“Well!” said the matron, leaning her elbow on the table, and looking reflectively at the fire;“I’m sure we have all on us a great deal to be grateful for!A great deal, if we did but know it. Ah!”
Mrs. Corney shook her head mournfully, as if deploring the mental blindness of those paupers who did not know it;and thrusting a silver spoon (private property) into the inmost recesses of a two-ounce tin tea-caddy, proceeded to make the tea.
How slight a thing will disturb the equanimity of our frail minds!The black teapot, being very small and easily filled, ran over while Mrs. Corney was moralising;and the water slightly scalded Mrs. Corney’s hand.
“Drat the pot!” said the worthy matron, setting it down very hastily on the hob; “a little stupid thing, that only holds a couple of cups!What use is it of, to anybody!Except,” said Mrs. Corney, pausing, “except to a poor desolate creature like me. Oh dear!”
With these words, the matron dropped into her chair, and, once more resting her elbow on the table,thought of her solitary fate. The small teapot, and the single cup,had awakened in her mind sad recollections of Mr.Corney (who had not been dead more than five-and-twenty years); and she was overpowered.
“I shall never get another!” said Mrs. Corney, pettishly; “I shall never get another—like him.”
Whether this remark bore reference to the husband, or the teapot, is uncertain.It might have been the latter; for Mrs. Corney looked at it as she spoke;and took it up afterwards. She had just tasted her first cup,when she was disturbed by a soft tap at the room-door.
“Oh, come in with you!” said Mrs. Corney, sharply. “Some of the old women dying, I suppose.They always die when I’m at meals. Don’t stand there, letting the cold air in, don’t. What’s amiss now, eh?”
“Nothing, ma’am, nothing,” replied a man’s voice.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, in a much sweeter tone, “is that Mr. Bumble?”
“At your service, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, who had been stopping outside to rub his shoes clean,and to shake the snow off his coat; and who now made his appearance,bearing the cocked hat in one hand and a bundle in the other. “Shall I shut the door, ma’am?”
The lady modestly hesitated to reply, lest there should be any impropriety in holding an interview with Mr.Bumble, with closed doors. Mr. Bumble taking advantage of the hesitation,and being very cold himself, shut it without permission.
“Hard weather, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“Hard, indeed, ma’am,” replied the beadle. “Anti-porochial weather this, ma’am. We have given away,Mrs. Corney, we have given away a matter of twenty quartern loaves and a cheese and a half,this very blessed afternoon; and yet them paupers are not contented.”
“Of course not. When would they be, Mr. Bumble?” said the matron, sipping her tea.
“When, indeed, ma’am!” rejoined Mr. Bumble. “Why here’s one man that, in consideration of his wife and large family,has a quartern loaf and a good pound of cheese, full weight. Is he grateful, ma’am?Is he grateful?Not a copper farthing’s worth of it!What does he do, ma’am, but ask for a few coals; if it’s only a pocket handkerchief full, he says!Coals!What would he do with coals?Toast his cheese with ’em and then come back for more. That’s the way with these people, ma’am;give’em a apron full of coals today, and they’ll come back for another, the day after tomorrow, as brazen as alabaster.”
The matron expressed her entire concurrence in this intelligible simile; and the beadle went on.
“I never,” said Mr. Bumble, “see anything like the pitch it’s got to. The day afore yesterday,a man—you have been a married woman, ma’am, and I may mention it to you—a man,with hardly a rag upon his back (here Mrs. Corney looked at the floor),goes to our overseer’s door when he has got company coming to dinner; and says,he must be relieved, Mrs. Corney. As he wouldn’t go away, and shocked the company very much,our overseer sent him out a pound of potatoes and half a pint of oatmeal. ‘My heart!’ says the ungrateful villain, ‘what’s the use of _this_ to me?You might as well give me a pair of iron spectacles!’ ‘Very good,’ says our overseer, taking ’em away again, ‘you won’t get anything else here. ’ ‘Then I’ll die in the streets!’ says the vagrant. ‘Oh no, you won’t,’ says our overseer.”
