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<h2 id="pgepubid00050">
      CHAPTER XLIII — WHEREIN IS SHOWN HOW THE ARTFUL DODGER GOT INTO
      TROUBLE
    </h2>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There oughn’t to be, if there is,’ replied Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ha! ha!’ cried Mr. Bolter. ‘Number one for ever.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh, the devil!’ exclaimed Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘Yer about right there.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well! You can’t take care of yourself, number one, without taking care of
      me, number one.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Number two, you mean,’ said Mr. Bolter, who was largely endowed with the
      quality of selfishness.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, I don’t!’ retorted Fagin. ‘I’m of the same importance to you, as you
      are to yourself.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course it is,’ replied Mr. Bolter. ‘What do yer talk about such things
      for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s true,’ rejoined Mr. Bolter, thoughtfully. ‘Oh! yer a cunning old
      codger!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You don’t mean to say he died?’ cried Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no,’ replied Fagin, ‘not so bad as that. Not quite so bad.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What, I suppose he was—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wanted,’ interposed Fagin. ‘Yes, he was wanted.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Very particular?’ inquired Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, but I shall know him, I hope; don’t yer think so?’ said Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s all up, Fagin,’ said Charley, when he and his new companion had been
      made known to each other.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates
      sat himself on the nearest chair with an aspect of chagrin and
      despondency.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not one,’ replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret; ‘not
      one.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then what do you talk of?’ replied Fagin angrily; ‘what are you
      blubbering for?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘’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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, it is a honour that is!’ said Charley, a little consoled.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, shall he though?’ cried Charley Bates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Would!’ cried Fagin. ‘He shall—he will!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah, to be sure, so he will,’ repeated Charley, rubbing his hands.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I think I see him now,’ cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We must know how he gets on to-day, by some handy means or other,’ said
      Fagin. ‘Let me think.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Shall I go?’ asked Charley.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?’ said Charley with a humorous
      leer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That wouldn’t quite fit,’ replied Fagin shaking his head.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then why don’t you send this new cove?’ asked Master Bates, laying his
      hand on Noah’s arm. ‘Nobody knows him.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, if he didn’t mind—’ observed Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Mind!’ interposed Charley. ‘What should he have to mind?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Really nothing, my dear,’ said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, ‘really
      nothing.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hold your tongue, will you?’ said the jailer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’m an Englishman, ain’t I?’ rejoined the Dodger. ‘Where are my
      priwileges?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’ll get your privileges soon enough,’ retorted the jailer, ‘and pepper
      with ‘em.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Silence there!’ cried the jailer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What is this?’ inquired one of the magistrates.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A pick-pocketing case, your worship.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Has the boy ever been here before?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘He ought to have been, a many times,’ replied the jailer. ‘He has been
      pretty well everywhere else. <i>I</i> know him well, your worship.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Here there was another laugh, and another cry of silence.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Now then, where are the witnesses?’ said the clerk.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah! that’s right,’ added the Dodger. ‘Where are they? I should like to
      see ‘em.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have you anything to ask this witness, boy?’ said the magistrate.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I wouldn’t abase myself by descending to hold no conversation with him,’ 
      replied the Dodger.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Have you anything to say at all?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Do you hear his worship ask if you’ve anything to say?’ inquired the
      jailer, nudging the silent Dodger with his elbow.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Dodger, looking up with an air of
      abstraction. ‘Did you redress yourself to me, my man?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There! He’s fully committed!’ interposed the clerk. ‘Take him away.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Come on,’ said the jailer.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘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. <i>You’ll</i> 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!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
      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.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0044"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00051">
      CHAPTER XLIV — THE TIME ARRIVES FOR NANCY TO REDEEM HER PLEDGE TO
      ROSE MAYLIE. SHE FAILS.
    </h2>
<p>
      Adept as she was, in all the arts of cunning and dissimulation, the girl
      Nancy could not wholly conceal the effect which the knowledge of the step
      she had taken, wrought upon her mind. She remembered that both the crafty
      Jew and the brutal Sikes had confided to her schemes, which had been
      hidden from all others: in the full confidence that she was trustworthy
      and beyond the reach of their suspicion. Vile as those schemes were,
      desperate as were their originators, and bitter as were her feelings
      towards Fagin, who had led her, step by step, deeper and deeper down into
      an abyss of crime and misery, whence was no escape; still, there were
      times when, even towards him, she felt some relenting, lest her disclosure
      should bring him within the iron grasp he had so long eluded, and he
      should fall at last—richly as he merited such a fate—by her
      hand.
