“Why, what should he say?” inquired Charley: stopping rather suddenly in his merriment;for the Dodger’s manner was impressive.“What should he say?”
Mr. Dawkins whistled for a couple of minutes; then,taking off his hat, scratched his head, and nodded thrice.
“What do you mean?” said Charley.
“Toor rul lol loo, gammon and spinnage,the frog he wouldn’t, and high cockolorum,” said the Dodger: with a slight sneer on his intellectual countenance.
This was explanatory, but not satisfactory.Master Bates felt it so; and again said, “What do you mean?”
The Dodger made no reply; but putting his hat on again,and gathering the skirts of his long-tailed coat under his arm,thrust his tongue into his cheek,slapped the bridge of his nose some half-dozen times in a familiar but expressive manner, and turning on his heel, slunk down the court. Master Bates followed, with a thoughtful countenance.
The noise of footsteps on the creaking stairs,a few minutes after the occurrence of this conversation,roused the merry old gentleman as he sat over the fire with a saveloy and a small loaf in his hand; a pocket-knife in his right; and a pewter pot on the trivet. There was a rascally smile on his white face as he turned round, and looking sharply out from under his thick red eyebrows, bent his ear towards the door, and listened.
“Why, how’s this?” muttered the Jew: changing countenance; “only two of’em?Where’s the third?They can’t have got into trouble. Hark!”
The footsteps approached nearer;they reached the landing. The door was slowly opened;and the Dodger and Charley Bates entered,closing it behind them.
CHAPTER XIII. SOME NEW ACQUAINTANCES ARE INTRODUCED TO THE INTELLIGENT READER,CONNECTED WITH WHOM VARIOUS PLEASANT MATTERS ARE RELATED,APPERTAINING TO THIS HISTORY
“Where’s Oliver?” said the Jew, rising with a menacing look. “Where’s the boy?”
The young thieves eyed their preceptor as if they were alarmed at his violence;and looked uneasily at each other.But they made no reply.
“What’s become of the boy?” said the Jew, seizing the Dodger tightly by the collar,and threatening him with horrid imprecations.“Speak out, or I’ll throttle you!”
Mr. Fagin looked so very much in earnest,that Charley Bates,who deemed it prudent in all cases to be on the safe side,and who conceived it by no means improbable that it might be his turn to be throttled second, dropped upon his knees, and raised a loud, well-sustained, and continuous roar—something between a mad bull and a speaking trumpet.
“Will you speak?” thundered the Jew:shaking the Dodger so much that his keeping in the big coat at all,seemed perfectly miraculous.
“Why, the traps have got him, and that’s all about it,” said the Dodger, sullenly. “Come, let go o’ me, will you!” And, swinging himself, at one jerk,clean out of the big coat,which he left in the Jew’s hands,the Dodger snatched up the toasting fork,and made a pass at the merry old gentleman’s waistcoat;which, if it had taken effect,would have let a little more merriment out than could have been easily replaced.
The Jew stepped back in this emergency,with more agility than could have been anticipated in a man of his apparent decrepitude; and, seizing up the pot, prepared to hurl it at his assailant’s head. But Charley Bates, at this moment, calling his attention by a perfectly terrific howl, he suddenly altered its destination, and flung it full at that young gentleman.
“Why, what the blazes is in the wind now!” growled a deep voice. “Who pitched that ’ere at me?It’s well it’s the beer, and not the pot, as hit me,or I’d have settled somebody. I might have know’d,as nobody but an infernal, rich, plundering,thundering old Jew could afford to throw away any drink but water—and not that,unless he done the River Company every quarter.Wot’s it all about, Fagin?D—me, if my neck-handkercher an’t lined with beer!Come in, you sneaking warmint;wot are you stopping outside for,as if you was ashamed of your master!Come in!”
The man who growled out these words,was a stoutly-built fellow of about five-and-thirty,in a black velveteen coat, very soiled drab breeches,lace-up half boots,and grey cotton stockings which inclosed a bulky pair of legs,with large swelling calves;—the kind of legs,which in such costume,always look in an unfinished and incomplete state without a set of fetters to garnish them. He had a brown hat on his head, and a dirty belcher handkerchief round his neck: with the long frayed ends of which he smeared the beer from his face as he spoke. He disclosed, when he had done so, a broad heavy countenance with a beard of three days’ growth, and two scowling eyes; one of which displayed various parti-coloured symptoms of having been recently damaged by a blow.
“Come in, d’ye hear?” growled this engaging ruffian.
A white shaggy dog, with his face scratched and torn in twenty different places,skulked into the room.
“Why didn’t you come in afore?” said the man. “You’re getting too proud to own me afore company, are you?Lie down!”
This command was accompanied with a kick,which sent the animal to the other end of the room.He appeared well used to it, however;for he coiled himself up in a corner very quietly,without uttering a sound,and winking his very ill-looking eyes twenty times in a minute,appeared to occupy himself in taking a survey of the apartment.
“What are you up to?Ill-treating the boys, you covetous, avaricious,in-sa-ti-a-ble old fence?” said the man, seating himself deliberately.“I wonder they don’t murder you!I would if I was them. If I’d been your ’prentice,I’d have done it long ago, and—no,I couldn’t have sold you afterwards,for you’re fit for nothing but keeping as a curiousity of ugliness in a glass bottle, and I suppose they don’t blow glass bottles large enough.”
“Hush!hush!Mr. Sikes,” said the Jew, trembling;“don’t speak so loud!”
“None of your mistering,” replied the ruffian;“you always mean mischief when you come that.You know my name: out with it!I shan’t disgrace it when the time comes.”
“Well, well, then—Bill Sikes,” said the Jew,with abject humility. “You seem out of humour, Bill.”
“Perhaps I am,” replied Sikes;“I should think you was rather out of sorts too,unless you mean as little harm when you throw pewter pots about,as you do when you blab and—”
“Are you mad?” said the Jew, catching the man by the sleeve,and pointing towards the boys.
Mr. Sikes contented himself with tying an imaginary knot under his left ear,and jerking his head over on the right shoulder;a piece of dumb show which the Jew appeared to understand perfectly.He then, in cant terms,with which his whole conversation was plentifully besprinkled,but which would be quite unintelligible if they were recorded here,demanded a glass of liquor.
“And mind you don’t poison it,” said Mr. Sikes,laying his hat upon the table.
This was said in jest;but if the speaker could have seen the evil leer with which the Jew bit his pale lip as he turned round to the cupboard, he might have thought the caution not wholly unnecessary, or the wish (at all events) to improve upon the distiller’s ingenuity not very far from the old gentleman’s merry heart.
After swallowing two of three glasses of spirits, Mr.Sikes condescended to take some notice of the young gentlemen;which gracious act led to a conversation,in which the cause and manner of Oliver’s capture were circumstantially detailed, with such alterations and improvements on the truth, as to the Dodger appeared most advisable under the circumstances.
“I’m afraid,” said the Jew,“that he may say something which will get us into trouble. ”
“That’s very likely,” returned Sikes with a malicious grin.“You’re blowed upon, Fagin.”