Sam was hungry. And not the 'oo I could do with a snack' hungry; he hadn't eaten in over a week. The boy hadn't been this hungry before, and he had lived in a workhouse for the whole five years of his life on planet earth. After all that time he was finally out. In his own opinion he was pretty smart; all his life he had been good and honest. Five years later they trusted him to go and get the doctor during an outbreak of measles. Of course he never got that far. Like I said he wasn't an idiot; he went down an alley and the workhouse staff never saw him again.

That was two months back; he had barely eaten a mouthful in that whole time. At first he would dip his hand into the pockets of rich folk but now he was amazed he still had enough strength to lift his own head. Sam started shivering as the snow started drifting around him. Maybe that would get him more sympathy from passer byes, he doubted it though. They hadn't before after all. He hated them all; they had money to spare but they could still watch as a boy not yet six (he thought) starved to death.

Slowly but surely his eyes closed and he keeled over… asleep.

Jab… jab…

Somebody was tapping him with their foot, it was a pity; his dream had been a good one. His mother had been there, he was warm and happy as she sang a lullaby to him. Still he had to admit it; someone was tapping him. Sam opened his eyes as slowly as he possibly could.

"Oi, little un," said a boy no more than four years his elder. "Open your peepers… well get up then." His arm was thrust towards his face. Sam grabbed at it pathetically but somehow managed to get onto his feet. His legs were wobbly and his belly felt hollow. It wasn't a good combination. "Wot's yer name then covey?"

"Sam…" he whispered weakly. "Sam Matterson."

Sam started stumbling away. This boy was a stranger to him.

"Hey, where you goin' covey. I haven't made your acquaintance yet. My name is Jack Dawkins, but I'm best known around these parts as the Artful Dodger. You can call me Dodge… you 'ungry?"

"I don't know you." Sam choked out.

"Well I know a respectable ol' gen'leman who'll give you lodgin's for nothing." The younger boy carried on walking. "His name's Fagin, ee'll take you under his wing." Jack was getting impatient. "Come on. Wot 'arm can it do?"

The dodger put a sly grin on his face and put his hand inside his jacket; "Well if you ain't gonna come with me." He drew out a small loaf of bread, Sam's eyes widened and his mouth watered. But he shook his head stubbornly.

"I ain't hungry."

"'Fraid your tum disagrees" remarked the elder boy as his belly let out an uncomfortable rumble. "Look 'ere, this is your choice; stay 'ere on the streets, be beat up by the big boys and starve to death or come wiv me, meet Fagin and do the genteel."

It wasn't much of a choice was it? Sam took the loaf and, taking a huge bite, followed Mr Dawkins up several alleyways, along a few lanes, across a bridge or two and then came to a stop in the middle of nowhere. The dodger crouched down, knocked on a man hole and quietly called out "Plummy and slam"

The manhole opened and Sam took a step into the unknown.