“Wot a rum chap you are, Tom!” said Master Bates, highly amused by this declaration.
“Not a bit of it,” replied Mr. Chitling. “Am I, Fagin?”
“A very clever fellow, my dear,” said Fagin, patting him on the shoulder, and winking to his other pupils.
“And Mr. Crackit is a heavy swell; an’t he, Fagin?” asked Tom.
“No doubt at all of that, my dear.”
“And it is a creditable thing to have his acquaintance; an’t it, Fagin?” pursued Tom.
“Very much so, indeed, my dear. They’re only jealous, Tom, because he won’t give it to them.”
“Ah!” cried Tom, triumphantly, “that’s where it is! He has cleaned me out. But I can go and earn some more, when I like; can’t I, Fagin?”
“To be sure you can, and the sooner you go the better, Tom; so make up your loss at once, and don’t lose any more time. Dodger! Charley! It’s time you were on the lay. Come! It’s near ten, and nothing done yet.”
In obedience to this hint, the boys, nodding to Nancy, took up their hats, and left the room; the Dodger and his vivacious friend indulging, as they went, in many witticisms at the expense of Mr. Chitling; in whose conduct, it is but justice to say, there was nothing very conspicuous or peculiar: inasmuch as there are a great number of spirited young bloods upon town, who pay a much higher price than Mr. Chitling for being seen in good society: and a great number of fine gentlemen (composing the good society aforesaid) who established their reputation upon very much the same footing as flash Toby Crackit.