“Ha!ha!That was very good!So like Mr. Grannett, wasn’t it?” interposed the matron. “Well, Mr. Bumble?”
“Well, ma’am,” rejoined the beadle, “he went away; and he _did_ die in the streets. There’s a obstinate pauper for you!”
“It beats anything I could have believed,” observed the matron emphatically.“But don’t you think out-of-door relief a very bad thing, any way, Mr. Bumble?You’re a gentleman of experience, and ought to know. Come.”
“Mrs. Corney,” said the beadle, smiling as men smile who are conscious of superior information,“out-of-door relief, properly managed: properly managed, ma’am: is the porochial safeguard.The great principle of out-of-door relief is, to give the paupers exactly what they don’t want; and then they get tired of coming.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed Mrs. Corney. “Well, that is a good one, too!”
“Yes. Betwixt you and me, ma’am,” returned Mr. Bumble, “that’s the great principle;and that’s the reason why, if you look at any cases that get into them owdacious newspapers,you’ll always observe that sick families have been relieved with slices of cheese.That’s the rule now, Mrs. Corney, all over the country. But, however,” said the beadle,stopping to unpack his bundle, “these are official secrets, ma’am; not to be spoken of; except,as I may say, among the porochial officers, such as ourselves. This is the port wine, ma’am,that the board ordered for the infirmary; real, fresh, genuine port wine;only out of the cask this forenoon; clear as a bell, and no sediment!”
Having held the first bottle up to the light, and shaken it well to test its excellence, Mr.Bumble placed them both on top of a chest of drawers;folded the handkerchief in which they had been wrapped; put it carefully in his pocket; and took up his hat, as if to go.
“You’ll have a very cold walk, Mr. Bumble,” said the matron.
“It blows, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, turning up his coat-collar, “enough to cut one’s ears off.”
The matron looked, from the little kettle, to the beadle, who was moving towards the door;and as the beadle coughed, preparatory to bidding her good-night,bashfully inquired whether—whether he wouldn’t take a cup of tea?
Mr. Bumble instantaneously turned back his collar again; laid his hat and stick upon a chair;and drew another chair up to the table. As he slowly seated himself, he looked at the lady.She fixed her eyes upon the little teapot. Mr. Bumble coughed again, and slightly smiled.
Mrs. Corney rose to get another cup and saucer from the closet. As she sat down,her eyes once again encountered those of the gallant beadle; she coloured,and applied herself to the task of making his tea. Again Mr.Bumble coughed—louder this time than he had coughed yet.
“Sweet?Mr. Bumble?” inquired the matron, taking up the sugar-basin.
“Very sweet, indeed, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble. He fixed his eyes on Mrs. Corney as he said this;and if ever a beadle looked tender, Mr. Bumble was that beadle at that moment.
The tea was made, and handed in silence. Mr. Bumble,having spread a handkerchief over his knees to prevent the crumbs from sullying the splendour of his shorts,began to eat and drink; varying these amusements, occasionally, by fetching a deep sigh; which,however, had no injurious effect upon his appetite, but, on the contrary,rather seemed to facilitate his operations in the tea and toast department.
“You have a cat, ma’am, I see,” said Mr. Bumble, glancing at one who, in the centre of her family,was basking before the fire; “and kittens too, I declare!”
“I am so fond of them, Mr. Bumble, you can’t think,” replied the matron. “They’re _so_ happy,_so_ frolicsome, and _so_ cheerful, that they are quite companions for me.”
“Very nice animals, ma’am,” replied Mr. Bumble, approvingly; “so very domestic.”
“Oh, yes!” rejoined the matron with enthusiasm; “so fond of their home too, that it’s quite a pleasure, I’m sure.”
“Mrs. Corney, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble, slowly, and marking the time with his teaspoon,“I mean to say this, ma’am; that any cat, or kitten, that could live with you, ma’am,and _not_ be fond of its home, must be a ass, ma’am.”