    </p>
<p>
      But, these were the mere wanderings of a mind unable wholly to detach
      itself from old companions and associations, though enabled to fix itself
      steadily on one object, and resolved not to be turned aside by any
      consideration. Her fears for Sikes would have been more powerful
      inducements to recoil while there was yet time; but she had stipulated
      that her secret should be rigidly kept, she had dropped no clue which
      could lead to his discovery, she had refused, even for his sake, a refuge
      from all the guilt and wretchedness that encompasses her—and what
      more could she do! She was resolved.
    </p>
<p>
      Though all her mental struggles terminated in this conclusion, they forced
      themselves upon her, again and again, and left their traces too. She grew
      pale and thin, even within a few days. At times, she took no heed of what
      was passing before her, or no part in conversations where once, she would
      have been the loudest. At other times, she laughed without merriment, and
      was noisy without a moment afterwards—she sat silent and dejected,
      brooding with her head upon her hands, while the very effort by which she
      roused herself, told, more forcibly than even these indications, that she
      was ill at ease, and that her thoughts were occupied with matters very
      different and distant from those in the course of discussion by her
      companions.
    </p>
<p>
      It was Sunday night, and the bell of the nearest church struck the hour.
      Sikes and the Jew were talking, but they paused to listen. The girl looked
      up from the low seat on which she crouched, and listened too. Eleven.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘An hour this side of midnight,’ said Sikes, raising the blind to look out
      and returning to his seat. ‘Dark and heavy it is too. A good night for
      business this.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ah!’ replied Fagin. ‘What a pity, Bill, my dear, that there’s none quite
      ready to be done.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’re right for once,’ replied Sikes gruffly. ‘It is a pity, for I’m in
      the humour too.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin sighed, and shook his head despondingly.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘We must make up for lost time when we’ve got things into a good train.
      That’s all I know,’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s the way to talk, my dear,’ replied Fagin, venturing to pat him on
      the shoulder. ‘It does me good to hear you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Does you good, does it!’ cried Sikes. ‘Well, so be it.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Ha! ha! ha!’ laughed Fagin, as if he were relieved by even this
      concession. ‘You’re like yourself to-night, Bill. Quite like yourself.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t feel like myself when you lay that withered old claw on my
      shoulder, so take it away,’ said Sikes, casting off the Jew’s hand.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It make you nervous, Bill,—reminds you of being nabbed, does it?’ 
      said Fagin, determined not to be offended.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Reminds me of being nabbed by the devil,’ returned Sikes. ‘There never
      was another man with such a face as yours, unless it was your father, and
      I suppose <i>he</i> is singeing his grizzled red beard by this time,
      unless you came straight from the old ‘un without any father at all
      betwixt you; which I shouldn’t wonder at, a bit.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin offered no reply to this compliment: but, pulling Sikes by the
      sleeve, pointed his finger towards Nancy, who had taken advantage of the
      foregoing conversation to put on her bonnet, and was now leaving the room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hallo!’ cried Sikes. ‘Nance. Where’s the gal going to at this time of
      night?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not far.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What answer’s that?’ retorted Sikes. ‘Do you hear me?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I don’t know where,’ replied the girl.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then I do,’ said Sikes, more in the spirit of obstinacy than because he
      had any real objection to the girl going where she listed. ‘Nowhere. Sit
      down.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’m not well. I told you that before,’ rejoined the girl. ‘I want a
      breath of air.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Put your head out of the winder,’ replied Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘There’s not enough there,’ said the girl. ‘I want it in the street.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Then you won’t have it,’ replied Sikes. With which assurance he rose,
      locked the door, took the key out, and pulling her bonnet from her head,
      flung it up to the top of an old press. ‘There,’ said the robber. ‘Now
      stop quietly where you are, will you?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘It’s not such a matter as a bonnet would keep me,’ said the girl turning
      very pale. ‘What do you mean, Bill? Do you know what you’re doing?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Know what I’m—Oh!’ cried Sikes, turning to Fagin, ‘she’s out of her
      senses, you know, or she daren’t talk to me in that way.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You’ll drive me on the something desperate,’ muttered the girl placing
      both hands upon her breast, as though to keep down by force some violent
      outbreak. ‘Let me go, will you,—this minute—this instant.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No!’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Tell him to let me go, Fagin. He had better. It’ll be better for him. Do
      you hear me?’ cried Nancy stamping her foot upon the ground.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hear you!’ repeated Sikes turning round in his chair to confront her.
