Hey chloe2t, thanks for listening, pull up a log. Hope you stick around.
Anyway, I promised to tell you bout The Artful Dodger.
First thing to make clear is that he didn't dress like the dude in the film. He didn't wear garish waistcoats or an oversized top hat (an accessory of the rich ? to be sneered at).
Think about it. The last thing a pickpocket wants is to stand out in the crowd!
Blik and I had just settled at our campfire and he was telling me about his reasons for visiting London, when we heard the chase coming, way off in the trees.
We looked at each other and then back in that direction, in time to see a stocky, red-haired fellow burst out of the woods and plough straight towards us. He uttered no word as he came leaping across the fire, knocking me onto my back as he shot passed and scrambled headfirst under the wagon.
I got a glimpse of the strange look on his face -a mixture of panic and hilarity (which I was soon to become accustomed to). You see the more dangerous a situation, the more the Dodger seemed to find something funny. He was afraid all right, but found his own panic hilarious.
As I sat up, I saw two men come out of the trees.
Now, I'm not going to pretend I wasn't frightened. (Despite the temptation to impress chloe2t).
The men were as tall and as broad as arched doors. Each carried a cosh in one fist and a short sword in the other. Their faces were sweaty and red with exhaustion. They didn't look at all happy. In fact, they looked madder than a workhouse cook. (If you've never been chased by one with a carving knife you're lucky. I was once caught stealing a piece of bread in the workhouse kitchens and found out the hard way how mad cooks can be).
Both men raised their weapons to show they were prepared to kill to get what they wanted.
"Where is he?" One demanded, shouting at us as they drew closer.
"Where's that thieving liar? I'll cut his black heart out."
They stood and pointed their swords at us.
"Give him up now, you peasant dogs and we'll let you live."
Again Blik and I looked at each other.
"Of whom d'you enquire?" Blik asked them, putting on a la di da accent.
"Don't try our patience, old man?."
I stood up then.
"If you're talking about the red haired lad, he went that way." I pointed across the small field to a clump of trees in the distance.
One of the men moved closer, pointing the tip of his blade at my heart.
"Yeah?" He snarled at me, showing a rotten clump of decayed teeth, "So you won't mind if we search the wagon, then?"
"No, go ahead," Blik said, "It's empty. Nowhere for a rat to hide."
I took a stick and poked nervously at the fire, while the men searched. If the thief was to be found, I'd likely be strung up with him for lying. The men got up in the wagon.
While we waited, Blik spat in the fire and cursed them both under his breath.
They came back soon enough, muttering to each other.
"Very well. Pack up your things and leave ? now, while you still can. This is Lord Carrion's land and you are not invited."
For about the third time that evening, Blik and I looked at each other. Move out? How could we, with the runaway lying on the ground beneath the wagon?
We had no choice. Blik kicked out the fire, threw our few cooking utensils in the back of the wagon and climbed up to take the reins, while I harnessed the two horses.
The two men stood back in silence, watching every move.
Then one of them said, "Did you check underneath?"
I heared the other answer, "Can't see much?here?" He wrapped on the side of the wagon, "Come on, move out."
As we rolled away from the dead fire, I expected to hear shouts of surprise and anger, followed by screams of terror. Instead, there was nothing. Blik was at the reins, so I lent out and looked back. The men were standing there watching us. After a few moments they turned and headed across the field towards the trees I had pointed out to them.
I looked at Blik. He looked at me. We both frowned.
After we'd travelled a way down the road, we heard a weak, muffled yell, "Stop the faloogin wagon, you faloogin idiots."
Blik pulled on the reins, "whoa?"
I jumped down.
The red haired thief was lying on the ground beneath the wagon.
"Ohhh, my faloogin arms," he moaned.
I'd never heard anyone swear so much in such a short space of time. I crouched down and managed to drag him out from between the wheels. He had hung onto the underside of the wagon when we left the field. (I know you've seen this done in films, but believe me, the real thing is not easy.)
"Both of you get up in the wagon." Blik said, "I'll get us out of here."
When the thief and I didn't move, but just stood staring at each other, the old man stepped forward.
"I'm Blik and this is Oliver Twist."
The thief brushed himself down, grinning at us.
"I'm the Artful Dodger? just call me Art."
He shook hands with both of us and thanked us sincerely for saving his life.
"Any chance of a cuppa Rosie, before we set off, like?" He asked.
"Rosie?"
"Yeah, Rosie Lee ? tea. Ahhh, you're country people, right?"
He sounded disappointed.
"I'm a Londoner, me." I watched his chest expand.
That's how I came to meet the scoundrel who was to become my closest friend.
Anyone who has read the start of my tale last night, will remember I said 'There was a hell of a fight.' Well, there was. Between Art and me. It started with a bit of name-calling. on Art's part.
"Work'ouse."
"Orphan Olli."
"Twisted blister."
"Gruel chops."
Considering I'd just saved his life, it seemed a bit excessive.
Our fight spilled out of the wagon and onto the road.
We fought like two ferocious dogs, expelling all our tension of the last hour. It was as if, instead of fighting each other, we were fighting the two men who had nearly caught us.
We hit the ground and rolled, absorbed in a tangled heap of kicking feet, butting heads and blind punches.
It went on until we were both laid out on the dirt, exhausted.
Above us the stars were shinning.
"You?re a faloogin good fighter" Art said, rubbing blood from his top lip."
"I was brought up in a workhouse." I pointed out.
"Oh yeah."
He fell silent.
I lifted my head and looked down at my feet.
"Oh, s***e."
The wagon was gone.
Blik had either given up on us, or had no idea we'd been left behind on the road. Either way, he was gone.
"That's torn it." Art said.
The night seemed to close in around us.
It began to rain.
It wasn't the right time of year for a handy haystack.
That's me finished for now.