"Where is he?" he asked.
The Dodger pointed to the floor above, and made a gesture as if to leave the room.
"Yes," said the Jew, answering the mute inquiry; "bring him down. Hush!—Quiet, Charley!—gently, Tom! Scarce, scarce!"
This brief direction to Charley Bates and his recent antagonist to retire, was softly and immediately obeyed. There was no sound of their whereabout when the Dodger descended the stairs bearing the light in his hand, and followed by a man in a coarse smock-frock, who, after casting a hurried glance round the room, pulled off a large wrapper which had concealed the lower portion of his face, and disclosed—all haggard, unwashed, and unshaven, the features of flash Toby Crackit.
"How are you, Fagey?" said the worthy, nodding to the Jew. "Pop that shawl away in my castor. Dodger, so that I may know where to find it when I cut; that's the time of day! You'll be a fine young cracksman afore the old file now."
With these words he pulled up the smock-