“Oh, Mr. Bumble!” remonstrated Mrs. Corney.
“It’s of no use disguising facts, ma’am,” said Mr. Bumble,slowly flourishing the teaspoon with a kind of amorous dignity which made him doubly impressive;“I would drown it myself, with pleasure.”
“Then you’re a cruel man,” said the matron vivaciously,as she held out her hand for the beadle’s cup; “and a very hard-hearted man besides.”
“Hard-hearted, ma’am?” said Mr. Bumble. “Hard?” Mr. Bumble resigned his cup without another word; squeezed Mrs.Corney’s little finger as she took it; and inflicting two open-handed slaps upon his laced waistcoat,gave a mighty sigh, and hitched his chair a very little morsel farther from the fire.
It was a round table; and as Mrs. Corney and Mr. Bumble had been sitting opposite each other,with no great space between them, and fronting the fire, it will be seen that Mr. Bumble,in receding from the fire, and still keeping at the table,increased the distance between himself and Mrs. Corney; which proceeding,some prudent readers will doubtless be disposed to admire,and to consider an act of great heroism on Mr. Bumble’s part:he being in some sort tempted by time, place, and opportunity,to give utterance to certain soft nothings,which however well they may become the lips of the light and thoughtless,do seem immeasurably beneath the dignity of judges of the land, members of parliament,ministers of state, lord mayors, and other great public functionaries,but more particularly beneath the stateliness and gravity of a beadle:who (as is well known) should be the sternest and most inflexible among them all.
Whatever were Mr. Bumble’s intentions, however (and no doubt they were of the best):it unfortunately happened, as has been twice before remarked, that the table was a round one;consequently Mr. Bumble, moving his chair by little and little,soon began to diminish the distance between himself and the matron; and,continuing to travel round the outer edge of the circle, brought his chair, in time,close to that in which the matron was seated.
Indeed, the two chairs touched; and when they did so, Mr. Bumble stopped.
Now, if the matron had moved her chair to the right, she would have been scorched by the fire;and if to the left, she must have fallen into Mr. Bumble’s arms; so (being a discreet matron,and no doubt foreseeing these consequences at a glance) she remained where she was, and handed Mr. Bumble another cup of tea.
“Hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?” said Mr. Bumble, stirring his tea, and looking up into the matron’s face; “are _you_ hard-hearted, Mrs. Corney?”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the matron, “what a very curious question from a single man.What can you want to know for, Mr. Bumble?”
The beadle drank his tea to the last drop; finished a piece of toast;whisked the crumbs off his knees; wiped his lips; and deliberately kissed the matron.
“Mr. Bumble!” cried that discreet lady in a whisper; for the fright was so great,that she had quite lost her voice, “Mr. Bumble, I shall scream!” Mr. Bumble made no reply; but in a slow and dignified manner, put his arm round the matron’s waist.
As the lady had stated her intention of screaming,of course she would have screamed at this additional boldness,but that the exertion was rendered unnecessary by a hasty knocking at the door:which was no sooner heard, than Mr. Bumble darted, with much agility, to the wine bottles,and began dusting them with great violence: while the matron sharply demanded who was there.
It is worthy of remark, as a curious physical instance of the efficacy of a sudden surprise in counteracting the effects of extreme fear,that her voice had quite recovered all its official asperity.
“If you please, mistress,” said a withered old female pauper, hideously ugly:putting her head in at the door, “Old Sally is a-going fast.”
“Well, what’s that to me?” angrily demanded the matron. “I can’t keep her alive, can I?”
“No, no, mistress,” replied the old woman, “nobody can; she’s far beyond the reach of help.I’ve seen a many people die; little babes and great strong men; and I know when death’s a-coming,well enough. But she’s troubled in her mind: and when the fits are not on her,—and that’s not often, for she is dying very hard,—she says she has got something to tell,which you must hear. She’ll never die quiet till you come, mistress.”
