Through these streets, Noah Claypole walked, dragging Charlotte after him;now stepping into the kennel to embrace at a glance the whole external character of some small public-house;now jogging on again, as some fancied appearance induced him to believe it too public for his purpose.At length, he stopped in front of one, more humble in appearance and more dirty than any he had yet seen;and, having crossed over and surveyed it from the opposite pavement,graciously announced his intention of putting up there, for the night.
“So give us the bundle,” said Noah, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders,and slinging it over his own; “and don’t yer speak, except when yer spoke to.What’s the name of the house—t-h-r—three what?”
“Cripples,” said Charlotte.
“Three Cripples,” repeated Noah, “and a very good sign too. Now, then!Keep close at my heels, and come along.” With these injunctions,he pushed the rattling door with his shoulder, and entered the house, followed by his companion.
There was nobody in the bar but a young Jew, who, with his two elbows on the counter,was reading a dirty newspaper. He stared very hard at Noah, and Noah stared very hard at him.
If Noah had been attired in his charity-boy’s dress,there might have been some reason for the Jew opening his eyes so wide;but as he had discarded the coat and badge, and wore a short smock-frock over his leathers,there seemed no particular reason for his appearance exciting so much attention in a public-house.
“Is this the Three Cripples?” asked Noah.
“That is the dabe of this ’ouse,” replied the Jew.
“A gentleman we met on the road, coming up from the country, recommended us here,” said Noah,nudging Charlotte, perhaps to call her attention to this most ingenious device for attracting respect,and perhaps to warn her to betray no surprise. “We want to sleep here tonight.”
“I’b dot certaid you cad,” said Barney, who was the attendant sprite; “but I’ll idquire.”
“Show us the tap, and give us a bit of cold meat and a drop of beer while yer inquiring, will yer?” said Noah.
Barney complied by ushering them into a small back-room,and setting the required viands before them; having done which,he informed the travellers that they could be lodged that night,and left the amiable couple to their refreshment.
Now, this back-room was immediately behind the bar, and some steps lower,so that any person connected with the house,undrawing a small curtain which concealed a single pane of glass fixed in the wall of the last-named apartment,about five feet from its flooring, could not only look down upon any guests in the back-room without any great hazard of being observed (the glass being in a dark angle of the wall, between which and a large upright beam the observer had to thrust himself), but could, by applying his ear to the partition, ascertain with tolerable distinctness, their subject of conversation. The landlord of the house had not withdrawn his eye from this place of espial for five minutes, and Barney had only just returned from making the communication above related, when Fagin, in the course of his evening’s business, came into the bar to inquire after some of his young pupils.
“Hush!” said Barney: “stradegers id the next roob.”
“Strangers!” repeated the old man in a whisper.
“Ah!Ad rub uds too,” added Barney. “Frob the cuttry, but subthig in your way, or I’b bistaked.”
Fagin appeared to receive this communication with great interest.
Mounting a stool, he cautiously applied his eye to the pane of glass,from which secret post he could see Mr. Claypole taking cold beef from the dish,and porter from the pot, and administering homeopathic doses of both to Charlotte,who sat patiently by, eating and drinking at his pleasure.
“Aha!” he whispered, looking round to Barney, “I like that fellow’s looks. He’d be of use to us;he knows how to train the girl already. Don’t make as much noise as a mouse, my dear,and let me hear ’em talk—let me hear ’em.”
He again applied his eye to the glass, and turning his ear to the partition, listened attentively:with a subtle and eager look upon his face, that might have appertained to some old goblin.
“So I mean to be a gentleman,” said Mr. Claypole, kicking out his legs,and continuing a conversation, the commencement of which Fagin had arrived too late to hear.“No more jolly old coffins, Charlotte, but a gentleman’s life for me: and, if yer like, yer shall be a lady.”
“I should like that well enough, dear,” replied Charlotte; “but tills ain’t to be emptied every day, and people to get clear off after it.”
“Tills be blowed!” said Mr. Claypole; “there’s more things besides tills to be emptied.”
“What do you mean?” asked his companion.
“Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks!” said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter.
“But you can’t do all that, dear,” said Charlotte.
“I shall look out to get into company with them as can,” replied Noah.“They’ll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women;I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.”
“Lor, how nice it is to hear yer say so!” exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.
“There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case I’m cross with yer,” said Noah,disengaging himself with great gravity. “I should like to be the captain of some band,and have the whopping of ’em, and follering ’em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me,if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentleman of this sort,I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we don’t very well know how to get rid of it ourselves.”
After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom;and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught,wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another,when the sudden opening of the door, and the appearance of a stranger, interrupted him.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin. And very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made, as he advanced,and setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.
“A pleasant night, sir, but cool for the time of year,” said Fagin, rubbing his hands. “From the country, I see, sir?”
“How do yer see that?” asked Noah Claypole.
“We have not so much dust as that in London,” replied Fagin,pointing from Noah’s shoes to those of his companion, and from them to the two bundles.
“Yer a sharp feller,” said Noah. “Ha!ha!only hear that, Charlotte!”
“Why, one need be sharp in this town, my dear,” replied the Jew,sinking his voice to a confidential whisper; “and that’s the truth.”
Fagin followed up this remark by striking the side of his nose with his right forefinger,—a gesture which Noah attempted to imitate, though not with complete success,in consequence of his own nose not being large enough for the purpose. However, Mr.Fagin seemed to interpret the endeavour as expressing a perfect coincidence with his opinion,and put about the liquor which Barney reappeared with, in a very friendly manner.
“Good stuff that,” observed Mr. Claypole, smacking his lips.
“Dear!” said Fagin. “A man need be always emptying a till, or a pocket, or a woman’s reticule, or a house,or a mail-coach, or a bank, if he drinks it regularly.”
Mr. Claypole no sooner heard this extract from his own remarks than he fell back in his chair,and looked from the Jew to Charlotte with a countenance of ashy paleness and excessive terror.
“Don’t mind me, my dear,” said Fagin, drawing his chair closer. “Ha!ha!it was lucky it was only me that heard you by chance. It was very lucky it was only me.”
“I didn’t take it,” stammered Noah, no longer stretching out his legs like an independent gentleman,but coiling them up as well as he could under his chair; “it was all her doing; yer’ve got it now, Charlotte, yer know yer have.”
“No matter who’s got it, or who did it, my dear,” replied Fagin, glancing, nevertheless,with a hawk’s eye at the girl and the two bundles. “I’m in that way myself, and I like you for it.”
“In what way?” asked Mr. Claypole, a little recovering.
“In that way of business,” rejoined Fagin; “and so are the people of the house.You’ve hit the right nail upon the head, and are as safe here as you could be.There is not a safer place in all this town than is the Cripples; that is,when I like to make it so. And I have taken a fancy to you and the young woman;so I’ve said the word, and you may make your minds easy.”
Noah Claypole’s mind might have been at ease after this assurance, but his body certainly was not;for he shuffled and writhed about, into various uncouth positions:eyeing his new friend meanwhile with mingled fear and suspicion.
“I’ll tell you more,” said Fagin, after he had reassured the girl,by dint of friendly nods and muttered encouragements.“I have got a friend that I think can gratify your darling wish, and put you in the right way,where you can take whatever department of the business you think will suit you best at first, and be taught all the others.”
“Yer speak as if yer were in earnest,” replied Noah.
“What advantage would it be to me to be anything else?” 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 had 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 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; 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 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.”
“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 the 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 neighborhoods 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 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. 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.
CHAPTER XLIII. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE
“And 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 oughn’t to be, if there is,” replied Mr. Bolter.
“That stands to reason. 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 this position, “we have a general number one,without 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, “we 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 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.”
“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 you 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?”
“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 the 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 rec-ord, 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 he stand in the Newgate Calendar?P’raps 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 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 big-wig, 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.
“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 big-wigs 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 had 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.”
“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 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 were 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 country fellow from Covent Garden market might be supposed to do for the gratification of his curiousity;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 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 question, 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.