Chapter 8

           Oliverreachedthestileatwhichtheby-pathterminated;andoncemoregainedthehigh-road.Itwaseighto’clocknow.Thoughhewasnearlyfivemilesawayfromthetown,heran,andhidbehindthehedges,byturns,tillnoon:fearingthathemightbepursuedandovertaken.Thenhesatdowntorestbythesideofthemilestone,andbegantothink,forthefirsttime,wherehehadbettergoandtrytolive.

           Thestonebywhichhewasseated,bore,inlargecharacters,anintimationthatitwasjustseventymilesfromthatspottoLondon.Thenameawakenedanewtrainofideasintheboy’smind.

           London!—thatgreatplace!—nobody—notevenMr.Bumble—couldeverfindhimthere!Hehadoftenheardtheoldmenintheworkhouse,too,saythatnoladofspiritneedwantinLondon;andthattherewerewaysoflivinginthatvastcity,whichthosewhohadbeenbredupincountrypartshadnoideaof.Itwastheveryplaceforahomelessboy,whomustdieinthestreetsunlesssomeonehelpedhim.Asthesethingspassedthroughhisthoughts,hejumpeduponhisfeet,andagainwalkedforward.

           HehaddiminishedthedistancebetweenhimselfandLondonbyfullfourmilesmore,beforeherecollectedhowmuchhemustundergoerehecouldhopetoreachhisplaceofdestination.Asthisconsiderationforceditselfuponhim,heslackenedhispacealittle,andmeditateduponhismeansofgettingthere.Hehadacrustofbread,acoarseshirt,andtwopairsofstockings,inhisbundle.Hehadapennytoo—agiftofSowerberry’saftersomefuneralinwhichhehadacquittedhimselfmorethanordinarilywell—inhispocket.‘Acleanshirt,’thoughtOliver,‘isaverycomfortablething;andsoaretwopairsofdarnedstockings;andsoisapenny;buttheysmallhelpstoasixty-fivemiles’walkinwintertime.’

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