bestowed a variety of earnest glances, wisely regulating his own
play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour’s cards.
It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was
often his custom, within doors. He also sustained a clay pipe
between his teeth, which he only removed for a brief space when
he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot
upon the table, which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the
accommodation of the company.
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Master Bates was also attentive to his play; but being of a more
excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable
that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and
moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all highly
unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful, presuming
upon their close attachment, more than once took occasion to
reason gravely with his companion upon these improprieties; all of
which remonstrances Master Bates received in extremely good
part; merely requesting his friend to be “blowed,” or to insert his
head in a sack, or replying with some other neatly-turned
witticism of a similar kind, the happy application of which, excited
considerable admiration in the mind of Mr. Chitling. It was
remarkable that the latter gentleman and his partner invariably
lost; and that the circumstance, so far from angering Master Bates,
appeared to afford him the highest amusement, inasmuch as he
laughed most uproariously at the end of every deal, and protested
that he had never seen such a jolly game in all his born days.
“That’s two doubles and the rub,” said Mr. Chitling, with a very
long face, as he drew half a crown from his waistcoat pocket. “I
never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even
when we’ve good cards, Charley and I can’t make nothing of ’em.”
Either the matter or the manner of this remark, which was
made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his
consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and
induced him to inquire what was the matter.
“Matter, Fagin!” cried Charley. “I wish you had watched the
play. Tommy Chitling hasn’t won a point; and I went partners with
him against the Artful and him.”
“Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently
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demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason.
“Try ’em again, Tom; try ’em again.”
“No more of it for me, thankee, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling;
“I’ve had enough. That ’ere Dodger has such a run of luck that
there’s no standing again’ him.”
“Ha! ha! my dear,” replied the Jew, “you must get up very early
in the morning, to win against the Dodger.”
“Morning!” said Charley Bates; “you must put your boots on
overnight, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass
between your shoulders, if you want to come over him.”
Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much
philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company, for the
first picture-card, at a shilling a time. Nobody accepting the
challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he
proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of
Newgate on the table with a piece of chalk which had served him
in lieu of counters; whistling, meantime, with peculiar shrillness.
“How precious dull you are, Tommy!” said the Dodger,
stopping short when there had been a long silence; and addressing
Mr. Chitling. “What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?”
“How should I know, my dear?” replied the Jew, looking round
as he plied the bellows. “About his losses, maybe; or the little
retirement in the country, that he’s just left, eh? Ha! ha! ha! Is that
it, my dear?”
“Not a bit of it,” replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of
discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. “What do you say,
Charley?”
“I should say,” replied Master Bates, with a grin, “that he was
uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my
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eye! here’s a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling’s in love! Oh,
Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!”
Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being
the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back
in his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and
pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing
of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over,
when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.
“Never mind him, my dear,” said the Jew, winking at Mr.
Dawkins, and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle
of the bellows. “Betsy’s a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up
to her.”
“What I mean to say, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling, very red in
the face, “is, that that isn’t anything to anybody here.”
“No more it is,” replied the Jew; “Charley will talk. Don’t mind
him, my dear; don’t mind him. Betsy’s a fine girl. Do as she bids
you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.”
“So I do do as she bids me,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I shouldn’t
have been milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out
a good job for you; didn’t it, Fagin? And what’s six weeks of it? It
must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time
when you don’t want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?”
“Ah, to be sure, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,” asked the
Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, “if Bet was all right?”
“I mean to say that I shouldn’t,” replied Tom angrily. “There,
now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh,
Fagin?”
“Nobody, my dear,” replied the Jew; “not a soul, Tom. I don’t
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know one of ’em that would do it besides you; not one of ’em, my
dear.”
“I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her; mightn’t I,
Fagin?” angrily pursued the poor, half-witted dupe. “A word from
me would have done it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?”
“To be sure it would, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?” demanded Tom, pouring
question upon question with great volubility.
“No, no, to be sure,” replied the Jew; “you were too stouthearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!”
“Perhaps I was,” rejoined Tom, looking round; “and if I was,
what’s to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?”
The Jew, perceiving that Mr. Chitling was considerably roused,
hastened to assure him that nobody was laughing; and to prove
the gravity of the company, appealed to Master Bates, the
principal offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his
mouth to reply that he was never more serious in his life, was
unable to prevent the escape of such a violent roar, that the
abused Mr. Chitling, without any preliminary ceremonies, rushed
across the room and aimed a blow at the offender; who, being
skilful in evading pursuit, ducked to avoid it, and chose his time so
well that it lighted on the chest of the merry old gentleman, and
caused him to stagger to the wall, where he stood panting for
breath, while Mr. Chitling looked on in intense dismay.
“Hark!” cried the Dodger, at this moment, “I heard the tinkler.”
Catching up the light, he crept softly upstairs.
The bell was rung again, with some impatience, while the party
were in darkness. After a short pause, the Dodger reappeared, and
whispered to Fagin mysteriously.
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“What!” cried the Jew, “alone?”
The Dodger nodded in the affirmative, and, shading the flame
of the candle with his hand, gave Charley Bates a private
intimation, in dumb show, that he had better not be funny just
then. Having performed this friendly office, he fixed his eyes on
the Jew’s face, and awaited his directions.
The old man bit his yellow fingers, and meditated for some
seconds; his face working with agitation the while, as if he dreaded
something, and feared to know the worst. At length he raised his
head.
“Where is he?” he asked.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture, as
if to leave the room.
“Yes,” said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; “bring him
down. Hush! Quiet, Charley I Gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!”
