“That’s for our share of the trouble,” said Sikes; “and not half enough, neither. You may keep the books, if you’re fond of reading. If you ain’t, sell ’em.”

“They’re very pretty,” said Charley Bates: who, with sundry grimaces, had been affecting to read one of the volumes in question; “beautiful writing, isn’t it, Oliver?” At sight of the dismayed look with which Oliver regarded his tormentors, Master Bates, who was blessed with a lively sense of the ludicrous, fell into another ecstasy, more boisterous than the first.

“They belong to the old gentleman,” said Oliver, wringing his hands; “to the good, kind, old gentleman who took me into his house, and had me nursed, when I was near dying of the fever. Oh, pray send them back; send him back the books and money. Keep me here all my life long; but pray, pray send them back. He’ll think I stole them; the old lady: all of them who were so kind to me: will think I stole them. Oh, do have mercy upon me, and send them back!”