10 Recruitment Notices

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In the early morning, Oliver awoke on a straw mat, his mind still occupied by the events of the past two days.

That night, Fagin had been hunched over on a wobbly stool, his greasy fingers shifting restlessly over a stolen pocket watch, his sharp eyes gleaming with calculation.

Beside him lay a neat pile of processed handkerchiefs, carefully stripped of their original embroidered marks, waiting to be sold, piece by piece, for money.

Opposite him sat Oliver, uneasy and clutching half a piece of bread.

He now understood the meaning of the phrase “no work, no food.” Today’s failure and frantic escape had only made him cherish the food in his hand more.

Nearby, the clever Dodger leaned against the wall, casually tossing a stolen coin between his fingers. Other children sat around them, warming themselves by the fire and playing games of tag.

“Listen carefully now, my dear children,” Fagin said in a low voice, his fingers moving like a slick old rat orchestrating the transport of stolen food, “a new game is underway—a game of delivery, and one that doesn’t lead to the gallows!”

He tapped his dirty finger on the table where a crumpled newspaper clipping lay—the very advertisement published by Mrs. Maylie.

“Four shillings a week! A roof over your head! And no magistrates poking around!”

Dodger snorted.

“When did we start doing honest work, Fagin?” He flicked the coin up with his thumb, caught it effortlessly, and slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t see the point.”

“Indeed,” chimed in Charley Bates lazily, stretching his legs toward the fire and scoffing at the pay, “four shillings, ha.”

“Of course, that’s not all. Look here, children, would I let us all starve?” Fagin smiled broadly, revealing yellowed teeth. “I hear the fellow keeps a safe in the factory office.”

He grinned wide. “Two thousand pounds worth of treasure.”

Oliver frowned.

“But, but we can’t—”

Fagin patted his shoulder with some force, making Oliver sway slightly. “Oh, my boy! You don’t understand, do you?”

“Work or theft—why draw a line between the two? Factories are full of little treasures that disappear all the time. The Whitechapel streets are crawling with gangs and ruffians—who’d suspect honest, harmless apprentices?” He snapped his fingers. “Dodger, what do you say?”

“It’s just a way of life,” Dodger said indifferently. “Right, Charley?”

Charley nodded. “You’ve got to look on the bright side, mate.”

Before Oliver could argue further, the curtain at the door was abruptly thrown aside.

Bill Sikes strode in, his sturdy frame casting a shadow across the room.

Behind him followed Nancy, wrapped in a shawl, her sharp gaze sweeping the room before settling on the newspaper on the table.

Sikes slammed a fresh paper onto the table, pounding it hard enough to make the pocket watches jump.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Fagin lamented, hastily pocketing the watches. “Bill, the watches didn’t do anything to you!”

“You know what did,” Sikes said. “Look at the paper, the latest issue, Fagin! You’re not the only one with designs on that factory.”

Nancy pulled the clipping from Sikes’s fist, smoothing the creases with her fingers.

“It says they’re recruiting a teacher,” she said, “for the little ones, Fagin.”

“Yes,” Fagin said slyly, clearly unwilling to share the opportunity. He glanced at Nancy with a faint, hidden smirk. “If Nancy leaves, who’ll look after you?”

Sikes wasn’t fooled. He gave a thumbs-up and nodded toward Nancy.

“She’s going.”

Nancy’s eyes flickered.

“Bill,” she whispered, “I’m not—”

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“You will,” Sikes roared, clearly leaving no room for discussion. “You’ll find out the layout—the valuable stuff, the worthless, and the comings and goings.”

He crossed his arms and laughed roughly. “That fellow is tough on men, but Jack told me he softens up around kids. Seems like a gentleman, huh?”

Fagin’s eyes lit up.

“Oh, wonderful, my dear,” he said sweetly. “Nancy finds out the layout, the children come and go, doing some moving—”

Nancy did not smile.

Her eyes scanned the room, resting briefly on Oliver’s pale face before shifting away.

“Suppose I teach them a bit of the real stuff,” she murmured quietly, “so they won’t be suspected.”

Sikes sneered. “Sure, teach them to pick pockets, Nancy. Do whatever you want, just give me the map, get that fool drunk, and I’ll handle the rest. Including shutting that damn mouth forever—he took what he shouldn’t have.”

He straightened and looked at Nancy. “You leave tomorrow. If you snitch—”

He didn’t finish the threat but warned her with a glance—the occasional softness in her heart was no excuse.

“Go, Nancy.”

