork.  My old eyes have seen them--ay, and those old hands touched
them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.'

Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke, the old creature
shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket,
brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box, from which she shook
a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion, and a few
more into her own.  While they were thus employed, the matron, who had
been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her
stupor, joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to
wait?

'Not long, mistress,' replied the second woman, looking up into her
face.  'We have none of us long to wait for Death.  Patience, patience!
He'll be here soon enough for us all.'

'Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!' said the matron sternly. 'You,
Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?'

'Often,' answered the first woman.

'But will never be again,' added the second one; 'that is, she'll never
wake again but once--and mind, mistress, that won't be for long!'

'Long or short,' said the matron, snappishly, 'she won't find me here
when she does wake; take care, both of you, how you worry me again for
nothing.  It's no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house
die, and I won't--that's more. Mind that, you impudent old harridans.
If you make a fool of me again, I'll soon cure you, I warrant you!'

She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned
towards the bed, caused her to look round.  The patient had raised
herself upright, and was stretching her arms towards them.

'Who's that?' she cried, in a hollow voice.

'Hush, hush!' said one of the women, stooping over her.  'Lie down, lie
down!'

'I'll never lie down again alive!' said the woman, struggling. 'I
_will_ tell her!  Come here!  Nearer!  Let me whisper in your ear.'

She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the
bedside, was about to speak, when looking round, she caught sight of
the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.

'Turn them away,' said the woman, drowsily; 'make haste! make haste!'

The two old crones, chiming in together, began pouring out many piteous
lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best
friends; and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never
leave her, when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the
door, and returned to the bedside.  On being excluded, the old ladies
changed their tone, and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was
drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since, in addition to a
moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary, she was labouring
under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been
privily administered, in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy
old ladies themselves.

'Now listen to me,' said the dying woman aloud, as if making a great
effort to revive one latent spark of energy.  'In this very room--in
this very bed--I once nursed a pretty young creetur', that was brought
into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking, and all
soiled with dust and blood.  She gave birth to a boy, and died.  Let me
think--what was the year again!'

'Never mind the year,' said the impatient auditor; 'what about her?'

'Ay,' murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state,
'what about her?--what about--I know!' she cried, jumping fiercely up:
her face flushed, and her eyes starting from her head--'I robbed her,
so I did!  She wasn't cold--I tell you she wasn't cold, when I stole
it!'

'Stole what, for God's sake?' cried the matron, with a gesture as if
she would call for help.

'_It_!' replied the woman, laying her hand over the other's mouth. 'The
only thing she had.  She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to
eat; but she had kept it safe, and had it in her bosom.  It was gold, I
tell you!  Rich gold, that might have saved her life!'

'Gold!' echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell
back.  'Go on, go on--yes--what of it?  Who was the mother? When was
it?'

'She charged me to keep it safe,' replied the woman with a groan, 'and
trusted me as the only woman about her.  I stole it in my heart when
she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child's death,
perhaps, is on me besides!  They would have treated him better, if they
had known it all!'

'Known what?' asked the other.  'Speak!'

'The boy grew so like his mother,' said the woman, rambling on, and not
heeding the question, 'that I could never forget it when I saw his
face.  Poor girl! poor girl!  She was so young, too! Such a gentle
lamb!  Wait; there's more to tell.  I have not told you all, have I?'

'No, no,' replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words, as
they came more faintly from the dying woman.  'Be quick, or it may be
too late!'

'The mother,' said the woman, making a more violent effort than before;
'the mother, when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in
my ear that if her baby was born alive, and thrived, the day might come
when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother
named. "And oh, kind Heaven!" she said, folding her thin hands
together, "whether it be boy or girl, raise up some friends for it in
this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child,
abandoned to its mercy!"'

'The boy's name?' demanded the matron.

'They _called_ him Oliver,' replied the woman, feebly.  'The gold I
stole was--'

'Yes, yes--what?' cried the other.

She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew
back, instinctively, as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a
sitting posture; then, clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered
some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.

      *      *      *      *      *

'Stone dead!' said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the
door was opened.

'And nothing to tell, after all,' rejoined the matron, walking
carelessly away.

