“What do you mean?” asked his companion.
“Pockets, women’s ridicules, houses, mail-coaches, banks,” said Mr. Claypole, rising with the porter.
“But you can’t do all that, dear,” said Charlotte.
“I shall look out to get into company with them as can,” replied Noah. “They’ll be able to make us useful some way or another. Why, you yourself are worth fifty women; I never see such a precious sly and deceitful creetur as yer can be when I let yer.”
“Lor, how nice it is to hear you say so!” exclaimed Charlotte, imprinting a kiss upon his ugly face.
“There, that’ll do: don’t yer be too affectionate, in case I’m cross with yer,” said Noah, disengaging himself with great gravity. “I should like to be the captain of some band, and have the whopping of ’em, and follering ’em about, unbeknown to themselves. That would suit me, if there was good profit; and if we could only get in with some gentlemen of this sort, I say it would be cheap at that twenty-pound note you’ve got,—especially as we don’t very well know how to get rid of it ourselves.”
After expressing this opinion, Mr. Claypole looked into the porter-pot with an aspect of deep wisdom, and having well shaken its contents, nodded condescendingly to Charlotte, and took a draught, wherewith he appeared greatly refreshed. He was meditating another, when the sudden opening of the door and appearance of a stranger interrupted him.
The stranger was Mr. Fagin, and very amiable he looked, and a very low bow he made as he advanced, and, setting himself down at the nearest table, ordered something to drink of the grinning Barney.
The Jew & Morris Bolter begin to understand each other.