“And so, you were your own friend all along, were you?” asked Mr. Claypole, now known as Morris Bolter. He had moved into Fagin’s house the following day, as agreed in their recent contract. “I suspected as much last night!”
“Every man is his own best friend, my dear,” Fagin replied, offering his most persuasive and cunning grin. “A man will never find a friend as loyal as himself.”
“Except on certain occasions,” Morris Bolter remarked, trying to sound like a sophisticated man of the world. “You know, some people are nobody’s enemies but their own.”
“I don’t believe a word of that,” Fagin said firmly. “When a man acts as his own enemy, it is only because he is too much his own friend; it is certainly not because he cares more for others than himself. Nonsense! Such a thing does not exist in nature.”
“It shouldn’t exist, even if it does,” Mr. Bolter agreed. “That is only logical. Some magicians claim that three is the magic number, and others say it is seven. They are both wrong, my friend. The only magic number is number one.”
“Ha! ha!” Mr. Bolter laughed. “Long live number one!”
“In a small community like ours, my dear,” Fagin added, feeling the need to clarify his position, “we must have a collective 'number one.' This includes me, you, and all the other young people.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Mr. Bolter exclaimed.
“You see,” Fagin continued, ignoring the interruption, “our interests are so closely linked that it must be this way. For example, your primary goal is to look after number one—meaning yourself.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Bolter replied. “You are quite right there.”
“Well! You cannot look after yourself, number one, without also looking after me, number one.”
“You mean number two, surely?” said Mr. Bolter, who was naturally very selfish.
“No, I do not!” Fagin retorted. “I am just as important to you as you are to yourself.”
“Look here,” Mr. Bolter interrupted, “you are a very pleasant man, and I am quite fond of you; but I don’t think our interests are quite that closely entwined.”
“Just think about it,” Fagin said, shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands. “Consider the facts. You have committed a very clever crime, and I admire you for it. However, it is also a crime that could put a noose around your neck—a knot that is very easily tied but impossible to loosen. In plain English, the gallows!”
Mr. Bolter instinctively reached for his neckerchief, as if it had suddenly become uncomfortably tight. He murmured a quiet agreement.
“The gallows, my dear, is an ugly signpost,” Fagin continued. “It marks a very sharp turn that has ended the careers of many bold men. To stay on the safe path and keep the gallows at a distance is your 'number one' priority.”
“Of course it is,” Mr. Bolter replied nervously. “Why are you talking about such grim things?”
“Only to make my meaning clear,” the old man said, raising his eyebrows. “To stay safe, you depend on me. To keep my business running smoothly, I depend on you. The first is your priority; the second is mine. The more you value your own safety, the more careful you must be of mine. So, as I said at the beginning: a regard for 'number one' holds us all together. If we forget that, we will all fall apart.”
“That makes sense,” Mr. Bolter admitted thoughtfully. “You are a very cunning old man!”
Fagin was delighted. He saw that his recruit was truly impressed by his intelligence, which was essential at the start of their partnership. To strengthen this useful impression, he began to describe the vast scale of his operations in detail. He skillfully blended truth with fiction, ensuring that Mr. Bolter’s respect was mixed with a healthy amount of fear.
“It is this mutual trust that comforts me when I suffer heavy losses,” Fagin said. “For instance, my most talented assistant was taken from me yesterday morning.”
“You don’t mean he died?” Mr. Bolter cried.
“No, no,” Fagin replied, “not quite that bad.”
“I suppose he was—caught?”
“Wanted,” Fagin corrected him. “Yes, he was wanted by the police.”
“Was it a serious charge?” Mr. Bolter inquired.
“Not particularly,” Fagin replied. “He was accused of attempting to pick a pocket, and they found a silver snuff-box on him. It was his own, my dear—he enjoyed taking snuff. They have kept him in custody until today because they believe they have found the real owner. He was worth fifty such boxes to me, and I would pay the price of fifty more to have him back. You should have known the Dodger, my dear; he was truly unique.”
“Well, I hope I shall meet him eventually,” said Mr. Bolter.
“I am not so sure,” Fagin sighed. “If they don't find new evidence, he will only get a short sentence of six weeks. But if they do, he will be 'transported'—sent away to a penal colony. They know how clever he is; they will likely give the Artful Dodger a life sentence.”
“What do you mean by 'transported'?” Mr. Bolter demanded. “Why don’t you speak so I can understand you?”
Before Fagin could explain that it meant being sent to a prison overseas for life, Charley Bates entered the room. His hands were in his pockets, and his face was twisted into an expression of comical sadness.
“It’s all over, Fagin,” Charley said, after he had been introduced to their new companion.