The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the
preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply, were left
alone, hovering about the body.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The old lady who came to get Mrs. Corney is withered and ugly, but Dickens launches into a long explanation of why so many people are withered and ugly--it's because they have so much to stress about, but no worries--everyone's face looks better when they're dead! When Mrs. Corney gets to the room where the sick woman is, she meets with a young man who is the apothecary's apprentice --they called the apothecary's apprentice. He's not even licensed yet.]. Mrs. Corney and the apothecary's apprentice exchange pleasantries - they seem to know each other well. They hear the old lady moan, which reminds them to check on her. The apothecary's apprentice thinks she's almost dead, and Mrs. Corney sits on the foot of the bed to wait it out. The apothecary's apprentice, meanwhile, has been making a toothpick, and starts using it. Then he gets bored, and leaves. The old lady who had gone to get Mrs. Corney starts speaking in a low voice with the other old woman--who was also helping with the sick woman--about how "old Sally" was doing. Mrs. Corney gets impatient, and tells the two old women not to bother her for nothing. Just as she's about to leave, old Sally sits up in bed and grabs hold of her arm, and says she has to tell her something, and that it's for her ears alone . Old Sally confesses that, many years ago , she had attended a sick pretty young woman who had given birth to a baby and then died, and that she had robbed the woman of some gold ornament she'd had hanging around her neck. Old Sally said that the mother told her that a day might come when her baby wouldn't be ashamed to hear her name mentioned, and would find some friends in the world. Mrs. Corney of course wants to know the boy's name, and old Sally says that they called him Oliver. And old Sally dies before she can say what the gold was, or any more about it. Mrs. Corney leaves casually, without indicating to the two old women that old Sally had said anything at all important.


prompt:
Chapter: While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr. Fagin sat
in the old den--the same from which Oliver had been removed by the
girl--brooding over a dull, smoky fire.  He held a pair of bellows upon
his knee, with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it
into more cheerful action; but he had fallen into deep thought; and
with his arms folded on them, and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed
his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.

At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and
Mr. Chitling: all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy
against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling.  The countenance of the
first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times, acquired
great additional interest from his close observance of the game, and
his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling's hand; upon which, from time to
time, as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances:
wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon
his neighbour's cards.  It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat,
as, indeed, was often his custom within doors.  He also sustained a
clay pipe between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space
when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot
upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the
accommodation of the company.

Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more
excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable that
he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and moreover
indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly unbecoming a
scientific rubber.  Indeed, the Artful, presuming upon their close
attachment, more than once took occasion to reason gravely with his
companion upon these improprieties; all of which remonstrances, Master
Bates received in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to
be 'blowed,' or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some
other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy application
of which, excited considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling.
It was remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably
lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates,
appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he laughed
most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested that he had
never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.

'That's two doubles and the rub,' said Mr. Chitling, with a very long
face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket.  'I never see
such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything.  Even when we've good
cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em.'

Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made very
ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of
laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire
what was the matter.

'Matter, Fagin!' cried Charley.  'I wish you had watched the play.
Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners with him against
the Artfull and dumb.'

'Ay, ay!' said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated
that he was at no loss to understand the reason. 'Try 'em again, Tom;
try 'em again.'

'No more of it for me, thank 'ee, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling; 'I've
had enough.  That 'ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there's no
standing again' him.'

'Ha! ha! my dear,' replied the Jew, 'you must get up very early in the
morning, to win against the Dodger.'

'Morning!' said Charley Bates; 'you must put your boots on over-night,
and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your
shoulders, if you want to come over him.'

Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy,
and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the first
picture-card, at a shilling at a time.  Nobody accepting the challenge,
and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse
himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the
piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling,
meantime, with peculiar shrillness.

'How precious dull you are, Tommy!' said the Dodger, stopping short
when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr. Chitling.  'What
do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?'

'How should I know, my dear?' replied the Jew, looking round as he
plied the bellows.  'About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement
in the country that he's just left, eh?  Ha! ha!  Is that it, my dear?'

'Not a bit of it,' replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of
discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply.  'What do _you_ say,
Charley?'

'_I_ should say,' replied Master Bates, with a grin, 'that he was
uncommon sweet upon Betsy.  See how he's a-blushing!  Oh, my eye!
here's a merry-go-rounder!  Tommy Chitling's in love!  Oh, Fagin,
Fagin! what a spree!'

Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim
of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair
with such violence, that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the
floor; where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at
full length until his laugh was over, when he resumed his former
position, and began another laugh.

'Never mind him, my dear,' said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins, and
giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the bellows.
'Betsy's a fine girl.  Stick up to her, Tom.  Stick up to her.'

'What I mean to say, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling, very red in the
face, 'is, that that isn't anything to anybody here.'

'No more it is,' replied the Jew; 'Charley will talk.  Don't mind him,
my dear; don't mind him.  Betsy's a fine girl.  Do as she bids you,
Tom, and you will make your fortune.'

'So I _do_ do as she bids me,' replied Mr. Chitling; 'I shouldn't have
been milled, if it hadn't been for her advice.  But it turned out a
good job for you; didn't it, Fagin!  And what's six weeks of it?  It
must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when
you don't want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?'

'Ah, to be sure, my dear,' replied the Jew.

'You wouldn't mind it again, Tom, would you,' asked the Dodger, winking
upon Charley and the Jew, 'if Bet was all right?'

'I mean to say that I shouldn't,' replied Tom, angrily. 'There, now.
Ah!  Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?'

'Nobody, my dear,' replied the Jew; 'not a soul, Tom.  I don't know one
of 'em that would do it besides you; not one of 'em, my dear.'

'I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I, Fagin?'
angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe.  'A word from me would have
done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?'

'To be sure it would, my dear,' replied the Jew.

