"Well, well!" said the Dodger, recurring to the point from which they had strayed, with that mindfulness of his profession which influenced all his proceedings. "This hasn't got anything to do with young Green here."
"No more it has," said Charley. "Why don't you put yourself under Fagin, Oliver?"
"And make your fortun' out of hand?" added the Dodger, with a grin.
"And so be able to retire on your property, and do the genteel, as I mean to in the very next leap-year but four that ever comes, and the forty-second Tuesday in Trinity-week," said Charley Bates.
"I don't like it," rejoined Oliver timidly; "I wish they would let me go. I—I—would rather go."
"And Fagin would rather not!" rejoined Charley.
Oliver knew this too well; but, thinking it might be dangerous to express his feelings more openly, he only sighed, and went on with his boot-cleaning.
"Go!" exclaimed the Dodger. "Why, where's your spirit? Don't you take any pride out of yourself? Would you go and be dependent on your friends, eh?"
"Oh, blow that!" said Master Bates, drawing two or three silk handkerchiefs from his pocket, and tossing them into a cupboard, "that's too mean, that is!"
"I couldn't do it," said the Dodger, with an air of haughty disgust.