Chương Chương 43 · WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO TROUBLE

. WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO 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 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.

“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 today, 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.