'But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?' demanded Tom, pouring question
upon question with great volubility.

'No, no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you were too stout-hearted for
that.  A deal too stout, my dear!'

'Perhaps I was,' rejoined Tom, looking round; 'and if I was, what's to
laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?'

The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused, hastened
to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove the gravity of the
company, appealed to Master Bates, the principal offender.  But,
unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to reply that he was never
more serious in his life, was unable to prevent the escape of such a
violent roar, that the abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary
ceremonies, rushed across the room and aimed a blow at the offender;
who, being skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose
his time so well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old
gentleman, and caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood
panting for breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.

'Hark!' cried the Dodger at this moment, 'I heard the tinkler.'
Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.

The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party were in
darkness.  After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and whispered
Fagin mysteriously.

'What!' cried the Jew, 'alone?'

The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame of the
candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private intimation, in dumb
show, that he had better not be funny just then.  Having performed this
friendly office, he fixed his eyes on the Jew's face, and awaited his
directions.

The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some seconds; his
face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded something, and
feared to know the worst.  At length he raised his head.

'Where is he?' he asked.

The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as if to
leave the room.

'Yes,' said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; 'bring him down. Hush!
Quiet, Charley!  Gently, Tom!  Scarce, scarce!'

This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist, was
softly and immediately obeyed.  There was no sound of their whereabout,
when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the light in his hand,
and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock; who, after casting a
hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had
concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed: all haggard,
unwashed, and unshorn: the features of flash Toby Crackit.

'How are you, Faguey?' said this worthy, nodding to the Jew. 'Pop that
shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know where to find it
when I cut; that's the time of day!  You'll be a fine young cracksman
afore the old file now.'

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round
his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.

'See there, Faguey,' he said, pointing disconsolately to his top boots;
'not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a bubble of
blacking, by Jove!   But don't look at me in that way, man.  All in
good time.  I can't talk about business till I've eat and drank; so
produce the sustainance, and let's have a quiet fill-out for the first
time these three days!'

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were, upon
the table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker, waited his
leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to open the
conversation.  At first, the Jew contented himself with patiently
watching his countenance, as if to gain from its expression some clue
to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.

He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent repose upon
his features that they always wore:  and through dirt, and beard, and
whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-satisfied smirk of
flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an agony of impatience, watched
every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing up and down the room,
meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement.  It was all of no use.  Toby
continued to eat with the utmost outward indifference, until he could
eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a
glass of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said Toby.

'Yes, yes!' interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and to
declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against the
low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of his
eye, he quietly resumed.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said the housebreaker, 'how's Bill?'

'What!' screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.

'Why, you don't mean to say--' began Toby, turning pale.

'Mean!' cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. 'Where are
they?  Sikes and the boy!  Where are they?  Where have they been?
Where are they hiding?  Why have they not been here?'

'The crack failed,' said Toby faintly.

'I know it,' replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket and
pointing to it.  'What more?'

'They fired and hit the boy.  We cut over the fields at the back, with
him between us--straight as the crow flies--through hedge and ditch.
They gave chase.  Damme! the whole country was awake, and the dogs upon
us.'

'The boy!'

'Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind.  We stopped to
take him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold. They were
close upon our heels; every man for himself, and each from the gallows!
We parted company, and left the youngster lying in a ditch.  Alive or
dead, that's all I know about him.'

The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and twining
his hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the house.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Fagin's back in the old den, thinking about something in front of the fire. The Artful Dodger, Charley, and Chitling are playing whist , and the Dodger is surreptitiously looking at Chitling's hand. Unsurprisingly, the Dodger wins every time. Chitling has finally had enough, and seems amazed at the Dodger's luck. Fagin is less amazed. After killing time for a while, the Dodger asks Chitling why he seems so down. Before Chitling can answer, the Dodger asks Fagin and Charley for their opinion. Fagin diplomatically declines to answer, but Charley thinks it's because Chitling's in love with Betsy, and starts laughing like crazy because Chitling is in looooooove. Fagin comforts Chitling, and says that Betsy's "a fine girl," and that if he does as she tells him to do, he'll be a successful thief and make his fortune. Of course, the reason Chitling went to jail was because he'd followed Betsy's advice, but he says he'd do it again if Betsy told him to. He's so angry with Charley , that he runs across the room to slug him. Charley dodges, and he hits Fagin in the chest, instead. Just then, the Dodger hears the bell downstairs, and grabs the candle to go see who it is. He comes back up and whispers to Fagin. Someone has come back "alone;" the news makes Fagin nervous. Charley and Chitling leave the room to make way for the --it's Toby Crackit, looking rather the worse for wear. He won't tell them what happened until he's eaten something. Finally, he asks how Bill Sikes is doing. Obviously, Fagin and the Dodger don't know, and were expecting that Toby would. Toby says that the job failed, but Fagin already knew that from the newspaper . Toby tells the story: in short, they ran away from the house, but there were dogs after them and the whole country seemed to be awake, and eventually Sikes had left Oliver alone in a ditch. Toby doesn't know what's happened to either of them since--it was each man for himself. Fagin yells, tears at his hair, and runs out of the house.