      ‘Aye! And if I hear you for half a minute longer, the dog shall have such
      a grip on your throat as’ll tear some of that screaming voice out. Wot has
      come over you, you jade! Wot is it?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Let me go,’ said the girl with great earnestness; then sitting herself
      down on the floor, before the door, she said, ‘Bill, let me go; you don’t
      know what you are doing. You don’t, indeed. For only one hour—do—do!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Cut my limbs off one by one!’ cried Sikes, seizing her roughly by the
      arm, ‘If I don’t think the gal’s stark raving mad. Get up.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not till you let me go—not till you let me go—Never—never!’ 
      screamed the girl. Sikes looked on, for a minute, watching his
      opportunity, and suddenly pinioning her hands dragged her, struggling and
      wrestling with him by the way, into a small room adjoining, where he sat
      himself on a bench, and thrusting her into a chair, held her down by
      force. She struggled and implored by turns until twelve o’clock had
      struck, and then, wearied and exhausted, ceased to contest the point any
      further. With a caution, backed by many oaths, to make no more efforts to
      go out that night, Sikes left her to recover at leisure and rejoined
      Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Whew!’ said the housebreaker wiping the perspiration from his face. ‘Wot
      a precious strange gal that is!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You may say that, Bill,’ replied Fagin thoughtfully. ‘You may say that.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Wot did she take it into her head to go out to-night for, do you think?’ 
      asked Sikes. ‘Come; you should know her better than me. Wot does it mean?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Obstinacy; woman’s obstinacy, I suppose, my dear.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, I suppose it is,’ growled Sikes. ‘I thought I had tamed her, but
      she’s as bad as ever.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Worse,’ said Fagin thoughtfully. ‘I never knew her like this, for such a
      little cause.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Nor I,’ said Sikes. ‘I think she’s got a touch of that fever in her blood
      yet, and it won’t come out—eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Like enough.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I’ll let her a little blood, without troubling the doctor, if she’s took
      that way again,’ said Sikes.
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin nodded an expressive approval of this mode of treatment.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She was hanging about me all day, and night too, when I was stretched on
      my back; and you, like a blackhearted wolf as you are, kept yourself
      aloof,’ said Sikes. ‘We was poor too, all the time, and I think, one way
      or other, it’s worried and fretted her; and that being shut up here so
      long has made her restless—eh?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s it, my dear,’ replied the Jew in a whisper. ‘Hush!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      As he uttered these words, the girl herself appeared and resumed her
      former seat. Her eyes were swollen and red; she rocked herself to and fro;
      tossed her head; and, after a little time, burst out laughing.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Why, now she’s on the other tack!’ exclaimed Sikes, turning a look of
      excessive surprise on his companion.
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin nodded to him to take no further notice just then; and, in a few
      minutes, the girl subsided into her accustomed demeanour. Whispering Sikes
      that there was no fear of her relapsing, Fagin took up his hat and bade
      him good-night. He paused when he reached the room-door, and looking
      round, asked if somebody would light him down the dark stairs.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Light him down,’ said Sikes, who was filling his pipe. ‘It’s a pity he
      should break his neck himself, and disappoint the sight-seers. Show him a
      light.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Nancy followed the old man downstairs, with a candle. When they reached
      the passage, he laid his finger on his lip, and drawing close to the girl,
      said, in a whisper.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What is it, Nancy, dear?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What do you mean?’ replied the girl, in the same tone.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘The reason of all this,’ replied Fagin. ‘If <i>he</i>’—he pointed
      with his skinny fore-finger up the stairs—‘is so hard with you (he’s
      a brute, Nance, a brute-beast), why don’t you—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well?’ said the girl, as Fagin paused, with his mouth almost touching her
      ear, and his eyes looking into hers.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No matter just now. We’ll talk of this again. You have a friend in me,
      Nance; a staunch friend. I have the means at hand, quiet and close. If you
      want revenge on those that treat you like a dog—like a dog! worse
      than his dog, for he humours him sometimes—come to me. I say, come
      to me. He is the mere hound of a day, but you know me of old, Nance.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I know you well,’ replied the girl, without manifesting the least
      emotion. ‘Good-night.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      She shrank back, as Fagin offered to lay his hand on hers, but said
      good-night again, in a steady voice, and, answering his parting look with
      a nod of intelligence, closed the door between them.
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin walked towards his home, intent upon the thoughts that were working
      within his brain. He had conceived the idea—not from what had just
      passed though that had tended to confirm him, but slowly and by degrees—that
      Nancy, wearied of the housebreaker’s brutality, had conceived an
      attachment for some new friend. Her altered manner, her repeated absences
      from home alone, her comparative indifference to the interests of the gang
      for which she had once been so zealous, and, added to these, her desperate
      impatience to leave home that night at a particular hour, all favoured the
      supposition, and rendered it, to him at least, almost matter of certainty.