At this intelligence, the worthy Mrs. Corney muttered a variety of invectives against old women who couldn’t even die without purposely annoying their betters;and, muffling herself in a thick shawl which she hastily caught up, briefly requested Mr.Bumble to stay till she came back, lest anything particular should occur.Bidding the messenger walk fast, and not be all night hobbling up the stairs,she followed her from the room with a very ill grace, scolding all the way.
Mr. Bumble’s conduct on being left to himself, was rather inexplicable. He opened the closet,counted the teaspoons, weighed the sugar-tongs,closely inspected a silver milk-pot to ascertain that it was of the genuine metal, and,having satisfied his curiosity on these points, put on his cocked hat corner-wise,and danced with much gravity four distinct times round the table.
Having gone through this very extraordinary performance, he took off the cocked hat again, and,spreading himself before the fire with his back towards it,seemed to be mentally engaged in taking an exact inventory of the furniture.
CHAPTER XXIV. TREATS ON A VERY POOR SUBJECT, BUT IS A SHORT ONE,AND MAY BE FOUND OF IMPORTANCE IN THIS HISTORY
It was no unfit messenger of death, who had disturbed the quiet of the matron’s room.Her body was bent by age; her limbs trembled with palsy; her face, distorted into a mumbling leer,resembled more the grotesque shaping of some wild pencil, than the work of Nature’s hand.
Alas!How few of Nature’s faces are left alone to gladden us with their beauty!The cares, and sorrows, and hungerings, of the world, change them as they change hearts;and it is only when those passions sleep, and have lost their hold for ever,that the troubled clouds pass off, and leave Heaven’s surface clear.It is a common thing for the countenances of the dead, even in that fixed and rigid state,to subside into the long-forgotten expression of sleeping infancy,and settle into the very look of early life; so calm, so peaceful, do they grow again,that those who knew them in their happy childhood, kneel by the coffin’s side in awe, and see the Angel even upon earth.
The old crone tottered along the passages, and up the stairs,muttering some indistinct answers to the chidings of her companion;being at length compelled to pause for breath, she gave the light into her hand,and remained behind to follow as she might:while the more nimble superior made her way to the room where the sick woman lay.
It was a bare garret-room, with a dim light burning at the farther end.There was another old woman watching by the bed;the parish apothecary’s apprentice was standing by the fire, making a toothpick out of a quill.
“Cold night, Mrs. Corney,” said this young gentleman, as the matron entered.
“Very cold, indeed, sir,” replied the mistress, in her most civil tones, and dropping a curtsey as she spoke.
“You should get better coals out of your contractors,” said the apothecary’s deputy,breaking a lump on the top of the fire with the rusty poker;“these are not at all the sort of thing for a cold night.”
“They’re the board’s choosing, sir,” returned the matron. “The least they could do,would be to keep us pretty warm: for our places are hard enough.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a moan from the sick woman.
“Oh!” said the young man, turning his face towards the bed,as if he had previously quite forgotten the patient, “it’s all U.P. there, Mrs. Corney.”
“It is, is it, sir?” asked the matron.
“If she lasts a couple of hours, I shall be surprised,” said the apothecary’s apprentice,intent upon the toothpick’s point. “It’s a break-up of the system altogether. Is she dozing, old lady?”
The attendant stooped over the bed, to ascertain; and nodded in the affirmative.
“Then perhaps she’ll go off in that way, if you don’t make a row,” said the young man.“Put the light on the floor. She won’t see it there.”
The attendant did as she was told: shaking her head meanwhile,to intimate that the woman would not die so easily; having done so,she resumed her seat by the side of the other nurse, who had by this time returned. The mistress,with an expression of impatience, wrapped herself in her shawl, and sat at the foot of the bed.
The apothecary’s apprentice, having completed the manufacture of the toothpick,planted himself in front of the fire and made good use of it for ten minutes or so:when apparently growing rather dull, he wished Mrs. Corney joy of her job, and took himself off on tiptoe.
