“I heard you talk of something in the spy way upon the others, my dear?” said the Jew. “My friend wants somebody who would do that well very much.” “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 the Jew. “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 the Jew, laying his hand on Noah’s knee. “The kinchin lay.” “What’s that?” demanded Mr. Claypole. “The kinchins, my dear,” said the Jew, “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,—and then knock ’em into the kennel, and walk off very slow, as if there was 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 neighbourhoods like that, where they’re always going errands, and 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 to-morrow shall we say?” “Will ten do?” asked the Jew, adding, as Mr. Claypole nodded assent, “What name shall I tell my good friend?” “Mr. Bolter,” replied Noah, who had prepared himself for such an 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, Char-lotte?” 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 the Jew. “You understand?” “Oh yes, I understand—perfectly,” replied Fagin, telling the truth for once. “Good night! Good night!”