OLIVER TWIST was born in a poorhouse, where his mother died. The superintendent, Mr. Bumble, was a detestable man, who did all that he could to make the paupers in his institution even more unhappy than they were. He fed the boys on very thin gruel and gave them very little of that. One day when he was particularly hungry, Oliver said: “Please, sir, I want some more.” Every one was horrified, and poor Oliver was beaten and shut up in a little room where he could meditate on his sin. Soon after, he was given into the hands of Mr. Sowerberry, who was as cruel as Mr. Bumble himself. The upshot of it was that Oliver put a crust of bread, a shirt and two pairs of stockings in a bundle, and ran away. Of course, there was only one place to run away to, and that was London. Oliver had been six days on the London road when he limped into the little town of Barnet. There he met a boy of his own age, who was the queerest-looking creature he had ever seen. His name was Jack Dawkins, but he was known by all the people who knew him as the Artful Dodger. He was a snub-nosed boy with a dirty face. His hat was on one side of his head and was always about to fall off. He wore a ragged coat which was too large for him, and had turned the coat-sleeves back half-way up his arms. [Illustration: _Copyright by Charles Scribner’s Sons_ OLIVER’S FIRST MEETING WITH THE ARTFUL DODGER] “Hullo, what’s the row?” said the Artful Dodger. “I am very hungry and tired. I have walked a long way. I have been walking seven days.” “Walking for sivin days! Come, you want grub, and you shall have it.” He took Oliver into a little shop and bought some ham and bread, which was quietly devoured. “Going to London?” said the strange boy. “Yes.” “Got any lodgings?” “No.” “Money?” “No.” The strange boy whistled; and put his hands into his pockets, as far as the big coat-sleeves would let them go. “Do you live in London?” inquired Oliver. “Yes, I do, when I’m at home,” replied the boy. “I suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don’t you?” “Yes, I do,” answered Oliver. “I have not slept under a roof since I left the country.” “Don’t fret your eyelids on that score,” said the boy. “I’ve got to be in London to-night; and I know a ’spectable old genelman as lives there, wot’ll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change; that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you. And don’t he know me? Oh, no! Not in the least! By no means. Certainly not!” So Oliver Twist went with the Artful Dodger through the narrowest and crookedest streets in London till he came to the house of old Fagin, who kept a school for pickpockets. Every day the boys would be sent out on the streets and would come home at night with pocket-handkerchiefs and purses which they had snatched from people in the crowds. Five or six boys were in the room, and Fagin was cooking sausages in a frying-pan. “This is him, Fagin,” said the Artful Dodger; “my friend Oliver Twist.”