Oliver Twist/Source/Chapter 25: Difference between revisions

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===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

</head>

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

</div>

regulating his own play by the result of his observations upon

<h1 id="firstHeading" class="firstHeading" lang="en">Login required</h1> <div id="bodyContent" class="mw-body-content">

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

Jump to: <a href="#mw-head">navigation</a>, <a href="#p-search">search</a>

for a brief space when he deemed it necessary to apply for

</div>

refreshment to a quart pot upon the table, which stood ready

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filled with gin-and-water for the accommodation of the company.

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Master Bates was also attentive to the play; but being of a more

excitable nature than his accomplished friend, it was observable

</div>

that he more frequently applied himself to the gin-and-water, and

</div>

moreover indulged in many jests and irrelevant remarks, all

highly unbecoming a scientific rubber. Indeed, the Artful,

<h2>Navigation menu</h2>

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

<h3 id="p-personal-label">Personal tools</h3>

in extremely good part; merely requesting his friend to be

<ul>

'blowed,' or to insert his head in a sack, or replying with some

other neatly-turned witticism of a similar kind, the happy

</div>

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

<h3 id="p-namespaces-label">Namespaces</h3>

from angering Master Bates, appeared to afford him the highest

<ul>

amusement, inasmuch as he laughed most uproariously at the end of

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every deal, and protested that he had never seen such a jolly

</div>

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

<span>Variants</span>

never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win everything. Even

</h3>

when we've good cards, Charley and I can't make nothing of 'em.'

<ul>

Either the master or the manner of this remark, which was made

</ul>

very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his

</div>

consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and

</div>

induced him to inquire what was the matter.

</div>

'Matter, Fagin!' cried Charley. 'I wish you had watched the

play. Tommy Chitling hasn't won a point; and I went partners

<h3 id="p-views-label">Views</h3>

with him against the Artfull and dumb.'

<ul>

</ul>

'Ay, ay!' said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently

</div>

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

<ul>

there's no standing again' him.'

</ul>

</div>

'Ha! ha! my dear,' replied the Jew, 'you must get up very early

</div>

in the morning, to win against the Dodger.'

<h3>

'Morning!' said Charley Bates; 'you must put your boots on

<label for="searchInput">Search</label>

over-night, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass

</h3>

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

</form>

first picture-card, at a shilling at a time. Nobody accepting

</div>

the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he

</div>

proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate

</div>

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

<h3 id="p-navigation-label">Navigation</h3>

short when there had been a long silence; and addressing Mr.

Chitling. 'What do you think he's thinking of, Fagin?'

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'How should I know, my dear?' replied the Jew, looking round as

</div>

he plied the bellows. 'About his losses, maybe; or the little

</div>

retirement in the country that he's just left, eh? Ha! ha! Is

that it, my dear?'

<h3 id="p-Troper_Tools-label">Troper Tools</h3>

'Not a bit of it,' replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of

<ul>

discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. 'What do _you_ say,

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Charley?'

</div>

'_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!

<h3 id="p-Troping_Utilities-label">Troping Utilities</h3>

here's a merry-go-rounder! Tommy Chitling's in love! Oh, Fagin,

Fagin! what a spree!'

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Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the

</div>

victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in

</div>

his chair with such violence, that he lost his balance, and

pitched over upon the floor; where (the accident abating nothing

<h3 id="p-Troper_Social_Networks-label">Troper Social Networks</h3>

of his merriment) he lay at full length until his laugh was over,

when he resumed his former position, and began another laugh.

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'Never mind him, my dear,' said the Jew, winking at Mr. Dawkins,

</div>

and giving Master Bates a reproving tap with the nozzle of the

</div>

bellows. 'Betsy's a fine girl. Stick up to her, Tom. Stick up

to her.'

<h3 id="p-tb-label">Tools</h3>

'What I mean to say, Fagin,' replied Mr. Chitling, very red in

<ul>

the face, 'is, that that isn't anything to anybody here.'

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</div>

'No more it is,' replied the Jew; 'Charley will talk. Don't mind

</div>

him, my dear; don't mind him. Betsy's a fine girl. Do as she

</div>

bids you, Tom, and you will make your fortune.'

