Having replaced these trinkets, the Jew took out another, so small that it lay in the palm of his hand. There seemed to be some very minute inscription on it, for the Jew laid it flat upon the table, and, shading it with his hand, pored over it long and earnestly. At length he put it down as if despairing of success, and, leaning back in his chair, muttered— “What a fine thing capital punishment is! Dead men never repent; dead men never bring awkward stories to light. Ah, it’s a fine thing for the trade! Five of them sprung up in a row, and none left to play booty or turn white-livered!” As the Jew uttered these words, his bright dark eyes which had been staring vacantly before him, fell on Oliver’s face; the boy’s eyes were fixed on his in mute curiosity, and, although the recognition was only for an instant—for the briefest space of time that can possibly be conceived—it was enough to show the old man that he had been observed. He closed the lid of the box with a loud crash, and, laying his hand on a bread-knife which was on the table, started furiously up. He trembled very much though; for, even in his terror, Oliver could see that the knife quivered in the air. “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, sir,” 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!” and the Jew rubbed his hands with a chuckle, but looked 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.”