“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.