Fagin was about to translate these mysterious expressions into the vulgar tongue, and, being interpreted, Mr. Bolter would have been informed, that they represented that combination of words, “transportation for life,” when the dialogue was cut short by the entry of Master Bates, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, and his face twisted into a look of semi-comical woe. “It’s all up, Fagin,” said Charley; when he and his new companion had been made known to each other. “What do you mean?” asked the Jew, with trembling lips. “They’ve found the gentleman as owns the box; two or three more’s a coming to ’dentify him, and the Artful’s booked for a passage out,” replied Master Bates. “I must have a full suit of mourning, Fagin, and a hatband, to wisit him in, afore he sets out upon his travels. To think of Jack Dawkins—lummy Jack—the Dodger—the Artful Dodger—going abroad for a common twopenny-halfpenny sneeze-box! I never thought he’d ha’ done it under a gold watch, chain, and seals, at the lowest. Oh, why didn’t he rob some rich old gentleman, of all his walables, and go out _as_ a gentleman, and not like a common prig, without no honour nor glory!” With this expression of feeling for his unfortunate friend, Master Bates sat himself on the nearest chair, with an aspect of chagrin and despondency. “What do you talk about his having neither honour nor glory for?” exclaimed Fagin, darting an angry look at his pupil. “Wasn’t he always top-sawyer among you all?—is there one of you that could touch him, or come near him on any scent—eh?” “Not one!” replied Master Bates, in a voice rendered husky by regret—“not one!” “Then what do you talk of?” replied the Jew, angrily; “what are you blubbering for?” “’Cause it isn’t on the rec-ord, is it?” said Charley, chafed into perfect defiance of his venerable friend by the current of his regrets; “’cause it can’t come out in the indictment; ’cause nobody will never know half of what he was. How will he stand in the Newgate Calendar? P’raps not be there at all. Oh, my eye, my eye, wot a blow it is!” “Ha! ha!” cried the Jew, extending his right hand, and turning to Mr. Bolter, in a fit of chuckling which shook him as though he had the palsy; “see what a pride they take in their profession, my dear. Isn’t it beautiful?” Mr. Bolter nodded assent; and the Jew, after contemplating the grief of Charley Bates for some seconds, with evident satisfaction, stepped up to that young gentleman, and patted him on the shoulder. “Never mind, Charley,” said Fagin, soothingly; “it’ll come out, it’ll be sure to come out. They’ll all know what a clever fellow he was; he’ll shew it himself, and not disgrace his old pals and teachers. Think how young he is, too! What a distinction, Charley, to be lagged at his time of life!” “Well, it is a honour,—that is!” said Charley, a little consoled.