inquired Fagin, shrugging his shoulders. “Here! Let me have a
word with you outside.”
“There’s no occasion to trouble ourselves to move,” said Noah,
getting his legs by gradual degrees abroad—again. “She’ll take the
luggage upstairs the while. Charlotte, see to them bundles!”
This mandate, which had been delivered with great majesty,
was obeyed without the slightest demur; and Charlotte made the
best of her way off with the packages while Noah held the door
open and watched her out.
“She’s kept tolerably well under, ain’t she?” he asked, as he
resumed his seat, in the tone of a keeper who has tamed some wild
animal.
“Quite perfect,” rejoined Fagin, clapping him on the shoulder.
“You’re a genius, my dear.”
“Why, I suppose if I wasn’t, I shouldn’t be here,” replied Noah.
“But, I say, she’ll be back if yer lose time.”
“Now, what do you think?” said Fagin. “If you was to like my
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friend, could you do better than join him?”
“Is he in a good way of business; that’s where it is!” responded
Noah, winking one of his little eyes.
“The top of the tree,” said Fagin; “employs a power of hands;
has the very best society in the profession.”
“Regular town-maders?” asked Mr. Claypole.
“Not a countryman among ’em; and I don’t think he’d take you,
even on my recommendation, if he didn’t run rather short of
assistants just now,” replied Fagin.
“Should I have to hand over?” said Noah, slapping his breeches
pocket.
“It couldn’t possibly be done without,” replied Fagin, in a most
decided manner.
“Twenty pound, though—it’s a lot of money!”
“Not when it’s in a note you can’t get rid of,” retorted Fagin.
“Number and date taken, I suppose! Payment stopped at the
bank? Ah! It’s not worth much to him. It’ll have to go abroad, and
he couldn’t sell it for a great deal in the market.”
“When could I see him?” asked Noah doubtfully.
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“Um!” said Noah. “What’s the wages?”
“Live like a gentleman—board and lodging, pipes and spirits
free—half of all you earn, and half of all the young woman earns,”
replied Mr. Fagin.
Whether Noah Claypole, whose rapacity was none of the least
comprehensive, would have acceded even to these glowing terms,
had he been a perfectly free agent, is very doubtful; but as he
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recollected that, in the event of his refusal it was in the power of
his new acquaintance to give him up to justice immediately (and
more unlikely things had come to pass), he gradually relented, and
said he thought that would suit him.
“But, yer see,” observed Noah, “as she will be able to do a good
deal, I should like to take something very light.”
“A little fancy work?” suggested Fagin.
“Ah! something of that sort,” replied Noah. “What do you think
would suit me now? Something not too trying for the strength, and
not very dangerous, you know. That’s the sort of thing!”
“I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others,
my dear,” said Fagin. “My friend wants somebody who would do
that well, very much.”
“Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn’t mind turning my
hand to it sometimes,” rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; “but it
wouldn’t pay by itself, you know.”
“That’s true!” observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to
ruminate. “No, it might not.”
“What do you think, then?” asked Noah, anxiously regarding
him. “Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure
work, and not much more risk than being at home.”
“What do you think of the old ladies?” asked Fagin. “There’s a
good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and
running round the corner.”
“Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?”
asked Noah, shaking his head. “I don’t think that would answer
my purpose. Ain’t there any other line open?”
“Stop!” said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. “The
kinchin lay.”
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“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Claypole.
“The kinchins, my dear,” said Fagin, “is the young children
that’s sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and
shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away—they’ve
always got it ready in their hands—then knock ’em into a kennel,
and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but
a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!”
“Ha! ha!” roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy.
“Lord, that’s the very thing!”
“To be sure it is,” replied Fagin; “and you can have a few good
beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and
neighbourhoods like that, where they’re always going errands; and
you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day.
Ha! ha! ha!”
With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined
in a burst of laughter both long and loud.
“Well, that’s all right!” said Noah, when he had recovered
himself, and Charlotte had returned. “What time tomorrow shall
we say?”
“Will ten do?” asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded
assent, “What name shall I tell my good friend?”
“Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such
an emergency. “Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.”
“Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” said Fagin, bowing with
grotesque politeness. “I hope I shall know her better very shortly.”
“Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?” thundered Mr.
Claypole.
“Yes, Noah, dear!” replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.
“She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,” said Mr.
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Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. “You understand?”
“Oh, yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the
truth for once. “Good-night! Good-night!”
With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way.
Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to
enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all
that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a
member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the
dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and
its vicinity.
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Chapter 43
Wherein Is Shown How The Artful Dodger Got Into
Trouble.
“A nd so it was you that was your own friend, was
it?” asked Mr. Claypole, otherwise Bolter, when,
by virtue of the compact entered into between
them, he had removed next day to Fagin’s house. “’Cod, I thought
as much last night!”
“Every man’s his own friend, my dear,” replied Fagin, with his
most insinuating grin. “He hasn’t as good a one as himself
anywhere.”
“Except sometimes,” replied Morris Bolter, assuming the air of
a man of the world. “Some people are nobody’s enemies but their
own, yer know.”
“Don’t believe that,” said Fagin. “When a man’s his own enemy,
it’s only because he’s too much his own friend; not because he’s
careful for everybody but himself. Pooh! pooh! There ain’t such a
thing in nature.”
“There oughtn’t to be, if there is,” replied Mr. Bolter.