When they had sat in silence for some time, the two old women rose from the bed,and crouching over the fire, held out their withered hands to catch the heat.The flame threw a ghastly light on their shrivelled faces, and made their ugliness appear terrible,as, in this position, they began to converse in a low voice.
“Did she say any more, Anny dear, while I was gone?” inquired the messenger.
“Not a word,” replied the other. “She plucked and tore at her arms for a little time;but I held her hands, and she soon dropped off. She hasn’t much strength in her,so I easily kept her quiet. I ain’t so weak for an old woman, although I am on parish allowance; no, no!”
“Did she drink the hot wine the doctor said she was to have?” demanded the first.
“I tried to get it down,” rejoined the other. “But her teeth were tight set,and she clenched the mug so hard that it was as much as I could do to get it back again. So _I_ drank it; and it did me good!”
Looking cautiously round, to ascertain that they were not overheard,the two hags cowered nearer to the fire, and chuckled heartily.
“I mind the time,” said the first speaker, “when she would have done the same, and made rare fun of it afterwards.”
“Ay, that she would,” rejoined the other; “she had a merry heart. A many, many,beautiful corpses she laid out, as nice and neat as waxwork. My old eyes have seen them—ay,and those old hands touched them too; for I have helped her, scores of times.”
Stretching forth her trembling fingers as she spoke,the old creature shook them exultingly before her face, and fumbling in her pocket,brought out an old time-discoloured tin snuff-box,from which she shook a few grains into the outstretched palm of her companion,and a few more into her own. While they were thus employed, the matron,who had been impatiently watching until the dying woman should awaken from her stupor,joined them by the fire, and sharply asked how long she was to wait?
“Not long, mistress,” replied the second woman, looking up into her face.“We have none of us long to wait for Death. Patience, patience!He’ll be here soon enough for us all.”
“Hold your tongue, you doting idiot!” said the matron sternly. “You, Martha, tell me; has she been in this way before?”
“Often,” answered the first woman.
“But will never be again,” added the second one; “that is,she’ll never wake again but once—and mind, mistress, that won’t be for long!”
“Long or short,” said the matron, snappishly, “she won’t find me here when she does wake; take care,both of you, how you worry me again for nothing.It’s no part of my duty to see all the old women in the house die, and I won’t—that’s more.Mind that, you impudent old harridans. If you make a fool of me again, I’ll soon cure you, I warrant you!”
She was bouncing away, when a cry from the two women, who had turned towards the bed,caused her to look round. The patient had raised herself upright,and was stretching her arms towards them.
“Who’s that?” she cried, in a hollow voice.
“Hush, hush!” said one of the women, stooping over her. “Lie down, lie down!”
“I’ll never lie down again alive!” said the woman, struggling. “I _will_ tell her!Come here!Nearer!Let me whisper in your ear.”
She clutched the matron by the arm, and forcing her into a chair by the bedside, was about to speak,when looking round, she caught sight of the two old women bending forward in the attitude of eager listeners.
“Turn them away,” said the woman, drowsily; “make haste!make haste!”
The two old crones, chiming in together,began pouring out many piteous lamentations that the poor dear was too far gone to know her best friends;and were uttering sundry protestations that they would never leave her,when the superior pushed them from the room, closed the door, and returned to the bedside.On being excluded, the old ladies changed their tone,and cried through the keyhole that old Sally was drunk; which, indeed, was not unlikely; since,in addition to a moderate dose of opium prescribed by the apothecary,she was labouring under the effects of a final taste of gin-and-water which had been privily administered,in the openness of their hearts, by the worthy old ladies themselves.
“Now listen to me,” said the dying woman aloud,as if making a great effort to revive one latent spark of energy.“In this very room—in this very bed—I once nursed a pretty young creetur’,that was brought into the house with her feet cut and bruised with walking,and all soiled with dust and blood. She gave birth to a boy, and died. Let me think—what was the year again!”
