“Why, I did mention that, and I shouldn’t mind turning my hand to it sometimes,” rejoined Mr. Claypole slowly; “but it wouldn’t pay by itself, you know.” “That’s true!” observed the Jew, ruminating or pretending to ruminate. “No, it might not.” “What do you think, then?” asked Noah, anxiously regarding him. “Something in the sneaking way, where it was pretty sure work, and not much more risk than being at home.” “What do you think of the old ladies?” asked Fagin. “There’s a good deal of money made in snatching their bags and parcels, and running round the corner.” “Don’t they holler out a good deal, and scratch sometimes?” asked Noah, shaking his head. “I don’t think that would answer my purpose. Ain’t there any other line open?” “Stop!” said Fagin, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. “The kinchin lay.” “What’s that?” demanded Mr. Claypole. “The kinchins, my dear,” said Fagin, “is the young children that’s sent on errands by their mothers, with sixpences and shillings; and the lay is just to take their money away—they’ve always got it ready in their hands,—then knock ’em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there were nothing else the matter but a child fallen down and hurt itself. Ha! ha! ha!” “Ha! ha!” roared Mr. Claypole, kicking up his legs in an ecstasy. “Lord, that’s the very thing!” “To be sure it is,” replied Fagin; “and you can have a few good beats chalked out in Camden Town, and Battle Bridge, and neighborhoods like that, where they’re always going errands; and you can upset as many kinchins as you want, any hour in the day. Ha! ha! ha!” With this, Fagin poked Mr. Claypole in the side, and they joined in a burst of laughter both long and loud. “Well, that’s all right!” said Noah, when he had recovered himself, and Charlotte had returned. “What time tomorrow shall we say?” “Will ten do?” asked Fagin, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, “What name shall I tell my good friend.” “Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such emergency. “Mr. Morris Bolter. This is Mrs. Bolter.” “Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” said Fagin, bowing with grotesque politeness. “I hope I shall know her better very shortly.” “Do you hear the gentleman, Charlotte?” thundered Mr. Claypole. “Yes, Noah, dear!” replied Mrs. Bolter, extending her hand. “She calls me Noah, as a sort of fond way of talking,” said Mr. Morris Bolter, late Claypole, turning to Fagin. “You understand?” “Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. “Good-night! Good-night!” With many adieus and good wishes, Mr. Fagin went his way. Noah Claypole, bespeaking his good lady’s attention, proceeded to enlighten her relative to the arrangement he had made, with all that haughtiness and air of superiority, becoming, not only a member of the sterner sex, but a gentleman who appreciated the dignity of a special appointment on the kinchin lay, in London and its vicinity.