“That stands to reason,” said Fagin. “Some conjurers say that
number three is the magic number, and some say number seven.
It’s neither, my friend, neither. It’s number one.”
“Ha! ha!” cried Mr. Bolter. “Number one for ever.”
“In a little community like ours, my dear,” said Fagin, who felt
it necessary to qualify his position, “we have a general number
one; that is, you can’t consider yourself as number one, without
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considering me too as the same, and all the other young people.”
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
“You see,” pursued Fagin, affecting to disregard this
interruption, awe are so mixed up together, and identified in our
interests, that it must be so. For instance, it’s your object to take
care of number one—meaning yourself.”
“Certainly,” replied Mr. Bolter. “Yer about right there.”
“Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without
taking care of me, number one.”
“Number two, you mean,” said Mr. Bolter, who was largely
endowed with the quality of selfishness.
“No, I don’t!” retorted Fagin. “I’m of the same importance to
you, as you are to yourself.”
“I say,” interrupted Mr. Bolter, “yer a very nice man, and I’m
very fond of yer; but we ain’t quite so thick together, as all that
comes to.”
“Only think,” said Fagin, shrugging his shoulders, and
stretching out his hands; “only consider. You’ve done what’s a
very pretty thing, and what I love you for doing; but what at the
same time would put the cravat round your throat, that’s so very
easily tied and so very difficult to unloose—in plain English, the
halter!”
Mr. Bolter put his hand to his neckerchief, as if he felt it
inconveniently tight; and murmured an assent, qualified in tone
but not in substance.
“The gallows,” continued Fagin—“the gallows, my dear, is an
ugly finger-post, which points out a very short and sharp turning
that has stopped many a bold fellow’s career on the broad
highway. To keep in the easy road, and keep it at a distance, is
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object number one with you.”
“Of course it is,” replied Mr. Bolter. “What do yer talk about
such things for?”
“Only to show you my meaning clearly,” said the Jew, raising
his eyebrows. “To be able to do that, you depend upon me. To
keep my little business all snug, I depend upon you. The first is
your number one, the second my number one. The more you value
your number one, the more careful you must be of mine; so we
come at last to what I told you at first—that a regard for number
one holds us all together, and must do so, unless we would all go to
pieces in company.”
“That’s true,” rejoined Mr. Bolter thoughtfully. “Oh! yer a
cunning old codger!”
Mr. Fagin saw, with delight, that this tribute to his powers was
no mere compliment, but that he had really impressed his recruit
with a sense of his wily genius, which it was most important that
he should entertain in the outset of their acquaintance. To
strengthen an impression so desirable and useful, he followed up
the blow by acquainting him, in some detail, with the magnitude
and extent of his operations; blending truth and fiction together,
as best served his purpose; and bringing both to bear, with so
much art, that Mr. Bolter’s respect visibly increased, and became
tempered at the same time, with a degree of wholesome fear,
which it was highly desirable to awaken.
“It’s this mutual trust we have in each other that consoles me
under heavy losses,” said Fagin. “My best hand was taken from
me, yesterday morning.”
“You don’t mean to say he died?” cried Mr. Bolter.
“No, no,” replied Fagin, “not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.”
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“What, I suppose he was—”
“Wanted,” interposed Fagin. “Yes, he was wanted.”
“Very particular?” inquired Mr. Bolter.
“No,” replied Fagin, “not very. He was charged with attempting
to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him—his
own, my dear, his own, for he took snuff himself, and was very
fond of it. They remanded him till today, for they thought they
knew the owner. Ah! he was worth fifty boxes, and I’d give the
price of as many to have him back. You should have known the
Dodger, my dear; you should have known the Dodger.”
“Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?” said
Mr. Bolter.
“I’m doubtful about it,” replied Fagin, with a sigh. “If they don’t
get any fresh evidence, it’ll only be a summary conviction, and we
shall have him back again after six weeks or so; but, if they do, it’s
a case of lagging. They know what a clever lad he is; he’ll be a lifer.
They’ll make the Artful nothing less than a lifer.”
“What do yer mean by lagging and a lifer?” demanded Mr.
Bolter. “What’s the good of talking in that way to me; why don’t
yer speak so as I can understand yer?”
Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into
the vulgar tongue; and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have
been informed that they represented that combination of words,
“transportation for life,” when the dialogue was cut short by the
entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches pockets, and
his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe.
“It’s all up, Fagin,” said Charley, when he and his new
companion had been made known to each other.
“What do you mean?”
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“They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three
more’s a-coming to ’dentify him; and the Artful’s booked for a
passage out,” replied Master Bates. “I must have a full suit of
mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out
upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the
Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common
twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he’d a done it
under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn’t
he rob some rich old gentleman of all his walables, and go out as a
gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour nor
glory!”
With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend,
Master Bates sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of
chagrin and despondency.
“What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory
for!” exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. “Wasn’t
he always top-sawyer among you all! Is there one of you that could
touch him or come near him on any scent! Eh?”
“Not one,” replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by
regret; “not one.”
“Then what do you talk of?” replied Fagin angrily; “what are
you blubbering for?”
“‘Cause it isn’t on the record, is it?” said Charley, chafed into
perfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his
regrets; “’cause it can’t come out in the ’dictment; ’cause nobody
will never know half of what he was. How will be stand in the
Newgate Calendar? P’r’aps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye,
wot a blow it is!”
“Ha! ha!” cried Fagin, extending his right hand, and turning to
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