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve found the gentleman who owns the box. More witnesses are coming to identify him, and the Dodger is definitely going to be sent abroad,” Master Bates replied. “I’ll need a full suit of black mourning clothes to visit him before he leaves. To think that Jack Dawkins—the legendary Artful Dodger—is being sent away for a cheap, common snuff-box! I never thought he’d be caught for anything less than a gold watch and chain. Why didn't he rob a rich old man of all his valuables? Then he could have gone out with honor and glory, not like a common thief!”
Feeling deeply for his unfortunate friend, Charley Bates sat down, looking completely dejected.
“Why are you talking about honor and glory?” Fagin exclaimed, glancing angrily at his pupil. “Wasn't he always the best among you? Is there anyone here who could even come close to his skill?”
“Not one,” Master Bates replied, his voice husky with regret.
“Then what are you complaining about?” Fagin asked crossly. “Why are you crying like a baby?”
“Because his real talent won't be mentioned in the official records, will it?” Charley argued, his sadness turning into defiance. “It won't be in the indictment. Nobody will ever know how truly great he was. How will he be remembered in the criminal history books? He might not even be mentioned at all! What a terrible blow!”
“Ha! ha!” Fagin laughed, turning to Mr. Bolter. He was chuckling so hard his whole body shook. “Look how much pride they take in their profession, my dear. Isn’t it a beautiful sight?”
Mr. Bolter nodded in agreement. After watching Charley’s grief for a few moments with satisfaction, Fagin stepped forward and patted the boy on the shoulder.
“Never mind, Charley,” Fagin said soothingly. “The truth will come out. Everyone will realize how clever he was; he will show them himself and won't embarrass his old friends and teachers. And think how young he is! What an achievement, Charley, to be sent abroad at his age!”
“Well, that is an honor, I suppose,” Charley said, feeling slightly better.
“He shall have everything he needs,” Fagin continued. “He shall stay in prison like a gentleman! He will have his beer every day and money in his pocket.”
“Will he really?” Charley cried.
“Indeed he will,” Fagin replied. “And we’ll hire the best lawyer—one with the greatest talent for speaking—to defend him. The Dodger shall even make a speech himself if he wants to. We’ll read all about it in the newspapers: ‘Artful Dodger—shrieks of laughter—the court was in chaos.’ Does that sound good, Charley?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed Master Bates. “What a joke that would be! The Artful would really confuse them, wouldn’t he?”
“He certainly would!” Fagin cried.
“I can almost see him now,” said the old man, looking at his pupil.
“So can I!” Charley Bates exclaimed. “I see it all perfectly, Fagin. All the lawyers trying to look serious, and Jack Dawkins talking to them as if he were the judge’s own son! Ha! ha! ha!”
Fagin had managed to change Charley’s mood so effectively that the boy no longer saw the Dodger as a victim, but as the star of a hilarious comedy. He was now impatient for the trial to begin.
“We must find a way to discover how he is getting on today,” Fagin said. “Let me think.”
“Shall I go?” Charley asked.
“Absolutely not!” Fagin replied. “Are you crazy? You would walk right into the place where—no, Charley. We cannot afford to lose more than one person at a time.”
“You aren't planning to go yourself, I assume?” Charley said with a grin.
“That would not be wise,” Fagin replied, shaking his head.
“Then why don't you send this new fellow?” Master Bates asked, pointing at Noah. “Nobody knows him.”
“If he wouldn't mind...” Fagin suggested.
“Mind!” Charley interrupted. “What is there to mind?”
“Really nothing at all, my dear,” Fagin said, turning to Mr. Bolter.
“I’m not so sure about that,” Noah remarked, backing toward the door with a look of alarm. “No, thank you. That is not my department.”
“What exactly is his department, Fagin?” Master Bates asked, looking at Noah’s lanky frame with disgust. “Is it running away when things go wrong and eating all the food when things are fine?”
“Never mind that,” Mr. Bolter retorted. “And don't be disrespectful to your superiors, little boy, or you’ll find yourself in trouble.”
Master Bates laughed so loudly at this threat that it took Fagin some time to intervene. He explained to Mr. Bolter that there was no real danger in visiting the police office. Since Noah was new to London, no one there knew him or suspected him of any crime. He argued that if Noah wore a proper disguise, he would be perfectly safe.
Reluctantly, and mostly because he was afraid of Fagin, Mr. Bolter finally agreed to go. Following Fagin’s instructions, he changed his clothes. He put on a wagoner’s coat, heavy trousers, and leather leggings. He was also given a felt hat and a carter’s whip. Equipped this way, he was to walk into the office as if he were a curious country fellow visiting the city. Since Noah was naturally awkward and tall, Fagin was confident he would play the part perfectly.
