“Will ten do?” asked the Jew, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, “What name shall I tell my good friend?”
“Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such an emergency. “Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.”
“Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. “I hope I shall know her better very shortly.”
“Do you hear the gentleman, Char-lotte?” thundered Mr. Claypole.
“Yes, Noah, dear!” replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand.
“She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,” said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to the Jew. “You understand?”
“Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. “Good night! Good night!”
With many adieus and good wishes Mr. Fagin went his way; and Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority becoming not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay in London and its vicinity.