prompt:
Chapter: The old man had gained the street corner, before he began to recover
the effect of Toby Crackit's intelligence.  He had relaxed nothing of
his unusual speed; but was still pressing onward, in the same wild and
disordered manner, when the sudden dashing past of a carriage: and a
boisterous cry from the foot passengers, who saw his danger:  drove him
back upon the pavement.  Avoiding, as much as was possible, all the
main streets, and skulking only through the by-ways and alleys, he at
length emerged on Snow Hill.  Here he walked even faster than before;
nor did he linger until he had again turned into a court; when, as if
conscious that he was now in his proper element, he fell into his usual
shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.

Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet, opens, upon
the right hand as you come out of the City, a narrow and dismal alley,
leading to Saffron Hill.  In its filthy shops are exposed for sale huge
bunches of second-hand silk handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns;
for here reside the traders who purchase them from pick-pockets.
Hundreds of these handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the
windows or flaunting from the door-posts; and the shelves, within, are
piled with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its
barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse.
It is a commercial colony of itself:  the emporium of petty larceny:
visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent merchants,
who traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as strangely as they
come.  Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper, and the rag-merchant,
display their goods, as sign-boards to the petty thief; here, stores of
old iron and bones, and heaps of mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and
linen, rust and rot in the grimy cellars.

It was into this place that the Jew turned.  He was well known to the
sallow denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the look-out
to buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He replied to
their salutations in the same way; but bestowed no closer recognition
until he reached the further end of the alley; when he stopped, to
address a salesman of small stature, who had squeezed as much of his
person into a child's chair as the chair would hold, and was smoking a
pipe at his warehouse door.

'Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!' said this
respectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew's inquiry after his
health.

'The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,' said Fagin, elevating
his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.

'Well, I've heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,' replied
the trader; 'but it soon cools down again; don't you find it so?'

Fagin nodded in the affirmative.  Pointing in the direction of Saffron
Hill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder to-night.

'At the Cripples?' inquired the man.

The Jew nodded.

'Let me see,' pursued the merchant, reflecting.

'Yes, there's some half-dozen of 'em gone in, that I knows. I don't
think your friend's there.'

'Sikes is not, I suppose?' inquired the Jew, with a disappointed
countenance.

'_Non istwentus_, as the lawyers say,' replied the little man, shaking
his head, and looking amazingly sly.  'Have you got anything in my line
to-night?'

'Nothing to-night,' said the Jew, turning away.

'Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?' cried the little man,
calling after him.  'Stop!  I don't mind if I have a drop there with
you!'

But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he
preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very
easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was,
for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively's presence.  By the
time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively,
after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight
of him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a
shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and
mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.

The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which
the establishment was familiarly known to its patrons:  was the
public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured.
Merely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight
upstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating
himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with
his hand, as if in search of some particular person.

The room was illuminated by two gas-lights; the glare of which was
prevented by the barred shutters, and closely-drawn curtains of faded
red, from being visible outside.  The ceiling was blackened, to prevent
its colour from being injured by the flaring of the lamps; and the
place was so full of dense tobacco smoke, that at first it was scarcely
possible to discern anything more.  By degrees, however, as some of it
cleared away through the open door, an assemblage of heads, as confused
as the noises that greeted the ear, might be made out; and as the eye
grew more accustomed to the scene, the spectator gradually became aware
of the presence of a numerous company, male and female, crowded round a
long table: at the upper end of which, sat a chairman with a hammer of
office in his hand; while a professional gentleman with a bluish nose,
and his face tied up for the benefit of a toothache, presided at a
jingling piano in a remote corner.

As Fagin stepped softly in, the professional gentleman, running over
the keys by way of prelude, occasioned a general cry of order for a
song; which having subsided, a young lady proceeded to entertain the
company with a ballad in four verses, between each of which the
accompanyist played the melody all through, as loud as he could.  When
this was over, the chairman gave a sentiment, after which, the
professional gentleman on the chairman's right and left volunteered a
duet, and sang it, with great applause.

It was curious to observe some faces which stood out prominently from
among the group.  There was the chairman himself, (the landlord of the
house,) a coarse, rough, heavy built fellow, who, while the songs were
proceeding, rolled his eyes hither and thither, and, seeming to give
himself up to joviality, had an eye for everything that was done, and
an ear for everything that was said--and sharp ones, too.  Near him
were the singers: receiving, with professional indifference, the
compliments of the company, and applying themselves, in turn, to a
dozen proffered glasses of spirits and water, tendered by their more
boisterous admirers; whose countenances, expressive of almost every
vice in almost every grade, irresistibly attracted the attention, by
their very repulsiveness.  Cunning, ferocity, and drunkeness in all its
stages, were there, in their strongest aspect; and women: some with the
last lingering tinge of their early freshness almost fading as you
looked:  others with every mark and stamp of their sex utterly beaten
out, and presenting but one loathsome blank of profligacy and crime;
some mere girls, others but young women, and none past the prime of
life; formed the darkest and saddest portion of this dreary picture.