“Never mind the year,” said the impatient auditor; “what about her?”
“Ay,” murmured the sick woman, relapsing into her former drowsy state, “what about her?—what about—I know!” she cried, jumping fiercely up: her face flushed,and her eyes starting from her head—“I robbed her, so I did!She wasn’t cold—I tell you she wasn’t cold, when I stole it!”
“Stole what, for God’s sake?” cried the matron, with a gesture as if she would call for help.
“_It_!” replied the woman, laying her hand over the other’s mouth. “The only thing she had.She wanted clothes to keep her warm, and food to eat; but she had kept it safe,and had it in her bosom. It was gold, I tell you!Rich gold, that might have saved her life!”
“Gold!” echoed the matron, bending eagerly over the woman as she fell back. “Go on, go on—yes—what of it?Who was the mother?When was it?”
“She charged me to keep it safe,” replied the woman with a groan,“and trusted me as the only woman about her.I stole it in my heart when she first showed it me hanging round her neck; and the child’s death, perhaps, is on me besides!They would have treated him better, if they had known it all!”
“Known what?” asked the other. “Speak!”
“The boy grew so like his mother,” said the woman, rambling on, and not heeding the question,“that I could never forget it when I saw his face. Poor girl!poor girl!She was so young, too!Such a gentle lamb!Wait; there’s more to tell. I have not told you all, have I?”
“No, no,” replied the matron, inclining her head to catch the words,as they came more faintly from the dying woman. “Be quick, or it may be too late!”
“The mother,” said the woman, making a more violent effort than before; “the mother,when the pains of death first came upon her, whispered in my ear that if her baby was born alive,and thrived, the day might come when it would not feel so much disgraced to hear its poor young mother named. ‘And oh, kind Heaven!’ she said, folding her thin hands together, ‘whether it be boy or girl,raise up some friends for it in this troubled world, and take pity upon a lonely desolate child, abandoned to its mercy!’”
“The boy’s name?” demanded the matron.
“They _called_ him Oliver,” replied the woman, feebly. “The gold I stole was—”
“Yes, yes—what?” cried the other.
She was bending eagerly over the woman to hear her reply; but drew back, instinctively,as she once again rose, slowly and stiffly, into a sitting posture; then,clutching the coverlid with both hands, muttered some indistinct sounds in her throat, and fell lifeless on the bed.
“Stone dead!” said one of the old women, hurrying in as soon as the door was opened.
“And nothing to tell, after all,” rejoined the matron, walking carelessly away.
The two crones, to all appearance, too busily occupied in the preparations for their dreadful duties to make any reply,were left alone, hovering about the body.
CHAPTER XXV. WHEREIN THIS HISTORY REVERTS TO MR. FAGIN AND COMPANY
While these things were passing in the country workhouse, Mr.Fagin sat in the old den—the same from which Oliver had been removed by the girl—brooding over a dull,smoky fire. He held a pair of bellows upon his knee,with which he had apparently been endeavouring to rouse it into more cheerful action;but he had fallen into deep thought; and with his arms folded on them,and his chin resting on his thumbs, fixed his eyes, abstractedly, on the rusty bars.
At a table behind him sat the Artful Dodger, Master Charles Bates, and Mr. Chitling:all intent upon a game of whist; the Artful taking dummy against Master Bates and Mr. Chitling.The countenance of the first-named gentleman, peculiarly intelligent at all times,acquired great additional interest from his close observance of the game,and his attentive perusal of Mr. Chitling’s hand; upon which, from time to time,as occasion served, he bestowed a variety of earnest glances:wisely regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon his neighbour’s cards.It being a cold night, the Dodger wore his hat, as, indeed, was often his custom within doors.He also sustained a clay pipe between his teeth,which he only removed for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for refreshment to a quart pot upon the table,which stood ready filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.
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 Artful 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 at 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!”