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Mr. Bolter in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had
the palsy; “see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear.
Ain’t it beautiful?”
Mr. Bolter nodded assent; and Fagin, after contemplating the
grief of Charley Bates for some seconds with evident satisfaction,
stepped up to that young gentleman and patted him on the
shoulder.
“Never mind, Charley,” said Fagin soothingly; “it’ll come out,
it’ll be sure to come out. They’ll all know what a clever fellow he
was; he’ll show it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and
teachers. Think how young he is too! What a distinction, Charley,
to be lagged at his time of life!”
“Well, it is a honour, that is!” said Charley, a little consoled.
“He shall have all he wants,” continued the Jew. “He shall be
kept in the stone jug, Charley, like a gentleman. Like a gentleman!
With his beer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss
with, if he can’t spend it.”
“No, shall he though?” cried Charley Bates.
“Ay, that he shall,” replied Fagin, “and we’ll have a bigwig,
Charley—one that’s got the greatest gift of the gab—to carry on his
defence; and he shall make a speech for himself too, if he likes;
and we’ll read it all in the papers—‘Artful Dodger shrieks of
laughter—here the court was convulsed’—eh, Charley, eh?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Master Bates, “what a lark that would be,
wouldn’t it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother ’em,
wouldn’t he?”
“Would!” cried Fagin. “He shall—he will!”
“Ah, to be sure, so he will,” repeated Charley, rubbing his
hands.
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“I think I see him now,” cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon
his pupil.
“So do I,” cried Charley Bates. “Ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all
afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! What a regular
game! All the bigwigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins
addressing of ’em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the
judge’s own son making a speech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!”
In fact, Mr. Fagin had so well humoured his young friend’s
eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who bad at first been
disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a
victim, now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most
uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the
arrival of the time when his old companion should have so
favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities.
“We must know how he gets on today, by some handy means or
other,” said Fagin. “Let me think.”
“Shall I go?” asked Charley.
“Not for the world,” replied Fagin. “Are you mad, my dear—
stark mad, that you’d walk into the very place where—No,
Charley, no. One is enough to lose at a time.”
“You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?” said Charley, with
a humorous leer.
“That wouldn’t quite fit,” replied Fagin, shaking his head.
“Then why don’t you send this new cove?” asked Master Bates,
laying his hand on Noah’s arm. “Nobody knows him.”
“Why, if he didn’t mind—” observed Fagin.
“Mind!” interposed Charley. “What should he have to mind?”
“Really nothing, my dear,” said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter,
“really nothing.”
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“Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,” observed Noah, backing
towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm.
“No, no—none of that. It’s not in my department, that ain’t.”
“Wot department has he got, Fagin?” inquired Master Bates,
surveying Noah’s lank form with much disgust. “The cutting away
when there’s anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when
there’s everything right; is that his branch?”
“Never mind,” retorted Mr. Bolter; “and don’t yer take liberties
with yer superiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself in the wrong
shop.”
Master Bates laughed so vehemently at this magnificent threat
that it was some time before Fagin could interpose, and represent
to Mr. Bolter that he incurred no possible danger in visiting the
police office; that, inasmuch as no account of the little affair in
which he had been engaged, nor any description of his person, had
yet been forwarded to the metropolis, it was very probable that he
was not even suspected of having resorted to it for shelter; and
that, if he was properly disguised, it would be as safe a spot for
him to visit as any in London, inasmuch as it would be, of all
places, the very last, to which he could be supposed likely to resort
of his own free-will.
Persuaded, in part, by these representations, but overborne in a
much greater degree by his fear of Fagin, Mr. Bolter at length
consented, with a very bad grace, to undertake the expedition. By
Fagin’s directions, he immediately substituted for his own attire, a
waggoner’s frock, velveteen breeches, and leather leggings, all of
which articles the Jew had at hand. He was likewise furnished
with a felt hat well garnished with turnpike tickets, and a carter’s
whip. Thus equipped, he was to saunter into the office, as some
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country fellow from Covent Garden market might be supposed to
do for the gratification of his curiosity; and as he was as awkward,
ungainly, and raw-boned a fellow as need be, Mr. Fagin had no
fear but that he would look the part to perfection.
These arrangements completed, he was informed of the
necessary signs and tokens by which to recognise the Artful
Dodger, and was conveyed by Master Bates through dark and
winding ways to within a very short distance of Bow Street.
Having described the precise situation of the office, and
accompanied it with copious directions how he was to walk
straight up the passage, and when he got into the yard take the
door up the steps on the right-hand side, and pull off his hat as he
went into the room, Charley Bates bade him hurry on alone, and
promised to bide his return on the spot of their parting.
Noah Claypole, or Morris Bolter as the reader pleases,
punctually followed the directions he had received, which—
Master Bates being pretty well acquainted with the locality—were
so exact that he was enabled to gain the magisterial presence
without asking any questions, or meeting with any interruption by
the way. He found himself jostled among a crowd of people, chiefly
women, who were huddled together in a dirty, frowsy room, at the
upper end of which was a raised platform railed off from the rest,
with a dock for the prisoners on the left hand against the wall, a
box for the witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates
on the right; the awful locality last named, being screened off by a
partition which concealed the Bench from the common gaze, and
left the vulgar to imagine (if they could) the full majesty of Justice.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were
nodding to their admiring friends, while the clerk read some
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depositions to a couple of policemen and a man in plain clothes
who leant over the table. A jailer stood reclining against the dock
rail, tapping his nose listlessly with a large key, except when he
repressed an undue tendency to conversation among the idlers, by
proclaiming silence; or looked sternly up to bid some woman
“Take that baby out,” when the gravity of justice was disturbed by
feeble cries, half-smothered in the mother’s shawl, from some
meagre infant. The room smelled close and unwholesome; the
walls were dirt-coloured; and the ceiling blackened. There was an
old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a dusty clock above the
dock—the only thing present, that seemed to go on as it ought; for
depravity, or poverty, or an habitual acquaintance with both, had
left a taint on all the animate matter, hardly less unpleasant than
the thick greasy scum on every inanimate object that frowned
upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although
there were several women who would have done very well for that
distinguished character’s mother or sister, and more than one man
who might be supposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father,
nobody at all answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins
was to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and
uncertainty until the women, being committed for trial, went
flaunting out; and then was quickly relieved by the appearance of
another prisoner who he felt at once could be no other than the
object of his visit.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with
the big coat tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket, and his
hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling gait
altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock,
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requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that
’ere disgraceful sitivation for.
