Bildungsromans; Boys -- Fiction; Criminals -- Fiction; Kidnapping victims -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction; Orphans -- Fiction
“Why, the sight of you, Mr. Fagin, would cure the hoptalmy!” said this
respectable trader, in acknowledgment of the Jew’s inquiry after his
health.
“The neighbourhood was a little too hot, Lively,” said Fagin, elevating
his eyebrows, and crossing his hands upon his shoulders.
“Well, I’ve heerd that complaint of it, once or twice before,” replied
the trader; “but it soon cools down again; don’t you find it so?”
Fagin nodded in the affirmative. Pointing in the direction of Saffron
Hill, he inquired whether any one was up yonder tonight.
“At the Cripples?” inquired the man.
The Jew nodded.
“Let me see,” pursued the merchant, reflecting. “Yes, there’s some
half-dozen of ’em gone in, that I knows. I don’t think your friend’s
there.”
“Sikes is not, I suppose?” inquired the Jew, with a disappointed
countenance.
“_Non istwentus_, as the lawyers say,” replied the little man, shaking
his head, and looking amazingly sly. “Have you got anything in my line
tonight?”
“Nothing tonight,” said the Jew, turning away.
“Are you going up to the Cripples, Fagin?” cried the little man,
calling after him. “Stop! I don’t mind if I have a drop there with
you!”
But as the Jew, looking back, waved his hand to intimate that he
preferred being alone; and, moreover, as the little man could not very
easily disengage himself from the chair; the sign of the Cripples was,
for a time, bereft of the advantage of Mr. Lively’s presence. By the
time he had got upon his legs, the Jew had disappeared; so Mr. Lively,
after ineffectually standing on tiptoe, in the hope of catching sight
of him, again forced himself into the little chair, and, exchanging a
shake of the head with a lady in the opposite shop, in which doubt and
mistrust were plainly mingled, resumed his pipe with a grave demeanour.
The Three Cripples, or rather the Cripples; which was the sign by which
the establishment was familiarly known to its patrons: was the
public-house in which Mr. Sikes and his dog have already figured.
Merely making a sign to a man at the bar, Fagin walked straight
upstairs, and opening the door of a room, and softly insinuating
himself into the chamber, looked anxiously about: shading his eyes with
his hand, as if in search of some particular person.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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