“So I do do as she bids me,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I shouldn’t have been milled, if it hadn’t been for her advice. But it turned out a good job for you; didn’t it, Fagin! And what’s six weeks of it? It must come, some time or another, and why not in the winter time when you don’t want to go out a-walking so much; eh, Fagin?”
“Ah, to be sure, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“You wouldn’t mind it again, Tom, would you,” asked the Dodger, winking upon Charley and the Jew, “if Bet was all right?”
“I mean to say that I shouldn’t,” replied Tom, angrily. “There, now. Ah! Who’ll say as much as that, I should like to know; eh, Fagin?”
“Nobody, my dear,” replied the Jew; “not a soul, Tom. I don’t know one of ’em that would do it besides you; not one of ’em, my dear.”
“I might have got clear off, if I’d split upon her; mightn’t I, Fagin?” angrily pursued the poor half-witted dupe. “A word from me would have done it; wouldn’t it, Fagin?”
“To be sure it would, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“But I didn’t blab it; did I, Fagin?” demanded Tom, pouring question upon question with great volubility.
“No, no, to be sure,” replied the Jew; “you were too stout-hearted for that. A deal too stout, my dear!”
“Perhaps I was,” rejoined Tom, looking round; “and if I was, what’s to laugh at, in that; eh, Fagin?”