      The object of this new liking was not among his myrmidons. He would be a
      valuable acquisition with such an assistant as Nancy, and must (thus Fagin
      argued) be secured without delay.
    </p>
<p>
      There was another, and a darker object, to be gained. Sikes knew too much,
      and his ruffian taunts had not galled Fagin the less, because the wounds
      were hidden. The girl must know, well, that if she shook him off, she
      could never be safe from his fury, and that it would be surely wreaked—to
      the maiming of limbs, or perhaps the loss of life—on the object of
      her more recent fancy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘With a little persuasion,’ thought Fagin, ‘what more likely than that she
      would consent to poison him? Women have done such things, and worse, to
      secure the same object before now. There would be the dangerous villain:
      the man I hate: gone; another secured in his place; and my influence over
      the girl, with a knowledge of this crime to back it, unlimited.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      These things passed through the mind of Fagin, during the short time he
      sat alone, in the housebreaker’s room; and with them uppermost in his
      thoughts, he had taken the opportunity afterwards afforded him, of
      sounding the girl in the broken hints he threw out at parting. There was
      no expression of surprise, no assumption of an inability to understand his
      meaning. The girl clearly comprehended it. Her glance at parting showed <i>that</i>.
    </p>
<p>
      But perhaps she would recoil from a plot to take the life of Sikes, and
      that was one of the chief ends to be attained. ‘How,’ thought Fagin, as he
      crept homeward, ‘can I increase my influence with her? What new power can
      I acquire?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Such brains are fertile in expedients. If, without extracting a confession
      from herself, he laid a watch, discovered the object of her altered
      regard, and threatened to reveal the whole history to Sikes (of whom she
      stood in no common fear) unless she entered into his designs, could he not
      secure her compliance?
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I can,’ said Fagin, almost aloud. ‘She durst not refuse me then. Not for
      her life, not for her life! I have it all. The means are ready, and shall
      be set to work. I shall have you yet!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He cast back a dark look, and a threatening motion of the hand, towards
      the spot where he had left the bolder villain; and went on his way:
      busying his bony hands in the folds of his tattered garment, which he
      wrenched tightly in his grasp, as though there were a hated enemy crushed
      with every motion of his fingers.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
<a id="link2HCH0045"> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
<br/><br/><br/><br/>
</div>
<h2 id="pgepubid00052">
      CHAPTER XLV — NOAH CLAYPOLE IS EMPLOYED BY FAGIN ON A SECRET MISSION
    </h2>
<p>
      The old man was up, betimes, next morning, and waited impatiently for the
      appearance of his new associate, who after a delay that seemed
      interminable, at length presented himself, and commenced a voracious
      assault on the breakfast.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Bolter,’ said Fagin, drawing up a chair and seating himself opposite
      Morris Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Well, here I am,’ returned Noah. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t yer ask me to
      do anything till I have done eating. That’s a great fault in this place.
      Yer never get time enough over yer meals.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You can talk as you eat, can’t you?’ said Fagin, cursing his dear young
      friend’s greediness from the very bottom of his heart.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh yes, I can talk. I get on better when I talk,’ said Noah, cutting a
      monstrous slice of bread. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Out,’ said Fagin. ‘I sent her out this morning with the other young
      woman, because I wanted us to be alone.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh!’ said Noah. ‘I wish yer’d ordered her to make some buttered toast
      first. Well. Talk away. Yer won’t interrupt me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      There seemed, indeed, no great fear of anything interrupting him, as he
      had evidently sat down with a determination to do a great deal of
      business.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘You did well yesterday, my dear,’ said Fagin. ‘Beautiful! Six shillings
      and ninepence halfpenny on the very first day! The kinchin lay will be a
      fortune to you.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Don’t you forget to add three pint-pots and a milk-can,’ said Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘No, no, my dear. The pint-pots were great strokes of genius: but the
      milk-can was a perfect masterpiece.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Pretty well, I think, for a beginner,’ remarked Mr. Bolter complacently.
