“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 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 halfwitted 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 stout-hearted 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 Fagin mysteriously.
“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 direction.
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! 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 whereabout, 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! You’ll be a fine cracksman afore the old file now.”