Fagin, troubled by no grave emotions, looked eagerly from face to face
while these proceedings were in progress; but apparently without
meeting that of which he was in search. Succeeding, at length, in
catching the eye of the man who occupied the chair, he beckoned to him
slightly, and left the room, as quietly as he had entered it.

'What can I do for you, Mr. Fagin?' inquired the man, as he followed
him out to the landing.  'Won't you join us?  They'll be delighted,
every one of 'em.'

The Jew shook his head impatiently, and said in a whisper, 'Is _he_
here?'

'No,' replied the man.

'And no news of Barney?' inquired Fagin.

'None,' replied the landlord of the Cripples; for it was he. 'He won't
stir till it's all safe.  Depend on it, they're on the scent down
there; and that if he moved, he'd blow upon the thing at once.  He's
all right enough, Barney is, else I should have heard of him.  I'll
pound it, that Barney's managing properly. Let him alone for that.'

'Will _he_ be here to-night?' asked the Jew, laying the same emphasis
on the pronoun as before.

'Monks, do you mean?' inquired the landlord, hesitating.

'Hush!' said the Jew.  'Yes.'

'Certain,' replied the man, drawing a gold watch from his fob; 'I
expected him here before now.  If you'll wait ten minutes, he'll be--'

'No, no,' said the Jew, hastily; as though, however desirous he might
be to see the person in question, he was nevertheless relieved by his
absence.  'Tell him I came here to see him; and that he must come to me
to-night.  No, say to-morrow.  As he is not here, to-morrow will be
time enough.'

'Good!' said the man.  'Nothing more?'

'Not a word now,' said the Jew, descending the stairs.

'I say,' said the other, looking over the rails, and speaking in a
hoarse whisper; 'what a time this would be for a sell!  I've got Phil
Barker here: so drunk, that a boy might take him!'

'Ah!  But it's not Phil Barker's time,' said the Jew, looking up.

'Phil has something more to do, before we can afford to part with him;
so go back to the company, my dear, and tell them to lead merry
lives--_while they last_.  Ha! ha! ha!'

The landlord reciprocated the old man's laugh; and returned to his
guests.  The Jew was no sooner alone, than his countenance resumed its
former expression of anxiety and thought.  After a brief reflection, he
called a hack-cabriolet, and bade the man drive towards Bethnal Green.
He dismissed him within some quarter of a mile of Mr. Sikes's
residence, and performed the short remainder of the distance, on foot.

'Now,' muttered the Jew, as he knocked at the door, 'if there is any
deep play here, I shall have it out of you, my girl, cunning as you
are.'

She was in her room, the woman said.  Fagin crept softly upstairs, and
entered it without any previous ceremony.  The girl was alone; lying
with her head upon the table, and her hair straggling over it.

'She has been drinking,' thought the Jew, cooly, 'or perhaps she is
only miserable.'

The old man turned to close the door, as he made this reflection; the
noise thus occasioned, roused the girl.  She eyed his crafty face
narrowly, as she inquired to his recital of Toby Crackit's story.  When
it was concluded, she sank into her former attitude, but spoke not a
word.  She pushed the candle impatiently away; and once or twice as she
feverishly changed her position, shuffled her feet upon the ground; but
this was all.

During the silence, the Jew looked restlessly about the room, as if to
assure himself that there were no appearances of Sikes having covertly
returned.  Apparently satisfied with his inspection, he coughed twice
or thrice, and made as many efforts to open a conversation; but the
girl heeded him no more than if he had been made of stone.  At length
he made another attempt; and rubbing his hands together, said, in his
most conciliatory tone,

'And where should you think Bill was now, my dear?'

The girl moaned out some half intelligible reply, that she could not
tell; and seemed, from the smothered noise that escaped her, to be
crying.

'And the boy, too,' said the Jew, straining his eyes to catch a glimpse
of her face.  'Poor leetle child!  Left in a ditch, Nance; only think!'

'The child,' said the girl, suddenly looking up, 'is better where he
is, than among us; and if no harm comes to Bill from it, I hope he lies
dead in the ditch and that his young bones may rot there.'

'What!' cried the Jew, in amazement.

'Ay, I do,' returned the girl, meeting his gaze.  'I shall be glad to
have him away from my eyes, and to know that the worst is over.  I
can't bear to have him about me.  The sight of him turns me against
myself, and all of you.'

'Pooh!' said the Jew, scornfully.  'You're drunk.'

'Am I?' cried the girl bitterly.  'It's no fault of yours, if I am not!
You'd never have me anything else, if you had your will, except
now;--the humour doesn't suit you, doesn't it?'

'No!' rejoined the Jew, furiously.  'It does not.'

'Change it, then!' responded the girl, with a laugh.

