“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 the Jew 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 the Jew. “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 the Jew.