Oliver walked along the main road until he spotted a footpath crossing a field.
"Mr. Bumble brought me on that path when I came to the workhouse," he said to himself. To avoid being noticed, he decided to leave the main road and take the path.
He soon reached Mrs. Mann's farm, where he had lived for the first ten years of his life. No one was stirring at this early hour. Oliver passed by silently and kept on walking. When the path ended, he found himself back on the main road.
The sun was shining brightly now, and Oliver was still afraid someone might see him. So he alternately ran and hid behind bushes. At noon he sat down by a milestone to think about where to go. The milestone said it was seventy miles to London.
"London!" thought Oliver. "Nobody could ever find me in a huge city. Not even Mr. Bumble."
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He had often heard the old men in the workhouse say that an enterprising boy would never starve in London. There were ways to earn a living in the city that country people couldn't even imagine. Oliver jumped to his feet and started walking again.
He walked for five more miles before he realized how long it would take him to get to London. Sitting down to rest, he opened his bundle.
"A clean shirt is a very comfortable thing," thought Oliver. "And so are two pairs of darned stockings. A penny and a crust of bread are good too, but they're of little help on a 65-mile walk in wintertime."
Oliver walked twenty miles that day. He ate only the crust of dry bread and drank only a few drinks of water begged from cottages along the road.
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That night he went into a meadow and slept under a hay wagon. At first he was frightened by the wind moaning dismally over the empty fields. He had never felt so lonely, but exhausted from his journey, he soon fell asleep.
The next morning he was so hungry that he had to use his penny to buy a small loaf of bread. He had walked no more than 12 miles when night closed in again. His feet were sore and his legs were weak. He spent another night outdoors.
The days passed and Oliver kept walking. In some villages he saw large signs warning that beggars would be sent to jail, so he hurried through those villages. In other places he hung around the inns, hoping someone would give him something to eat. He begged at farmhouses, but usually the farmers threatened to set the dogs on him.
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Oliver would have starved to death without the bread and cheese given to him by a kindhearted toll collector and an old lady.
On the seventh morning after he had run away, he slowly limped into a little town. The sun was rising as Oliver, with bleeding feet and dust-covered clothes, sat on a doorstep.
A boy passed by. He returned a few minutes later and stood across the road, staring at Oliver. Noticing that Oliver was looking at him, the boy crossed the road.
"Hello, my friend," said the boy. "What brings you here?"
Oliver couldn't answer for a moment because he was busy staring at the boy, who was the strangest person he'd ever seen.
He was definitely a boy, but he swaggered like a man.
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A hat perched precariously on top of his head, and he wore a man's coat that nearly reached his heels. The sleeves were so long that he had to roll them up to see his hands.
"I'm hungry and tired," Oliver finally replied with tears in his eyes. "I've been walking for seven days."
"Seven days!" exclaimed the boy. "That's a long time. If you want food, you shall have it!"
Helping Oliver to stand up, the boy took him to a nearby shop. There he purchased a ham and a loaf of bread. Then he led Oliver to a pub, where he bought something to drink and urged Oliver to eat the bread and ham.
"Going to London?" asked the strange boy when Oliver had finished eating.
"Yes," answered Oliver.
"Got any lodgings?"
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"No."
"Got any money?"
"No."
The boy whistled and shook his head.
"Do you live in London?" asked Oliver.
"Yes, I do. I suppose you'll be wanting someplace to sleep tonight."
"Oh, yes," replied Oliver. "I haven't slept under a roof since I left the country."
"Well, don't fret about that. I have to be in London tonight. I know a respectable old gentleman who'll give you lodgings for free."
This unexpected offer was too tempting for Oliver to pass up. He and the boy continued to talk, and Oliver discovered that his name was Jack Dawkins. "But my friends call me the Artful Dodger," said the boy.
For some reason the Dodger didn't want to arrive in London before nightfall.
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So it was nearly eleven o'clock when they entered the great city. Oliver followed closely behind as his new friend led him into one of the worst parts of the city. Oliver had never seen a dirtier or more wretched place. The streets were narrow and muddy, and the air smelled of filth. At last the Dodger pushed open the door to an old house and whistled loudly.
"Now then!" a strange voice said in reply.
The Dodger uttered a mysterious password and then led Oliver upstairs to a dark and dirty room. Four boys sat at a table watching an old man cook sausages over the fire.
The boys gathered around as the Dodger whispered to the man. Suddenly the Dodger said, "Fagin, this is my friend Oliver Twist," and everyone turned to look.
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Now Oliver could see that the man's matted red hair covered much of an ugly face. "Pleased to meet you," he said, taking Oliver's hand and bowing low. The boys crowded around Oliver, shaking his hands and putting their hands into his pockets.
Fagin watched as Oliver stared at the many silk handkerchiefs hanging about the room.
"I see you've noticed our handkerchiefs," said Fagin. "We're just getting them ready for the wash."
The boys all burst into laughter. Oliver was puzzled, but he didn't say anything because the sausages were done and it was time to eat. After supper Oliver settled down on an old sack and went right to sleep on the floor. He could wait until tomorrow to begin his new life in this strange place.