“He shall have all he wants,” continued the Jew. “He shall be kept in the Stone Jug, Charley, like a gentleman—like a gentleman, with his beer every day, and money in his pocket to pitch and toss with, if he can’t spend it.” “No, shall he though?” cried Charley Bates. “Ay, that he shall,” replied the Jew; “and we’ll have a big-wig, Charley,—one that’s got the greatest gift of the gab,—to carry on his defence, and he shall make a speech for himself, too, if he likes, and we’ll read it all in the papers—‘Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—here the court was convulsed’—eh, Charley, eh?” “Ha! ha!” laughed Master Bates, “what a lark that would be, wouldn’t it, Fagin? I say, how the Artful would bother ’em, wouldn’t he?” “Would!” cried the Jew. “He shall—he will!” “Ah, to be sure, so he will!” repeated Charley, rubbing his hands. “I think I see him now,” cried the Jew, bending his eyes upon his pupil. “So do I,” cried Charley Bates—“ha! ha! ha! so do I. I see it all afore me, upon my soul I do, Fagin. What a game! what a regular game! All the big-wigs trying to look solemn, and Jack Dawkins addressing of ’em as intimate and comfortable as if he was the judge’s own son making a speech arter dinner—ha! ha! ha!” In fact the Jew had so well humoured his young friend’s eccentric disposition, that Master Bates, who had at first been disposed to consider the imprisoned Dodger rather in the light of a victim, now looked upon him as the chief actor in a scene of most uncommon and exquisite humour, and felt quite impatient for the arrival of the time when his old companion should have so favourable an opportunity of displaying his abilities. “We must know how he gets on to-day by some handy means or other,” said Fagin. “Let me think.” “Shall I go?” asked Charley. “Not for the world,” replied the Jew. “Are you mad, my dear?—stark mad, that you’d walk into the very place where—No, Charley, no—one is enough to lose at a time.” “You don’t mean to go yourself, I suppose?” said Charley with a humorous leer. “That wouldn’t quite fit,” replied Fagin, shaking his head. “Then why don’t you send this new cove?” asked Master Bates, laying his hand on Noah’s arm; “nobody knows him.” “Why, if he didn’t mind,” observed the Jew. “Mind!” interposed Charley. “What should _he_ have to mind?” “Really nothing, my dear,” said Fagin, turning to Mr. Bolter, “really nothing.” “Oh, I dare say about that, yer know,” observed Noah, backing towards the door, and shaking his head with a kind of sober alarm. “No, no—none of that. It’s not in my department, that isn’t.” “Wot department has he got, Fagin?” inquired Master Bates, surveying Noah’s lank form with much disgust. “The cutting away when there’s anything wrong, and the eating all the wittles when there’s everything right; is that his branch?” “Never mind,” retorted Mr. Bolter; “and don’t yer take liberties with yer superiors, little boy, or yer’ll find yerself in the wrong shop.”