On the same night that Nancy, having waited for Mr. Sikes to fall asleep, hurried away on her secret mission to Rose Maylie, two people were approaching London by the Great North Road. It is now time for this history to focus its attention on them.
They were a man and a woman; or perhaps they would be better described as a male and a female. The former was a lanky, knock-kneed, bony individual whose precise age was difficult to determine. Even as a boy, he had looked like an underdeveloped man, and now that he was nearly an adult, he looked like an overgrown boy. The woman was young but possessed a robust and sturdy build, which was fortunate, as she was carrying a heavy bundle strapped to her back. Her companion was not burdened by much luggage; he merely carried a small, light parcel wrapped in a common handkerchief, which dangled from a stick over his shoulder. This lack of weight, combined with his unusually long legs, allowed him to stay easily half a dozen paces ahead of his companion. Every so often, he would turn back with an impatient jerk of his head, as if criticizing her slowness and urging her to move faster.
They had toiled along the dusty road, paying little attention to their surroundings except when they stepped aside to let the mail-coaches whirl past them. Eventually, they passed through the Highgate archway, where the man stopped and called out impatiently.
“Come on, can’t you? You’re such a lazybones, Charlotte.”
“It’s a heavy load, I can tell you,” the woman replied, arriving almost breathless with exhaustion.
“Heavy! What are you talking about? What were you made for?” the man snapped, shifting his own tiny bundle to his other shoulder. “Oh, there you go, resting again! If you aren't enough to exhaust anyone’s patience, I don’t know what is!”
“Is it much farther?” the woman asked, leaning against a bank. Perspiration was streaming down her face.
“Much farther! You’re practically there,” said the long-legged traveler, pointing ahead. “Look there! Those are the lights of London.”
“They look at least two miles away,” the woman said despondently.
“I don’t care if they’re two miles or twenty,” said Noah Claypole—for it was indeed him. “Get up and keep moving, or I’ll kick you. Consider yourself warned.”
As Noah’s red nose grew even redder with anger, he crossed the road as if ready to carry out his threat. The woman rose without another word and trudged onward by his side.
“Where do you plan to stop for the night, Noah?” she asked after a few hundred yards.
“How should I know?” replied Noah, whose temper had suffered significantly from the long walk.
“Somewhere nearby, I hope,” said Charlotte.
“No, not nearby,” Mr. Claypole replied. “So don’t even think about it.”
“Why not?”
“When I tell you I don’t mean to do something, that’s enough. I don’t need to give you a ‘why’ or a ‘because,’” Mr. Claypole replied with great dignity.
“Well, you don’t have to be so cross,” his companion muttered.
“It would be a brilliant idea, wouldn’t it, to stop at the very first pub outside of town?” Noah said jeeringly. “Then Sowerberry could just poke his nose in, find us, and have us taken back in a cart with handcuffs on. No! I’m going to lose myself in the narrowest streets I can find. I won't stop until we reach the most out-of-the-way house I can see. You should thank your stars I’ve got a brain; if we hadn't taken the wrong road on purpose at first to confuse them, you’d have been locked up a week ago, my lady. It would serve you right for being such a fool.”
“I know I’m not as cunning as you,” Charlotte replied. “But don’t put all the blame on me. If I had been locked up, you would have been too.”
“You took the money from the till, you know you did,” Noah reminded her.
“I took it for you, Noah dear,” Charlotte rejoined.
“Did I keep it?” Noah asked.
“No; you trusted me and let me carry it like a dear, which you are,” the woman said, patting him under the chin and taking his arm.
This was indeed the case. However, it was not Mr. Claypole’s habit to place blind or foolish confidence in anyone. In justice to that gentleman, it should be noted that he had let Charlotte carry the money so that, if they were caught, the stolen goods would be found on her. This would allow him to claim his innocence and improve his own chances of escape. Naturally, he offered no such explanation at that moment, and they walked on together quite affectionately.
Following his cautious plan, Mr. Claypole continued without stopping until he reached the Angel at Islington. There, observing the crowds and the number of vehicles, he judged that London had truly begun. After pausing to see which streets were the busiest—and therefore the ones to avoid—he turned into St. John’s Road. Soon, they were deep in the dark, intricate, and filthy streets that lay between Gray’s Inn Lane and Smithfield—one of the lowest and most neglected parts of the city.
Noah walked through these streets, dragging Charlotte behind him. He would occasionally step into the gutter to inspect the exterior of a small public house, only to move on if it looked too "public" for his liking. Finally, he stopped in front of a house that looked humbler and dirtier than any they had seen yet. After surveying it from across the street, he graciously announced that they would stay there for the night.
“Give me the bundle,” Noah said, unstrapping it from the woman’s shoulders and putting it on his own. “And don't speak unless you’re spoken to. What’s the name of the place—T-H-R—three what?”
