Mr. Chitling was older in years than the Dodger: having perhaps numbered eighteen winters; but there was a degree of deference in his deportment towards that young gentleman which seemed to indicate that he felt himself conscious of a slight inferiority in point of genius and professional acquirements. He had small twinkling eyes, and a pockmarked face; wore a fur cap, a dark corduroy jacket, greasy fustian trousers, and an apron. His wardrobe was, in truth, rather out of repair; but he excused himself to the company by stating that his “time” was only out an hour before; and that, in consequence of having worn the regimentals for six weeks past, he had not been able to bestow any attention on his private clothes. Mr. Chitling added, with strong marks of irritation, that the new way of fumigating clothes up yonder was infernal unconstitutional, for it burnt holes in them, and there was no remedy against the County. The same remark he considered to apply to the regulation mode of cutting the hair: which he held to be decidedly unlawful. Mr. Chitling wound up his observations by stating that he had not touched a drop of anything for forty-two mortal long hardworking days; and that he “wished he might be busted if he warn’t as dry as a lime-basket.”
“Where do you think the gentleman has come from, Oliver?” inquired the Jew, with a grin, as the other boys put a bottle of spirits on the table.
“I—I—don’t know, sir,” replied Oliver.
“Who’s that?” inquired Tom Chitling, casting a contemptuous look at Oliver.
“A young friend of mine, my dear,” replied the Jew.
“He’s in luck, then,” said the young man, with a meaning look at Fagin. “Never mind where I came from, young ’un; you’ll find your way there, soon enough, I’ll bet a crown!”