looked down on Oliver with a thoughtful countenance for a brief space, and then, raising his head, and heaving a gentle sigh, said, half in abstraction, and half to Master Bates,
"What a pity it is he isn't a prig!"
"Ah!" said Master Charles Bates; "he don't know what's good for him."
The Dodger sighed again, and resumed his pipe, as did Charley Bates. They both smoked for some seconds in silence.
"I suppose you don't even know what a prig is?" said the Dodger mournfully.
"I think I know that," replied Oliver, hastily looking up. "It's a th—; you're one, are you not?" inquired Oliver, checking himself.
"I am," replied the Dodger. "I'd scorn to be anythink else." Mr. Dawkins gave his hat a ferocious cock after delivering this sentiment, and looked at Master Bates as if to denote that he would feel obliged by his saying anything to the contrary. "I am," repeated the Dodger; "so's Charley, so's Fagin, so's Sikes, so's Nancy, so's Bet, so we all are, down