“Cripples,” said Charlotte.
“Three Cripples,” Noah repeated. “A very good sign, too. Now, stay close to my heels and come along.” He pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered, followed by his companion.
The bar was empty except for a young man who was reading a dirty newspaper with his elbows on the counter. He stared intensely at Noah, and Noah stared back just as hard. If Noah had been wearing his charity-boy uniform, the man’s surprise might have been understandable; but since Noah had discarded his old clothes for a smock-frock, there seemed to be no reason for such attention.
“Is this the Three Cripples?” Noah asked.
“That is the dabe (name) of this house,” replied the young man, Barney, who spoke with a permanent cold in his nose.
“A gentleman we met on the road recommended it,” said Noah, nudging Charlotte to ensure she wouldn't look surprised by his lie. “We want to stay here tonight.”
“I’b dot certaid (I’m not certain) you cad,” said Barney. “But I’ll idquire (inquire).”
“Show us to the taproom and give us some cold meat and beer while you’re asking, will you?” Noah requested.
Barney led them into a small back room and brought the food. After informing them that they could indeed stay the night, he left the couple to their meal.
This back room was located directly behind the bar but was a few steps lower. A small curtain covered a single pane of glass in the wall. Anyone in the bar who drew back that curtain could look down at the guests in the back room without being seen. Furthermore, by pressing an ear to the wall, they could hear every word of the conversation. The landlord had been watching through this hole for five minutes when Fagin entered the bar to check on his pupils.
“Hush!” Barney whispered. “Stradegers (strangers) id the dext roob (in the next room).”
“Strangers?” the old man whispered back.
“And right up your street, too,” Barney added. “Frobb the cuttry (from the country), but subthig (something) in your way, or I’b bistaked (I’m mistaken).”
Fagin was immediately interested. Mounting a stool, he peeked through the glass. He saw Noah Claypole greedily eating cold beef and drinking beer, occasionally giving a tiny portion to Charlotte, who sat patiently by.
“Aha!” Fagin whispered to Barney. “I like that fellow’s look. He’d be useful to us; he already knows how to keep the girl in line. Be as quiet as a mouse, my dear, and let me hear them talk.”
Fagin listened attentively, a subtle and eager expression on his face that made him look like a predatory old goblin.
“So, I intend to be a gentleman,” Noah was saying, continuing a conversation Fagin had missed the start of. “No more making coffins for me, Charlotte. I want a gentleman’s life, and you can be a lady if you like.”
“I’d like that well enough,” Charlotte replied, “but you can't empty cash boxes every day and expect to get away with it.”
“Forget cash boxes!” said Noah. “There are more things to empty than those.”
“What do you mean?”
“Pockets, handbags, houses, mail-coaches, banks!” Noah declared, raising his glass.
“But you can’t do all that alone, dear,” said Charlotte.
“I’ll find people who can,” Noah replied. “They’ll find us useful. You yourself are worth fifty women; I’ve never seen anyone as sly and deceitful as you can be when I allow it.”
“Oh, it’s so nice to hear you say that!” Charlotte exclaimed, kissing his face.
“There, that’s enough. Don’t be too affectionate,” Noah said, pulling away with great seriousness. “I’d like to be the leader of a gang, watching them without them knowing. That would suit me, if the profit was good. If we could just meet a gentleman in that line of business, it would be worth that twenty-pound note you’ve got—especially since we don't know how to get rid of it ourselves.”
Noah looked into his beer with an air of deep wisdom. He was about to take another drink when the door opened, and a stranger appeared.
It was Fagin. He looked very friendly and made a low bow as he sat down at the nearest table, ordering a drink from the grinning Barney.
“A pleasant night, sir, though a bit cool for the season,” Fagin said, rubbing his hands. “From the country, I see?”
“How can you tell?” Noah asked.
“We don't have this much dust in London,” Fagin replied, pointing at their shoes and bundles.
“You’re a sharp one,” Noah remarked. “Did you hear that, Charlotte?”
“One needs to be sharp in this town, my dear,” Fagin whispered confidentially.
Fagin tapped the side of his nose—a gesture Noah tried to imitate, though his own nose was too small for the effect to be quite the same. Nevertheless, Fagin seemed pleased and shared the drink Barney brought.
“Good stuff,” Noah observed.
“It is,” said Fagin. “But a man would need to be constantly emptying a till, or a pocket, or a lady’s handbag, or a house, or a mail-coach, or a bank, to afford it regularly.”
When Noah heard his own words repeated back to him, he turned pale with terror and shrank into his chair.
“Don’t mind me, my dear,” Fagin said, moving closer. “Ha! It’s lucky that only I happened to hear you. Very lucky indeed.”
“I didn’t take it,” Noah stammered, no longer acting like a gentleman but curling his legs under his chair. “It was all her. Charlotte has it now, you know she does!”
