“What’s the matter here, my dear?” said Fagin, looking in.
“Lend a hand to the girl, can’t you?” replied Sikes impatiently. “Don’t stand chattering and grinning at me!”
With an exclamation of surprise, Fagin hastened to the girl’s assistance, while Mr. John Dawkins (otherwise the Artful Dodger), who had followed his venerable friend into the room, hastily deposited on the floor a bundle with which he was laden; and snatching a bottle from the grasp of Master Charles Bates who came close at his heels, uncorked it in a twinkling with his teeth, and poured a portion of its contents down the patient’s throat: previously taking a taste, himself, to prevent mistakes.
“Give her a whiff of fresh air with the bellows, Charley,” said Mr. Dawkins; “and you slap her hands, Fagin, while Bill undoes the petticuts.”
These united restoratives, administered with great energy: especially that department consigned to Master Bates, who appeared to consider his share in the proceedings, a piece of unexampled pleasantry: were not long in producing the desired effect. The girl gradually recovered her senses; and, staggering to a chair by the bedside, hid her face upon the pillow: leaving Mr. Sikes to confront the new comers, in some astonishment at their unlooked-for appearance.
“Why, what evil wind has blowed you here?” he asked Fagin.
“No evil wind at all, my dear, for evil winds blow nobody any good; and I’ve brought something good with me, that you’ll be glad to see. Dodger, my dear, open the bundle; and give Bill the little trifles that we spent all our money on, this morning.”
In compliance with Mr. Fagin’s request, the Artful untied this bundle, which was of large size, and formed of an old table-cloth; and handed the articles it contained, one by one, to Charley Bates: who placed them on the table, with various encomiums on their rarity and excellence.
“Sitch a rabbit pie, Bill,” exclaimed that young gentleman, disclosing to view a huge pasty; “sitch delicate creeturs, with sitch tender limbs, Bill, that the wery bones melt in your mouth, and there’s no occasion to pick ’em; half a pound of seven and six-penny green, so precious strong that if you mix it with biling water, it’ll go nigh to blow the lid of the tea-pot off; a pound and a half of moist sugar that the niggers didn’t work at all at, afore they got it up to sitch a pitch of goodness,—oh no! Two half-quartern brans; pound of best fresh; piece of double Glo’ster; and, to wind up all, some of the richest sort you ever lushed!”
Uttering this last panegyric, Master Bates produced, from one of his extensive pockets, a full-sized wine-bottle, carefully corked; while Mr. Dawkins, at the same instant, poured out a wine-glassful of raw spirits from the bottle he carried: which the invalid tossed down his throat without a moment’s hesitation.