</div>

'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

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turned out a good job for you; didn't it, Fagin! And what's six

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weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in

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the winter time when you don't want to go out a-walking so much;

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eh, Fagin?'

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</ul>

'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,

</ul>

now. Ah! Who'll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh,

Fagin?'

</div>

'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

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dear.'

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'I might have got clear off, if I'd split upon her; mightn't I,

(function() {

Fagin?' angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. 'A word from

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me would have done it; wouldn't it, Fagin?'

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'To be sure it would, my dear,' replied the Jew.

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'But I didn't blab it; did I, Fagin?' demanded Tom, pouring

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question upon question with great volubility.

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_paq.push(['addTracker', u + "piwik.php", globalId]);

'No, no, to be sure,' replied the Jew; 'you were too

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stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!'

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'Perhaps I was,' rejoined Tom, looking round; 'and if I was,

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what's to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?'

</script>

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

<script>(window.RLQ=window.RLQ||[]).push(function(){mw.config.set({"wgBackendResponseTime":223,"wgHostname":"mw3"});});</script>

offender. But, unfortunately, Charley, in opening his mouth to

</body>

reply that he was never more serious in his life, was unable to

</html>

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 directions.

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

young cracksman afore the old file now.'

With these words he pulled up the smock-frock; and, winding it

round his middle, drew a chair to the fire, and placed his feet

upon the hob.

'See there, Faguey,' he said, pointing disconsolately to his top

boots; 'not a drop of Day and Martin since you know when; not a

bubble of blacking, by Jove! But don't look at me in that way,

man. All in good time. I can't talk about business till I've

eat and drank; so produce the sustainance, and let's have a quiet

fill-out for the first time these three days!'

The Jew motioned to the Dodger to place what eatables there were,

upon the table; and, seating himself opposite the housebreaker,

waited his leisure.

To judge from appearances, Toby was by no means in a hurry to

open the conversation. At first, the Jew contented himself with

patiently watching his countenance, as if to gain from its

expression some clue to the intelligence he brought; but in vain.

He looked tired and worn, but there was the same complacent

repose upon his features that they always wore: and through

dirt, and beard, and whisker, there still shone, unimpaired, the

self-satisfied smirk of flash Toby Crackit. Then the Jew, in an

agony of impatience, watched every morsel he put into his mouth;

pacing up and down the room, meanwhile, in irrepressible

excitement. It was all of no use. Toby continued to eat with

the utmost outward indifference, until he could eat no more;

then, ordering the Dodger out, he closed the door, mixed a glass

of spirits and water, and composed himself for talking.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said Toby.

'Yes, yes!' interposed the Jew, drawing up his chair.

Mr. Crackit stopped to take a draught of spirits and water, and

to declare that the gin was excellent; then placing his feet

against the low mantelpiece, so as to bring his boots to about

the level of his eye, he quietly resumed.

'First and foremost, Faguey,' said the housebreaker, 'how's

Bill?'

'What!' screamed the Jew, starting from his seat.

'Why, you don't mean to say--' began Toby, turning pale.

'Mean!' cried the Jew, stamping furiously on the ground. 'Where

are they? Sikes and the boy! Where are they? Where have they

been? Where are they hiding? Why have they not been here?'

'The crack failed,' said Toby faintly.

'I know it,' replied the Jew, tearing a newspaper from his pocket

and pointing to it. 'What more?'

'They fired and hit the boy. We cut over the fields at the back,

with him between us--straight as the crow flies--through hedge

and ditch. They gave chase. Damme! the whole country was awake,

and the dogs upon us.'

'The boy!'

'Bill had him on his back, and scudded like the wind. We stopped

to take him between us; his head hung down, and he was cold.

They were close upon our heels; every man for himself, and each

from the gallows! We parted company, and left the youngster

lying in a ditch. Alive or dead, that's all I know about him.'

The Jew stopped to hear no more; but uttering a loud yell, and

twining his hands in his hair, rushed from the room, and from the

house.

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