“It doesn't matter who has it or who did it,” Fagin replied, though he glanced sharply at the bundles. “I’m in that line of business myself, and I like your spirit.”
“What business?” Noah asked, recovering slightly.
“The same as yours,” Fagin said. “And so are the people here. You’ve found the right place, and you’re as safe here as you can be. There’s no safer place in London than the Cripples—at least, when I want it to be. I’ve taken a liking to you both, so you can stop worrying.”
Noah’s mind might have been relieved, but his body was still restless. He shifted around uncomfortably, watching his new friend with a mix of fear and suspicion.
“I’ll tell you more,” Fagin said. “I have a friend who can help you achieve your wish. He can put you in a position where you can choose which part of the business suits you best, and he’ll teach you the rest.”
“You sound like you’re in earnest,” Noah said.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Fagin shrugged. “Come, let’s have a word outside.”
“There’s no need to move,” Noah said, finally stretching his legs out again. “Charlotte can take the luggage upstairs. Charlotte, take care of those bundles!”
Noah gave this order with great authority. Charlotte obeyed without a word, carrying the packages away while Noah held the door open for her.
“She’s well-trained, isn't she?” he asked as he sat back down, sounding like an animal tamer.
“Perfectly,” Fagin agreed. “You’re a genius, my dear.”
“Well, I suppose that’s why I’m here,” Noah replied. “But tell me, is your friend’s business successful?”
“He’s at the top of his profession. He employs many people and moves in the best criminal circles.”
“Are they real Londoners?” Noah asked.
“Not a countryman among them. Honestly, he wouldn't even take you if he weren't short of assistants right now,” Fagin said.
“Would I have to hand over the money?” Noah asked, patting his pocket.
“It couldn't be done any other way,” Fagin replied firmly.
“Twenty pounds is a lot of money, though.”
“Not when it’s a stolen note you can’t spend,” Fagin countered. “The bank has the number and date, I assume? They’ve stopped payment? It’s not worth much to my friend. He’ll have to send it abroad, and he won't get much for it.”
“When can I see him?” Noah asked doubtfully.
“Tomorrow morning. Here.”
“What are the wages?”
“You’ll live like a gentleman. Board and lodging, pipes and spirits for free. Plus, you keep half of everything you and the young woman earn,” Fagin explained.
Noah Claypole was greedy, but he was also a coward. He realized that if he refused, Fagin could easily turn him over to the police. He gradually gave in and agreed to the terms.
“But since Charlotte can do a lot of the work,” Noah added, “I’d like to take on something very light.”
“A bit of ‘fancy work’?” Fagin suggested.
“Exactly. Something not too physically demanding and not very dangerous. That’s what I’m looking for.”
“I heard you mention being a spy,” Fagin said. “My friend needs someone for that very badly.”
“I did mention that, and I wouldn't mind doing it occasionally,” Noah said slowly. “But it wouldn't pay well enough on its own.”
“True,” Fagin agreed. “What about something in the ‘sneaking’ way? Reliable work with very little risk.”
“What about old ladies?” Fagin asked. “There’s a lot of money to be made by snatching their bags and running away.”
“Don’t they scream a lot? And sometimes scratch?” Noah asked, shaking his head. “I don’t think that’s for me. Is there anything else?”
“Wait!” Fagin said, putting a hand on Noah’s knee. “The ‘kinchin lay.’”
“What’s that?”
“The ‘kinchins,’ my dear,” Fagin explained, “are the young children whose mothers send them on errands with small change. The ‘lay’ is simply taking their money. They always have it ready in their hands. You just knock them down and walk away slowly, as if a child has simply fallen and hurt itself. Ha! Ha!”
“Ha! Ha!” Noah roared, kicking his legs in delight. “That’s the very thing!”
“Of course it is,” Fagin said. “You can work in neighborhoods like Camden Town where kids are always running errands. You can rob as many as you want. Ha! Ha!”
Fagin poked Noah in the side, and they both laughed loudly.
“All right!” Noah said when he had calmed down. “What time tomorrow?”
“Is ten o’clock good? And what name shall I give my friend?”
“Mr. Bolter,” Noah replied, having already prepared an alias. “Mr. Morris Bolter. And this is Mrs. Bolter.”
“I am Mrs. Bolter’s humble servant,” Fagin said, bowing with exaggerated politeness as Charlotte returned.
“She calls me Noah as a nickname,” Mr. Morris Bolter (formerly Claypole) explained to Fagin. “You understand?”
“Oh, I understand perfectly,” Fagin replied, speaking the truth for once. “Good-night!”
With many friendly farewells, Fagin left. Noah Claypole then proceeded to explain the new arrangement to Charlotte with all the arrogance of a man who had just secured a prestigious position in the London underworld.