'Change it!' exclaimed the Jew, exasperated beyond all bounds by his
companion's unexpected obstinacy, and the vexation of the night, 'I
_will_ change it!  Listen to me, you drab.  Listen to me, who with six
words, can strangle Sikes as surely as if I had his bull's throat
between my fingers now.  If he comes back, and leaves the boy behind
him; if he gets off free, and dead or alive, fails to restore him to
me; murder him yourself if you would have him escape Jack Ketch.  And
do it the moment he sets foot in this room, or mind me, it will be too
late!'

'What is all this?' cried the girl involuntarily.

'What is it?' pursued Fagin, mad with rage.  'When the boy's worth
hundreds of pounds to me, am I to lose what chance threw me in the way
of getting safely, through the whims of a drunken gang that I could
whistle away the lives of!  And me bound, too, to a born devil that
only wants the will, and has the power to, to--'

Panting for breath, the old man stammered for a word; and in that
instant checked the torrent of his wrath, and changed his whole
demeanour.  A moment before, his clenched hands had grasped the air;
his eyes had dilated; and his face grown livid with passion; but now,
he shrunk into a chair, and, cowering together, trembled with the
apprehension of having himself disclosed some hidden villainy.  After a
short silence, he ventured to look round at his companion.  He appeared
somewhat reassured, on beholding her in the same listless attitude from
which he had first roused her.

'Nancy, dear!' croaked the Jew, in his usual voice.  'Did you mind me,
dear?'

'Don't worry me now, Fagin!' replied the girl, raising her head
languidly.  'If Bill has not done it this time, he will another. He has
done many a good job for you, and will do many more when he can; and
when he can't he won't; so no more about that.'

'Regarding this boy, my dear?' said the Jew, rubbing the palms of his
hands nervously together.

'The boy must take his chance with the rest,' interrupted Nancy,
hastily; 'and I say again, I hope he is dead, and out of harm's way,
and out of yours,--that is, if Bill comes to no harm.  And if Toby got
clear off, Bill's pretty sure to be safe; for Bill's worth two of Toby
any time.'

'And about what I was saying, my dear?' observed the Jew, keeping his
glistening eye steadily upon her.

'You must say it all over again, if it's anything you want me to do,'
rejoined Nancy; 'and if it is, you had better wait till to-morrow.  You
put me up for a minute; but now I'm stupid again.'

Fagin put several other questions: all with the same drift of
ascertaining whether the girl had profited by his unguarded hints; but,
she answered them so readily, and was withal so utterly unmoved by his
searching looks, that his original impression of her being more than a
trifle in liquor, was confirmed.  Nancy, indeed, was not exempt from a
failing which was very common among the Jew's female pupils; and in
which, in their tenderer years, they were rather encouraged than
checked. Her disordered appearance, and a wholesale perfume of Geneva
which pervaded the apartment, afforded strong confirmatory evidence of
the justice of the Jew's supposition; and when, after indulging in the
temporary display of violence above described, she subsided, first into
dullness, and afterwards into a compound of feelings: under the
influence of which she shed tears one minute, and in the next gave
utterance to various exclamations of 'Never say die!' and divers
calculations as to what might be the amount of the odds so long as a
lady or gentleman was happy, Mr. Fagin, who had had considerable
experience of such matters in his time, saw, with great satisfaction,
that she was very far gone indeed.

Having eased his mind by this discovery; and having accomplished his
twofold object of imparting to the girl what he had, that night, heard,
and of ascertaining, with his own eyes, that Sikes had not returned,
Mr. Fagin again turned his face homeward: leaving his young friend
asleep, with her head upon the table.

It was within an hour of midnight.  The weather being dark, and
piercing cold, he had no great temptation to loiter.  The sharp wind
that scoured the streets, seemed to have cleared them of passengers, as
of dust and mud, for few people were abroad, and they were to all
appearance hastening fast home. It blew from the right quarter for the
Jew, however, and straight before it he went: trembling, and shivering,
as every fresh gust drove him rudely on his way.

He had reached the corner of his own street, and was already fumbling
in his pocket for the door-key, when a dark figure emerged from a
projecting entrance which lay in deep shadow, and, crossing the road,
glided up to him unperceived.

'Fagin!' whispered a voice close to his ear.

'Ah!' said the Jew, turning quickly round, 'is that--'

'Yes!' interrupted the stranger.  'I have been lingering here these two
hours.  Where the devil have you been?'

'On your business, my dear,' replied the Jew, glancing uneasily at his
companion, and slackening his pace as he spoke.  'On your business all
night.'

'Oh, of course!' said the stranger, with a sneer.  'Well; and what's
come of it?'

'Nothing good,' said the Jew.

'Nothing bad, I hope?' said the stranger, stopping short, and turning a
startled look on his companion.

The Jew shook his head, and was about to reply, when the stranger,
interrupting him, motioned to the house, before which they had by this
time arrived:  remarking, that he had better say what he had got to
say, under cover:  for his blood was chilled with standing about so
long, and the wind blew through him.

