‘What’s that?’ said the Jew. ‘What do you watch me for? Why are you awake? What have you seen? Speak out, boy! Quick--quick! for your life. ‘I wasn’t able to sleep any longer, sir,’ replied Oliver, meekly. ‘I am very sorry if I have disturbed you, sir.’ ‘You were not awake an hour ago?’ said the Jew, scowling fiercely on the boy. ‘No! No, indeed!’ replied Oliver. ‘Are you sure?’ cried the Jew: with a still fiercer look than before: and a threatening attitude. ‘Upon my word I was not, sir,’ replied Oliver, earnestly. ‘I was not, indeed, sir.’ ‘Tush, tush, my dear!’ said the Jew, abruptly resuming his old manner, and playing with the knife a little, before he laid it down; as if to induce the belief that he had caught it up, in mere sport. ‘Of course I know that, my dear. I only tried to frighten you. You’re a brave boy. Ha! ha! you’re a brave boy, Oliver.’ The Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but glanced uneasily at the box, notwithstanding. ‘Did you see any of these pretty things, my dear?’ said the Jew, laying his hand upon it after a short pause. ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Oliver. ‘Ah!’ said the Jew, turning rather pale. ‘They--they’re mine, Oliver; my little property. All I have to live upon, in my old age. The folks call me a miser, my dear. Only a miser; that’s all.’ Oliver thought the old gentleman must be a decided miser to live in such a dirty place, with so many watches; but, thinking that perhaps his fondness for the Dodger and the other boys, cost him a good deal of money, he only cast a deferential look at the Jew, and asked if he might get up. ‘Certainly, my dear, certainly,’ replied the old gentleman. ‘Stay. There’s a pitcher of water in the corner by the door. Bring it here; and I’ll give you a basin to wash in, my dear.’ Oliver got up; walked across the room; and stooped for an instant to raise the pitcher. When he turned his head, the box was gone. He had scarcely washed himself, and made everything tidy, by emptying the basin out of the window, agreeably to the Jew’s directions, when the Dodger returned: accompanied by a very sprightly young friend, whom Oliver had seen smoking on the previous night, and who was now formally introduced to him as Charley Bates. The four sat down, to breakfast, on the coffee, and some hot rolls and ham which the Dodger had brought home in the crown of his hat. ‘Well,’ said the Jew, glancing slyly at Oliver, and addressing himself to the Dodger, ‘I hope you’ve been at work this morning, my dears?’ ‘Hard,’ replied the Dodger. ‘As nails,’ added Charley Bates. ‘Good boys, good boys!’ said the Jew. ‘What have you got, Dodger?’ ‘A couple of pocket-books,’ replied that young gentlman. ‘Lined?’ inquired the Jew, with eagerness. ‘Pretty well,’ replied the Dodger, producing two pocket-books; one green, and the other red. ‘Not so heavy as they might be,’ said the Jew, after looking at the insides carefully; ‘but very neat and nicely made. Ingenious workman, ain’t he, Oliver?’