Once the arrangements were complete, Noah was told how to recognize the Artful Dodger. Master Bates led him through dark, winding alleys to a spot near Bow Street. After giving Noah precise directions on how to enter the office and where to stand, Charley Bates told him to go on alone and promised to wait for his return.
Noah Claypole—or Morris Bolter—followed the instructions exactly. Thanks to Charley’s detailed directions, he reached the courtroom without any problems.
He found himself pushed into a crowd of people, mostly women, in a dirty, crowded room. At the far end was a raised platform for the officials. There was a 'dock' for the prisoners on the left, a place for witnesses in the middle, and a desk for the magistrates on the right.
A couple of women were currently in the dock, nodding to their friends, while a clerk read some documents. A jailer stood nearby, looking bored and occasionally telling people to be quiet. The room smelled terrible; the walls were stained with dirt and the ceiling was blackened by smoke. Everything in the room seemed to be covered in a thick, greasy layer of filth, reflecting the poverty and depravity of the people who passed through it.
Noah looked around eagerly for the Dodger, but he saw no one who matched the description until the women were led away. Then, a new prisoner appeared. Noah knew instantly that this was the person he had come to see.
It was indeed Mr. Dawkins. He shuffled into the office with his oversized coat sleeves tucked up, his left hand in his pocket, and his hat in his right hand. He walked with a strange, rolling gait and took his place in the dock. In a loud voice, he demanded to know why he was being placed in such a "disgraceful situation."
“Be quiet!” the jailer commanded.
“I am an Englishman, am I not?” the Dodger replied. “Where are my rights?”
“You’ll get your rights soon enough,” the jailer retorted, “and a punishment along with them.”
“We’ll see what the authorities have to say about this,” Mr. Dawkins replied. “Now then! What is this all about? I’d appreciate it if the magistrates would hurry up. I have an appointment with a gentleman in the City, and since I am a punctual businessman, he will leave if I am late. Then he might sue you for damages!”
The Dodger then asked the jailer for the names of the two officials on the bench, acting as if he were preparing a legal case against them. This amused the spectators so much that they burst out laughing.
“Silence!” cried the jailer.
“What is the charge?” one of the magistrates asked.
“Pick-pocketing, your worship.”
“Has the boy been here before?”
“Many times,” the jailer replied. “He has been almost everywhere. I know him well.”
“Oh! So you know me, do you?” the Artful noted. “Very good. That is a clear case of defamation of character.”
There was more laughter and another call for silence. The clerk then called the witnesses.
“Yes, bring them out!” the Dodger added. “I should like to see them.”
A policeman stepped forward. He explained that he had seen the prisoner try to rob an unknown gentleman in a crowd. He had seen the boy take a handkerchief, but since it was old and poor quality, the boy had put it back. The policeman had arrested the Dodger as soon as possible. When they searched him, they found a silver snuff-box with the owner’s name on it. The owner, who was also present, confirmed the box was his and said he had missed it the previous day.
“Do you have any questions for this witness, boy?” the magistrate asked.
“I would not lower myself by speaking to him,” the Dodger replied.
“Do you have anything to say at all?”
“The magistrate is asking if you have anything to say,” the jailer prompted, nudging him.
“I beg your pardon,” the Dodger said, looking up as if he had been daydreaming. “Were you talking to me, my man?”
“I’ve never seen such a bold young criminal,” the officer remarked with a grin. “Do you want to say anything?”
“No,” the Dodger replied. “Not here, because this is not a place where one finds justice. Besides, my lawyer is having breakfast with an important member of Parliament this morning. But I will have plenty to say elsewhere, and so will my many respectable friends. You’ll wish you had never been born before I’m finished with you!”
“That’s enough. He is committed for trial!” the clerk interrupted. “Take him away.”
“Come on,” said the jailer.
“Oh, I’m coming,” the Dodger replied, brushing his hat. He looked at the magistrates and added, “It’s no use looking frightened; I won’t show you any mercy. You’ll pay for this! I wouldn't be in your shoes for anything. I wouldn't go free now even if you begged me on your knees. Now, take me to prison!”
The Dodger was led away by his collar. He continued to threaten them with political consequences until he reached the yard, where he grinned at the officer with great satisfaction.
After seeing him locked in a cell, Noah hurried back to where he had left Master Bates. After waiting for a while, he was joined by Charley, who had been hiding nearby to make sure Noah wasn't being followed.
The two of them rushed back together to tell Fagin the exciting news: the Dodger was behaving exactly as he had been taught, and was building a truly glorious reputation for himself.