Fagin looked as if he could have willingly excused himself from taking
home a visitor at that unseasonable hour; and, indeed, muttered
something about having no fire; but his companion repeating his request
in a peremptory manner, he unlocked the door, and requested him to
close it softly, while he got a light.

'It's as dark as the grave,' said the man, groping forward a few steps.
'Make haste!'

'Shut the door,' whispered Fagin from the end of the passage. As he
spoke, it closed with a loud noise.

'That wasn't my doing,' said the other man, feeling his way. 'The wind
blew it to, or it shut of its own accord: one or the other. Look sharp
with the light, or I shall knock my brains out against something in
this confounded hole.'

Fagin stealthily descended the kitchen stairs.  After a short absence,
he returned with a lighted candle, and the intelligence that Toby
Crackit was asleep in the back room below, and that the boys were in
the front one.  Beckoning the man to follow him, he led the way
upstairs.

'We can say the few words we've got to say in here, my dear,' said the
Jew, throwing open a door on the first floor; 'and as there are holes
in the shutters, and we never show lights to our neighbours, we'll set
the candle on the stairs.  There!'

With those words, the Jew, stooping down, placed the candle on an upper
flight of stairs, exactly opposite to the room door.  This done, he led
the way into the apartment; which was destitute of all movables save a
broken arm-chair, and an old couch or sofa without covering, which
stood behind the door.  Upon this piece of furniture, the stranger sat
himself with the air of a weary man; and the Jew, drawing up the
arm-chair opposite, they sat face to face.  It was not quite dark; the
door was partially open; and the candle outside, threw a feeble
reflection on the opposite wall.

They conversed for some time in whispers.  Though nothing of the
conversation was distinguishable beyond a few disjointed words here and
there, a listener might easily have perceived that Fagin appeared to be
defending himself against some remarks of the stranger; and that the
latter was in a state of considerable irritation.  They might have been
talking, thus, for a quarter of an hour or more, when Monks--by which
name the Jew had designated the strange man several times in the course
of their colloquy--said, raising his voice a little,

'I tell you again, it was badly planned.  Why not have kept him here
among the rest, and made a sneaking, snivelling pickpocket of him at
once?'

'Only hear him!' exclaimed the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.

'Why, do you mean to say you couldn't have done it, if you had chosen?'
demanded Monks, sternly.  'Haven't you done it, with other boys, scores
of times?  If you had had patience for a twelvemonth, at most, couldn't
you have got him convicted, and sent safely out of the kingdom; perhaps
for life?'

'Whose turn would that have served, my dear?' inquired the Jew humbly.

'Mine,' replied Monks.

'But not mine,' said the Jew, submissively.  'He might have become of
use to me.  When there are two parties to a bargain, it is only
reasonable that the interests of both should be consulted; is it, my
good friend?'

'What then?' demanded Monks.

'I saw it was not easy to train him to the business,' replied the Jew;
'he was not like other boys in the same circumstances.'

'Curse him, no!' muttered the man, 'or he would have been a thief, long
ago.'

'I had no hold upon him to make him worse,' pursued the Jew, anxiously
watching the countenance of his companion.  'His hand was not in.  I
had nothing to frighten him with; which we always must have in the
beginning, or we labour in vain.  What could I do?  Send him out with
the Dodger and Charley?  We had enough of that, at first, my dear; I
trembled for us all.'

'_That_ was not my doing,' observed Monks.

'No, no, my dear!' renewed the Jew.  'And I don't quarrel with it now;
because, if it had never happened, you might never have clapped eyes on
the boy to notice him, and so led to the discovery that it was him you
were looking for.  Well!  I got him back for you by means of the girl;
and then _she_ begins to favour him.'

'Throttle the girl!' said Monks, impatiently.

'Why, we can't afford to do that just now, my dear,' replied the Jew,
smiling; 'and, besides, that sort of thing is not in our way; or, one
of these days, I might be glad to have it done.  I know what these
girls are, Monks, well.  As soon as the boy begins to harden, she'll
care no more for him, than for a block of wood.  You want him made a
thief.  If he is alive, I can make him one from this time; and,
if--if--' said the Jew, drawing nearer to the other,--'it's not likely,
mind,--but if the worst comes to the worst, and he is dead--'

'It's no fault of mine if he is!' interposed the other man, with a look
of terror, and clasping the Jew's arm with trembling hands.  'Mind
that.  Fagin!  I had no hand in it.  Anything but his death, I told you
from the first.  I won't shed blood; it's always found out, and haunts
a man besides.  If they shot him dead, I was not the cause; do you hear
me?  Fire this infernal den!  What's that?'

'What!' cried the Jew, grasping the coward round the body, with both
arms, as he sprung to his feet.  'Where?'

'Yonder! replied the man, glaring at the opposite wall.  'The shadow!
I saw the shadow of a woman, in a cloak and bonnet, pass along the
wainscot like a breath!'

