Master Bates was also attentive to the 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 Artfull and dumb.”
“Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason. “Try ’em again, Tom; try ’em again.”
“No more of it for me, thank ‘ee, 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 over-night, 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 the 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! 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 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.”