      ‘The pots I took off airy railings, and the milk-can was standing by
      itself outside a public-house. I thought it might get rusty with the rain,
      or catch cold, yer know. Eh? Ha! ha! ha!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin affected to laugh very heartily; and Mr. Bolter having had his laugh
      out, took a series of large bites, which finished his first hunk of bread
      and butter, and assisted himself to a second.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I want you, Bolter,’ said Fagin, leaning over the table, ‘to do a piece
      of work for me, my dear, that needs great care and caution.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I say,’ rejoined Bolter, ‘don’t yer go shoving me into danger, or sending
      me any more o’ yer police-offices. That don’t suit me, that don’t; and so
      I tell yer.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘That’s not the smallest danger in it—not the very smallest,’ said
      the Jew; ‘it’s only to dodge a woman.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘An old woman?’ demanded Mr. Bolter.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘A young one,’ replied Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I can do that pretty well, I know,’ said Bolter. ‘I was a regular cunning
      sneak when I was at school. What am I to dodge her for? Not to—’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Not to do anything, but to tell me where she goes, who she sees, and, if
      possible, what she says; to remember the street, if it is a street, or the
      house, if it is a house; and to bring me back all the information you
      can.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘What’ll yer give me?’ asked Noah, setting down his cup, and looking his
      employer, eagerly, in the face.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘If you do it well, a pound, my dear. One pound,’ said Fagin, wishing to
      interest him in the scent as much as possible. ‘And that’s what I never
      gave yet, for any job of work where there wasn’t valuable consideration to
      be gained.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Who is she?’ inquired Noah.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘One of us.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Oh Lor!’ cried Noah, curling up his nose. ‘Yer doubtful of her, are yer?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She has found out some new friends, my dear, and I must know who they
      are,’ replied Fagin.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I see,’ said Noah. ‘Just to have the pleasure of knowing them, if they’re
      respectable people, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I’m your man.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I knew you would be,’ cried Fagin, elated by the success of his proposal.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Of course, of course,’ replied Noah. ‘Where is she? Where am I to wait
      for her? Where am I to go?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘All that, my dear, you shall hear from me. I’ll point her out at the
      proper time,’ said Fagin. ‘You keep ready, and leave the rest to me.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      That night, and the next, and the next again, the spy sat booted and
      equipped in his carter’s dress: ready to turn out at a word from Fagin.
      Six nights passed—six long weary nights—and on each, Fagin
      came home with a disappointed face, and briefly intimated that it was not
      yet time. On the seventh, he returned earlier, and with an exultation he
      could not conceal. It was Sunday.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘She goes abroad to-night,’ said Fagin, ‘and on the right errand, I’m
      sure; for she has been alone all day, and the man she is afraid of will
      not be back much before daybreak. Come with me. Quick!’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Noah started up without saying a word; for the Jew was in a state of such
      intense excitement that it infected him. They left the house stealthily,
      and hurrying through a labyrinth of streets, arrived at length before a
      public-house, which Noah recognised as the same in which he had slept, on
      the night of his arrival in London.
    </p>
<p>
      It was past eleven o’clock, and the door was closed. It opened softly on
      its hinges as Fagin gave a low whistle. They entered, without noise; and
      the door was closed behind them.
    </p>
<p>
      Scarcely venturing to whisper, but substituting dumb show for words,
      Fagin, and the young Jew who had admitted them, pointed out the pane of
      glass to Noah, and signed to him to climb up and observe the person in the
      adjoining room.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Is that the woman?’ he asked, scarcely above his breath.
    </p>
<p>
      Fagin nodded yes.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I can’t see her face well,’ whispered Noah. ‘She is looking down, and the
      candle is behind her.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Stay there,’ whispered Fagin. He signed to Barney, who withdrew. In an
      instant, the lad entered the room adjoining, and, under pretence of
      snuffing the candle, moved it in the required position, and, speaking to
      the girl, caused her to raise her face.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I see her now,’ cried the spy.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Plainly?’ 
    </p>
<p>
      ‘I should know her among a thousand.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He hastily descended, as the room-door opened, and the girl came out.
      Fagin drew him behind a small partition which was curtained off, and they
      held their breaths as she passed within a few feet of their place of
      concealment, and emerged by the door at which they had entered.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘Hist!’ cried the lad who held the door. ‘Dow.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      Noah exchanged a look with Fagin, and darted out.
    </p>
<p>
      ‘To the left,’ whispered the lad; ‘take the left had, and keep od the
      other side.’ 
    </p>
<p>
      He did so; and, by the light of the lamps, saw the girl’s retreating
      figure, already at some distance before him. He advanced as near as he
      considered prudent, and kept on the opposite side of the street, the
      better to observe her motions. She looked nervously round, twice or
      thrice, and once stopped to let two men who were following close behind
      her, pass on. She seemed to gather courage as she advanced, and to walk
      with a steadier and firmer step. The spy preserved the same relative
      distance between them, and followed: with his eye upon her.
    </p>
<p>
<br/><br/>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
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</p>
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