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 to-day, 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 to-day, 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.
There were only a couple of women in the dock, who were nodding to
their admiring friends, while the clerk read some depositions to a
couple of policemen and a man in plain clothes who leant over the
table. A jailer stood reclining against the dock-rail, tapping his
nose listlessly with a large key, except when he repressed an undue
tendency to conversation among the idlers, by proclaiming silence;
or looked sternly up to bid some woman ‘Take that baby out,’ when
the gravity of justice was disturbed by feeble cries, half-smothered
in the mother’s shawl, from some meagre infant. The room smelt close
and unwholesome; the walls were dirt-discoloured; and the ceiling
blackened. There was an old smoky bust over the mantel-shelf, and a
dusty clock above the dock--the only thing present, that seemed
to go on as it ought; for depravity, or poverty, or an habitual
acquaintance with both, had left a taint on all the animate matter,
hardly less unpleasant than the thick greasy scum on every inanimate
object that frowned upon it.
Noah looked eagerly about him for the Dodger; but although
there were several women who would have done very well for that
distinguished character’s mother or sister, and more than one man
who might be supposed to bear a strong resemblance to his father,
nobody at all answering the description given him of Mr. Dawkins was
to be seen. He waited in a state of much suspense and uncertainty
until the women, being committed for trial, went flaunting out; and
then was quickly relieved by the appearance of another prisoner who
he felt at once could be no other than the object of his visit.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins, who, shuffling into the office with the
big coat sleeves tucked up as usual, his left hand in his pocket,
and his hat in his right hand, preceded the jailer, with a rolling
gait altogether indescribable, and, taking his place in the dock,
requested in an audible voice to know what he was placed in that
‘ere disgraceful sitivation for.
‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said the jailer.
‘I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?’ rejoined the Dodger. ‘Where are my
priwileges?’
‘You’ll get your privileges soon enough,’ retorted the jailer, ‘and
pepper with ‘em.’
‘We’ll see wot the Secretary of State for the Home Affairs has got
to say to the beaks, if I don’t,’ replied Mr. Dawkins. ‘Now then!
Wot is this here business? I shall thank the madg’strates to dispose
of this here little affair, and not to keep me while they read the
paper, for I’ve got an appointment with a genelman in the City,
and as I am a man of my word and wery punctual in business matters,
he’ll go away if I ain’t there to my time, and then pr’aps ther
won’t be an action for damage against them as kep me away. Oh no,
certainly not!’
At this point, the Dodger, with a show of being very particular with
a view to proceedings to be had thereafter, desired the jailer to
communicate ‘the names of them two files as was on the bench.’ Which
so tickled the spectators, that they laughed almost as heartily as
Master Bates could have done if he had heard the request.
‘Silence there!’ cried the jailer.
‘What is this?’ inquired one of the magistrates.
‘A pick-pocketing case, your worship.’
‘Has the boy ever been here before?’
‘He ought to have been, a many times,’ replied the jailer. ‘He has
been pretty well everywhere else. _I_ know him well, your worship.’
‘Oh! you know me, do you?’ cried the Artful, making a note of the
statement. ‘Wery good. That’s a case of deformation of character,
any way.’
Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
‘Now then, where are the witnesses?’ said the clerk.
‘Ah! that’s right,’ added the Dodger. ‘Where are they? I should like
to see ‘em.’
This wish was immediately gratified, for a policeman stepped forward
who had seen the prisoner attempt the pocket of an unknown gentleman
in a crowd, and indeed take a handkerchief therefrom, which, being a
very old one, he deliberately put back again, after trying it on his
own countenance. For this reason, he took the Dodger into custody as
soon as he could get near him, and the said Dodger, being searched,
had upon his person a silver snuff-box, with the owner’s name
engraved upon the lid. This gentleman had been discovered on
reference to the Court Guide, and being then and there present,
swore that the snuff-box was his, and that he had missed it on the
previous day, the moment he had disengaged himself from the crowd
before referred to. He had also remarked a young gentleman in the
throng, particularly active in making his way about, and that young
gentleman was the prisoner before him.
‘Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?’ said the magistrate.
‘I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with
him,’ replied the Dodger.
‘Have you anything to say at all?’
‘Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to say?’ inquired
the jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Dodger, looking up with an air of
abstraction. ‘Did you redress yourself to me, my man?’
‘I never see such an out-and-out young wagabond, your worship,’
observed the officer with a grin. ‘Do you mean to say anything, you
young shaver?’
‘No,’ replied the Dodger, ‘not here, for this ain’t the shop for
justice: besides which, my attorney is a-breakfasting this morning
with the Wice President of the House of Commons; but I shall have
something to say elsewhere, and so will he, and so will a wery
numerous and ‘spectable circle of acquaintance as’ll make them beaks
wish they’d never been born, or that they’d got their footmen to
hang ‘em up to their own hat-pegs, afore they let ‘em come out this
morning to try it on upon me. I’ll--’
‘There! He’s fully committed!’ interposed the clerk. ‘Take him
away.’
‘Come on,’ said the jailer.
‘Oh ah! I’ll come on,’ replied the Dodger, brushing his hat with
the palm of his hand. ‘Ah! (to the Bench) it’s no use your looking
frightened; I won’t show you no mercy, not a ha’porth of it.
_You’ll_ pay for this, my fine fellers. I wouldn’t be you for
something! I wouldn’t go free, now, if you was to fall down on your
knees and ask me. Here, carry me off to prison! Take me away!’
With these last words, the Dodger suffered himself to be led off
by the collar; threatening, till he got into the yard, to make a
parliamentary business of it; and then grinning in the officer’s
face, with great glee and self-approval.
Having seen him locked up by himself in a little cell, Noah made
the best of his way back to where he had left Master Bates. After
waiting here some time, he was joined by that young gentleman, who
had prudently abstained from showing himself until he had looked
carefully abroad from a snug retreat, and ascertained that his new
friend had not been followed by any impertinent person.
The two hastened back together, to bear to Mr. Fagin the animating
news that the Dodger was doing full justice to his bringing-up, and
establishing for himself a glorious reputation.