The Jew released his hold, and they rushed tumultuously from the room.
The candle, wasted by the draught, was standing where it had been
placed.  It showed them only the empty staircase, and their own white
faces.  They listened intently:  a profound silence reigned throughout
the house.

'It's your fancy,' said the Jew, taking up the light and turning to his
companion.

'I'll swear I saw it!' replied Monks, trembling.  'It was bending
forward when I saw it first; and when I spoke, it darted away.'

The Jew glanced contemptuously at the pale face of his associate, and,
telling him he could follow, if he pleased, ascended the stairs.  They
looked into all the rooms; they were cold, bare, and empty.  They
descended into the passage, and thence into the cellars below.  The
green damp hung upon the low walls; the tracks of the snail and slug
glistened in the light of the candle; but all was still as death.

'What do you think now?' said the Jew, when they had regained the
passage.  'Besides ourselves, there's not a creature in the house
except Toby and the boys; and they're safe enough. See here!'

As a proof of the fact, the Jew drew forth two keys from his pocket;
and explained, that when he first went downstairs, he had locked them
in, to prevent any intrusion on the conference.

This accumulated testimony effectually staggered Mr. Monks. His
protestations had gradually become less and less vehement as they
proceeded in their search without making any discovery; and, now, he
gave vent to several very grim laughs, and confessed it could only have
been his excited imagination.  He declined any renewal of the
conversation, however, for that night:  suddenly remembering that it
was past one o'clock.  And so the amiable couple parted.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: Fagin cools his pace after almost getting run over in the street, and turns and heads up to another neighborhood, where there are lots of second-hand shops where people buy and sell stolen goods. Fagin seems to know the place well. He sees a tradesman that he recognizes, and asks if anyone they know is up at the "Cripples." The tradesman doesn't think Sikes is there, but Fagin heads in that direction anyway. The Three Cripples is the bar from Chapter Fifteen, where Sikes went after his dog with the poker. Fagin knows it well and goes right upstairs, looking for a particular person. There's a guy playing the piano, and a woman singing in the upstairs room, which is full of some pretty dodgy-looking characters. Fagin steps back out onto the landing, followed by the landlord, who asks Fagin to join them. Fagin asks, in a whisper, "Is he here?" . The landlord says no, and then Fagin asks after Barney--he's not there, either. Fagin asks if he will be here later on. The landlord asks if he means Monks, and Fagin hushes him, but says yes. The landlord says that Monks will be coming there soon. Fagin seems relieved that he's not there now, and tells the landlord to send Monks to see him the next day. The landlord suggests that they "sell" Phil Barker, because he's good and drunk . Fagin says it's not Phil's time yet--he can still be useful before they sell him out. They both laugh. Fagin then takes a cab to Sikes's house to see what Nancy knows. He finds her with her head on the table--Fagin figures she's either drunk or miserable. Nancy asks if he has any news, and Fagin repeats Toby's story. Nancy doesn't respond. Fagin wants to know if she has any clue where Sikes might have gone. She doesn't answer, so he tries to get her to talk by reminding her about poor little Oliver. She says Oliver's better off dead, anyway. Fagin gets angry, and tells Nancy that if Sikes comes back without Oliver, Nancy had better kill him herself, or Fagin will have him hanged. Nancy's shocked, and asks what he means. Fagin's so worked up he lets out more than he means to: he says that Oliver is worth hundreds to him, and he doesn't want it all thrown away when he himself is bound "to a born devil that wants only the will, and has got the power to, to--" . But before finishing that sentence, Fagin realizes he's said too much, and falls back in a chair, and asks Nancy if she's understood him . Nancy just repeats that she thinks Oliver would be better off dead, so long as Bill Sikes is all right. Fagin asks if she minded what he'd just been saying, and she says that if it's something she's supposed to do, he'll have to repeat it. After asking a few more questions, Fagin is satisfied that she's too far gone to remember what he accidentally let slip about being in somebody's power and about Oliver being worth so much money. Fagin hurries home and, as he's about to open his door, someone comes out of a dark neighboring doorway and calls to him. The man asks where Fagin's been all this time, and Fagin says he's been out on the man's business, and that it's nothing good. The stranger asks to go inside, and Fagin reluctantly brings him in. Monks is complaining that the whole housebreaking scheme was a mistake, and that Fagin should have made "him" a pickpocket instead, as he had done to so many other boys, and so gotten "him" sent out of the country . Fagin defends himself by saying that "he" was hard to corrupt, so they needed to force him into something that they could use to frighten him later on. Anyway, he says, the worst case scenario is that he's dead, and-- But Monks breaks in and says that if the boy is dead, it's not his fault--his agreement was that they could do anything, but not bring about his death, because "it's always found out, and haunts a man besides!" . Just then, Monks thinks that he sees a shadow of a woman wearing a bonnet outside the door in the hallway. Fagin thinks Monks is nuts, but agrees to inspect the upper rooms--no one there. And besides, he'd locked the house, and the only other people in it are Charley, the Dodger, and Toby, who are all asleep. Monks is still nervous, but tries to shrug it offand goes home.