One afternoon, the Dodger and Master Bates being engaged out that evening, the first-named young gentleman took it into his head to evince some anxiety regarding the decoration of his person (which, to do him justice, was by no means an habitual weakness with him;) and, with this end and aim, he condescendingly commanded Oliver to assist him in his toilet straightway. Oliver was but too glad to make himself useful; too happy to have some faces, however bad, to look upon, and too desirous to conciliate those about him when he could honestly do so, to throw any objection in the way of this proposal; so he at once expressed his readiness, and, kneeling on the floor, while the Dodger sat upon the table so that he could take his foot in his lap, he applied himself to a process which Mr. Dawkins designated as “japanning his trotter-cases,” and which phrase, rendered into plain English, signifieth cleaning his boots. Whether it was the sense of freedom and independence which a rational animal may be supposed to feel when he sits on a table in an easy attitude, smoking a pipe, swinging one leg carelessly to and fro, and having his boots cleaned all the time, without even the past trouble of having taken them off, or the prospective misery of putting them on, to disturb his reflections; or whether it was the goodness of the tobacco that soothed the feelings of the Dodger, or the mildness of the beer that mollified his thoughts, he was evidently tinctured for the nonce with a spice of romance and enthusiasm foreign to his general nature. He looked down on Oliver with a thoughtful countenance for a brief space, and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates, “What a pity it is he isn’t a prig!” “Ah!” said Master Charles Bates; “he don’t know what’s good for him.” The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe, as did Charley Bates. They both smoked for some seconds in silence. “I suppose you don’t even know what a prig is?” said the Dodger mournfully. “I think I know that,” replied Oliver, hastily looking up. “It’s a th—; you’re one, are you not?” inquired Oliver, checking himself. “I am,” replied the Dodger. “I’d scorn to be anythink else.” Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. “I am,” repeated the Dodger; “so’s Charley, so’s Fagin, so’s Sikes, so’s Nancy, so’s Bet, so we all are, down to the dog, and he’s the downiest one of the lot.” “And the least given to peaching,” added Charley Bates. “He wouldn’t so much as bark in a witness-box for fear of committing himself; no, not if you tied him up in one, and left him there without wittles for a fortnight,” said the Dodger. “That he wouldn’t; not a bit of it,” observed Charley.