“Hold your tongue, will you?” said the jailer.
“I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?” rejoined the Dodger. “Where are
my priwileges?”
“You’ll get your privileges soon enough,” retorted the jailer,
“and pepper with ’em.”
“We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has
got to say to the beaks, if I don’t,” replied Mr. Dawkins. “Now
then! Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg’strates to
dispose of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read
the paper, for I’ve got an appointment with a gentleman in the
city, and as I’m a man of my word and wery punctual in business
matters, he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then p’r’aps
there won’t be an action for damage against them as kept me
away. Oh, no, certainly not!”
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular
with a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer
to communicate “the names of them two files as was on the
bench,” which so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost
as heartily as Master Bates could have done if he had heard the
request.
“Silence, there!” cried the jailer.
“What is this?” inquired one of the magistrates.
“A pick-pocketing case, your Worship.”
“Has the boy ever been here before?”
“He ought to have been, a many times,” replied the jailer. “He
has been pretty well everywhere else. I know him well, your
Worship.”
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“Oh! you know me, do you?” cried the Artful, making a note of
the statement. “Wery good. That’s a case of deformation of
character, anyway.” Here there was another laugh, and another
cry of silence.
“Now then, where are the witnesses?” said the clerk.
“Ah! that’s right,” added the Dodger. “Where are they? I should
like to see ’em.”
This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped
forward who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an
unknown gentleman in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief
therefrom, which, being a very old one, he deliberately put back
again, after trying it on his own countenance. For this reason, he
took the Dodger into custody as soon as he could get near him,
and the said Dodger, being searched, had upon his person a silver
snuff-box, with the owner’s name engraved upon the lid. This
gentleman had been discovered on reference to the Court Guide,
and being then and there present, swore that the snuff-box was
his, and that he missed it on the previous day, the moment he had
disengaged himself from the crowd before referred to. He had also
remarked a young gentleman in the throng, particularly active in
making his way about, and that young gentleman was the prisoner
before him.
“Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?” said the
magistrate.
“I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation
with him,” replied the Dodger.
“Have you anything to say at all?”
“Do you hear his Worship ask if you’ve anything to say?”
inquired the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
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“I beg your pardon,” said the Dodger, looking up with an air of
abstraction. “Did you redress yourself to me, my man?”
“I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your
Worship,” observed the officer, with a grin. “Do you mean to say
anything, you young shaver?”
“No,” replied the Dodger, “not here, for this ain’t the shop for
justice; besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning
with the wice-president of the House of Commons; but I shall have
something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery
numerous and ’spectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them
beaks wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got their
footmen to hang ’em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let ’em
come out this morning to try it on upon me. It’ll—”
“There! He’s fully committed!” interposed the clerk. “Take him
away.”
“Come on,” said the jailer.
“Oh, ah! I’ll come on,” replied the Dodger, brushing his hat
with the palm of his hand. “Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your
looking frightened; I won’t show you no mercy, not a ha’porth of it.
You’ll pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn’t be you for something!
I wouldn’t go free, now, if you was to fall down on your knees and
ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!”
With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off
by the collar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a
parliamentary business of it; and then grinning in the officer’s
face, with great glee and self-approval.
Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah
made the best of his way back to where he had left Master Bates.
After waiting here some time, he was joined by that young
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gentleman, who had prudently abstained from showing himself
until he had looked carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and
ascertained that his new friend had not been followed by any
impertinent person.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the
animating news that the Dodger was doing full justice to his
bringing-up, and establishing for himself a glorious reputation.
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Chapter 44
The Time Arrives For Nancy To Redeem Her
Pledge To Rose Maylie—She Fails.
Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and
dissimulation, the girl Nancy could not wholly conceal the
effect which the knowledge of the step she had taken,
worked upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty Jew
and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been
hidden from all others, in the full confidence that she was
trustworthy and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those
schemes were, desperate as were their originators, and bitter as
were her feelings towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step,
deeper and deeper down into an abyss of crime and misery,
whence was no escape; still, there were times when, even towards
him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure should bring him
within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he should fall at
last—richly as he merited such a fate—by her hand.
But these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to
detach itself from old companions and associations though
enabled to fix itself steadily on one object, and resolved not to be
turned aside by any consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have
been more powerful inducements to recoil while there was yet
time; but she had stipulated that her secret should be rigidly kept,
she had dropped no clue which could lead to his discovery, she
had refused, even for his sake, a refuge from all the guilt and
wretchedness that encompassed her—and what more could she
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do! She was resolved.
Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion,
they forced themselves upon her, again and again, and left their
traces too. She grew pale and thin, even within a few days. At
times, she took no heed of what was passing before her, or no part
in conversations where once she would have been the loudest. At
other times, she laughed without merriment, and was noisy
without cause or meaning. At others—often within a moment
afterwards—she sat silent and dejected, brooding with her head
upon her hands, while the very effort by which she roused herself,
told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she was ill at
ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very
different and distant from those in course of discussion by her