Oliver parted his lips to speak, but Dodger yanked him sharply, nearly toppling him from his chair.

Nancy frowned but said nothing in response to her lover’s words, only sighing softly.

“I understand.”

She adjusted her expression, returning to her usual weary and obedient demeanor, glanced once more at Oliver with a hint of shame in her eyes, and then followed Sikes out.

After that, Oliver did not see Nancy again, but he had eaten and slept reasonably well over the past two days, spending his time playing games with Fagin inside the house.

Games that trained nimble fingers, probably designed to find wallets, handkerchiefs, and other small valuables in bags.

Or retelling the story of the kind factory owner who had beaten Jack and Tom but spared him.

Oliver almost wished the waiting would last longer, unable to stop wondering if the factory owner would see through Fagin’s plan and send those terrible men—

He didn’t know. Maybe he’d be put in solitary confinement for a while.

Or, like Jack and Tom, have his ribs broken and still be bedridden?

—But perhaps he might really get a good job. One that could support him.

As long as there was no whipping, no abuse, he could eat less and work more.

With such thoughts, Oliver, half-dazed, changed into the clean clothes he had brought, washed his face, and followed the other children toward the factory.

The morning sun struggled to pierce the thick London fog. When he arrived, the young factory owner stood on the freshly scrubbed steps, surveying the children gathering in the yard from head to toe.

The gang of thieves naturally blended in among the ordinary East End children, chattering among themselves.

“I’ve heard of the Essex Textile Mill,” whispered a nearby little girl with braided hair, her clothes patched from old flour sacks. “My mother worked here once!”

“Bella, then you tell us,” another boy begged eagerly, “tell us the story again!”

So the recently popular little Bella recounted the well-worn tale once more: how her mother had started a fire by the loom, how the elderly factory owner had generously paid for her mother’s treatment, and how, even years later, her mother still remembered her old master fondly.

“So my mother sent me here,” she said innocently, “I think it’s okay to earn a little less at first!”

Hearing this, the other East End children instantly grew wary, and lucky Bella lost some of her popularity.

“That won’t do,” they shouted. “Not a penny less! Oh, Bella, you shouldn’t say that!”

Mrs. Maylie stood on the steps, looking down.

Below, about twenty children stood, some barely reaching her waist, others toughened by years of hardship, nervously shifting under her occasional gaze.

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Among them stood the boy she had seen once before, hands clenched tightly, a little nervous.

Beside him was a boy as slick as oil seeping through his bones, eyes darting about, fingers twitching near his pockets as if subconsciously ready to grab something.

Mrs. Maylie cleared her throat and clapped her hands.

“Line up,” she said, “come forward one by one, give your names, then take the test.”

Before anyone could react, Dodger darted to the front.

“No need to make a fuss, sir,” he said loudly. “We all learn very quickly!”

Nancy shot a warning glance at Dodger. Today she wore a blue dress, her shoes and socks tidy, looking especially gentle.

“Line up here with me,” she said, clutching a notebook. “Tell me your names, and I’ll register you.”

She then pointed toward the long table inside. “Once inside, you’ll find parts and a diagram. Follow the steps on the diagram to assemble, then raise your hand when finished—got it?”

Mention of the unknown test silenced the children.

Some younger ones looked confused, exchanging helpless glances.

Others, like Oliver, who had done a few things before, hesitated but stepped forward resolutely, gave their names, and entered the factory.

After Nancy took charge of the registration process, Mrs. Maylie took it upon herself to supervise, wandering about.

The diagram was one she had drawn yesterday: basic part assembly, not difficult but requiring care.

As she walked, she stopped before a girl who had completed most of her work.

The girl looked about fifteen, the oldest child in the group, with fresh bruises under both eyes. Her fingers were nimble and steady, assembling according to the diagram without pause.

When she finished and raised her hand, Mrs. Maylie picked up the assembled piece.

“Well done,” she said, surprised to find the quality of the part had improved.

Mrs. Maylie turned to the girl and tapped near her eyes.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

Oliver, sitting beside her, his own work mostly done, perked up at the sound.

The girl lifted her chin.

“I stopped someone from beating his dog,” she said proudly.

The other children glanced up, their eyes betraying a hint of admiration.

Mrs. Maylie paused, curious, and asked, “Why?”

She opened the character panel to check the girl’s stats.

“Because that man’s an idiot. The dog’s far more useful,” the girl said firmly.

Seeing mechanical skill and animal affinity both at 8, Mrs. Maylie felt tears welling up uncontrollably in her throat.

“You’re hired,” she decided immediately.