“That’s two doubles and the rub,” said Mr. Chitling, with a very long face, as he drew half-a-crown from his waistcoat-pocket “I never see such a feller as you, Jack; you win every thing. Even when we’ve good cards, Charley and I can’t make nothing of ’em.” Either the matter or manner of this remark, which was made very ruefully, delighted Charley Bates so much, that his consequent shout of laughter roused the Jew from his reverie, and induced him to inquire what was the matter. “Matter, Fagin!” cried Charley. “I wish you had watched a play. Tommy Chitling hasn’t won the point, and I went partners with him against the Artful and dum.” “Ay, ay!” said the Jew, with a grin, which sufficiently demonstrated that he was at no loss to understand the reason. “Try ’em again, Tom; try ’em again.” “No more of it for me, thankee, Fagin,” replied Mr. Chitling; “I’ve had enough. That ’ere Dodger has such a run of luck that there’s no standing again’ him.” “Ha! ha! my dear,” replied the Jew, “you must get up very early in the morning to win against the Dodger.” “Morning!” said Charley Bates; “you must put your boots on overnight, and have a telescope at each eye, and a opera-glass between your shoulders, if you want to come over him.” Mr. Dawkins received these handsome compliments with much philosophy, and offered to cut any gentleman in company for the first picture-card, at a shilling a time. Nobody accepting the challenge, and his pipe being by this time smoked out, he proceeded to amuse himself by sketching a ground-plan of Newgate on the table with the piece of chalk which had served him in lieu of counters; whistling meantime with peculiar shrillness. “How precious dull you are, Tommy!” said the Dodger, stopping short when there had been a long silence, and addressing Mr. Chitling. “What do you think he’s thinking of, Fagin?” “How should I know, my dear?” replied the Jew, looking round as he plied the bellows. “About his losses, maybe; or the little retirement in the country that he’s just left, eh?—Ha! ha! Is that it, my dear?” “Not a bit of it,” replied the Dodger, stopping the subject of discourse as Mr. Chitling was about to reply. “What do _you_ say, Charley?” “_I_ should say,” replied Master Bates, with a grin, “that he was uncommon sweet upon Betsy. See how he’s a-blushing! Oh, my eye! here’s a merry-go-rounder!—Tommy Chitling’s in love!—Oh, Fagin, Fagin! what a spree!” Thoroughly overpowered with the notion of Mr. Chitling being the victim of the tender passion, Master Bates threw himself back in his chair with such violence that he lost his balance, and pitched over upon the floor, where (the accident abating nothing of his merriment) he lay at full length till his laugh was over, when he resumed his former position and began another.