This brief direction to Charley Bates, and his recent antagonist,
was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their
whereabouts, when the Dodger descended the stairs, bearing the
light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock;
who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a
large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face,
and disclosed, all haggard, unwashed, and unshorn, the features of
flash Toby Crackit.
“How are you, Faguey?” said this worthy, nodding to the Jew.
“Pop that shawl away in my castor, Dodger, so that I may know
where to find it when I cut; that’s the time of day I You’ll be a fine
young cracksman afore the old file now.” With these words he
pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it round his middle, drew
a chair to the fire, and placed his feet upon the hob.
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“See there, Faguey,” he said, pointing disconsolately to his top-
boots; “not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a
bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don’t look at me in that way, man.
All in good time. I can’t talk about business till I’ve eat and drank;
so produce the sustenance, and let’s have a quiet fill-out for the
first time these three days!”
The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there
were, upon the table; and, seating himself opposite the
housebreaker, waited his leisure.
To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry
to open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with
patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its
expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.
He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent
repose upon his features that they always wore; and through dirt,
and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the self-
satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then, the Jew, in an agony of
impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth; pacing
up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible excitement. It
was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with the utmost outward
indifference, until he could eat no more; then, ordering the Dodger
out, he closed the door, mixed a glass of spirit-and-water, and
composed himself for talking.
“First and foremost, Faguey—” said Toby.
“Yes, yes!” interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.
Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits-and-water, and
to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet against
the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about the level of
his eye, he quietly resumed: “First and foremost, Faguey,” said the
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housebreaker, “how’s Bill?”
“What!” screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.
“Why, you don’t mean to say—” began Toby, turning pale.
“Mean!” cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground.
“Where are they? Sikes and the boy? Where are they?” Where
have they been? Where are they hiding? Why have they not been
here?”
“The crack failed,” said Toby, faintly.
“I know it,” replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his
pocket and pointing to it. “What more?”
“They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back,
with him between us—straight as the crow flies—through hedge
and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the whole country was
awake, and the dogs upon us.”
“The boy?” gasped the Jew.
“Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We
stopped to take him between us; his head hung down, and he was
cold. They were close upon our heels; every man for himself, and
each from the gallows! We parted company, and left the youngster
lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that’s all I know about him.”
The Jew stopped to hear no more; but, uttering a loud yell, and
twining his hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the
house.
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Chapter 26
In Which A Mysterious Character Appears Upon
The Scene; And Many Things, Inseparable From
This History, Are Done And Performed.
The old man had gained the street corner, before he began
to recover the effect of Toby Crackit’s intelligence. He had
relaxed nothing of his unusual speed; but was still
pressing onward, in the same wild and disordered manner, when
the sudden dashing past of a carriage, and a boisterous cry from
the foot passengers, who saw his danger, drove him back upon the
pavement. Avoiding, as much as possible, all the main streets, and
skulking only through the byways and alleys, he at length emerged
on Snow Hill. Here he walked even faster than before; nor did he
linger until he had again turned into a court; when, as if conscious
that he was now in his proper element, he fell into his usual
shuffling pace, and seemed to breathe more freely.
Near to the spot on which Snow Hill and Holborn Hill meet,
there opens, upon the right hand as you come out of the city, a
narrow and dismal alley, leading to Saffron Hill. In its filthy shops
are exposed for sale huge bunches of second-hand silk
handkerchiefs, of all sizes and patterns; for here reside the traders
who purchase them from pick-pockets. Hundreds of these
handkerchiefs hang dangling from pegs outside the windows or
flaunting from the door-posts—and the shelves, within, are piled
with them. Confined as the limits of Field Lane are, it has its
barber, its coffee-shop, its beer-shop, and its fried-fish warehouse.
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It is a commercial colony of itself—the emporium of petty larceny;
visited at early morning, and setting-in of dusk, by silent
merchants, who traffic in dark back-parlours, and who go as
strangely as they come. Here, the clothesman, the shoe-vamper,
and the rag-merchant, display their goods, as signboards to the
petty thief; here, stores of old iron and bones, and heaps of
mildewy fragments of woollen-stuff and linen, rust and rot in the
grimy cellars.
It was into this place that the Jew turned. He was well known to
the sallow denizens of the lane; for such of them as were on the
look-out to buy or sell, nodded, familiarly, as he passed along. He
replied to their salutations in the same way; but bestowed no
closer recognition until he reached the farther end of the alley;
when he stopped, to address a salesman of small stature, who had
squeezed as much of his person into a child’s chair as the chair
would hold, and was smoking a pipe at his warehouse door.
“Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!”
said this respectable trader, in acknowledgement of the Jew’s
inquiry after his health.
“The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,” said Fagin,
elevating his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.
“Well, I’ve heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,”
replied the trader; “but it soon cools down again; don’t you find it
so?’ Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of
Saffron Hill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder tonight.
“At the Cripples?” inquired the man.
The Jew nodded.
“Let me see,” pursued the merchant, reflecting. “Yes, there’s
some half-dozen of ’em gone in, that I knows. I don’t think your
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friend’s there.”
“Sikes is not, I suppose?” inquired the Jew, with a disappointed
countenance.
“Non istwentus, as the lawyers say,” replied the little man,
shaking his head, and looking amazingly sly. “Have you got
anything in my line tonight?”
“Nothing tonight,” said the Jew, turning away.
“Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?” cried the little man,
calling after him. “Stop! I don’t mind if I have a drop there with
you!”
But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that
he preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could
not very easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the
Cripples was, for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively’s
presence. By the time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had
