Chapter Twenty-Seven – A Winner, A Loser
"Well, well, well my dear…" Fagin said, snatching up the emerald encrusted watch from the table and examining it closely. "This is…well…" He turned the watch over in his hands, examining its face before it was snatched from his grip by Norman.
"Flippin' 'eck! These're real emeralds! Real 'uns!"
The other boys crowded around eagerly, exclaiming their astonishment and incredulity. Even Nancy joined them as they clamoured around the watch; she was astonished at how much he'd managed to bring back, and in such a short space of time! The wallets were all heavily lined, the handkerchiefs without marks and the pocket watches spoke for themselves.
During these proceedings Bill hung back, as immovable as ever, Bulls-Eye on the ground as his heels, chin on his paws. Fagin didn't appear to notice them, nor did anyone else, so enraptured were they by Dodger and his brilliant pick pocketing.
After the initial incredulity and exclamations of delight had worn off, Fagin bustled away to get what he called 'celebratory gin'. Bill would have scoffed at this, he didn't recall any celebratory gin after his first pick pocketing job, or even his first successful housebreaking, but it was gin nevertheless.
When Fagin re-appeared from the alcove with the gin and began pouring glasses, Bill wandered over to join the group, not even trying to hide his obvious dislike of Dodger's prowess as he sat down and snatched up a measure. Norman and Frankie were at Dodger's side, laughing and joking away like anything, still admiring the emerald pocket watch with glee. The gin was doing nothing to quell the gang's excited spirits; soon a bunch of the younger ones were belting out the pickpocket song for all they were worth.
Bill felt a little better when they sung his praises, but not good enough.
He wasn't sure he could explain how he felt…cheated, somehow…robbed. In just one job the Artful Dodger had taken away his loyal admirers and lackeys; instead of deferring him as they once had done they were all eager to get into the new boy's good books. It didn't help that Dodger was thoroughly enjoying the attention, or that Nancy was just as full of praise as the others.
Fagin disappeared again momentarily during these proceedings; when he re-appeared he was bearing a small black top hat proudly in his hands, as if it were the Crown Jewels.
"Here you are my dear," Fagin said, placing the hat reverently on the Dodger's head. "I don't want to be all ceremonial about it, but this is for your hard work today. What good is a thief without a good hat, eh?"
He then tugged his own off his head and bowed low.
"My hat is off to you, my dear. Excellent work today, simply excellent."
The gang cheered and applauded wildly, Norman and Frankie beating their gin mugs on the table and chanting something about hats, proudly waving their own about in the air. Bill was so intent on watching their celebrations with his usual scowl that he didn't notice Nancy was beside him until she spoke.
"Bill? You alright?"
Bill attempted to crack a smile, for her sake, but he couldn't manage even the simplest smirk.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"You don't look it…"
"I told yer, Nance, I'm fine."
Nancy nodded, not sure what else to say. Bill wasn't fine, and she knew it; she could tell by the way his hands were curled into fists, the way his frown never left his face, that nasty glint in his eye. She suddenly felt very guilty; she'd been so excited about Dodger's achievement that she hadn't even praised Bill's work as she always did. Was that why he was upset?
"Bill…your stuff was just as good, honest! He just got more stuff cos e's smaller, yeah? 'E can't 'ouse-break, but you can! An' you can still pick pockets, sorta. An' look, you've got a 'at; it's on your head! Fagin said good thieves 'ave good 'ats; an' you've got one!"
She was desperately saying everything she could think of to try and make Bill feel better, but it was clear the housebreaker was having none of it. He muttered something unintelligible before stalking over to where some of the boys had set up a game of cards.
Nancy sighed dispiritedly, bending down to pet Bulls-Eye (the dog for once had decided not to follow Bill) before following him to the table.
After about half an hour, only Bill and Dodger were still in the game. It was a close game; they were both superb players. But Dodger was winning, even if only narrowly. Most of the boys were egging him on, especially Norman and Frankie, but there were a few rallied behind Bill, Nancy among them.
The Artful Dodger won the game.
If he'd been anyone else, Bill would have considered acknowledging his win with a nod, some small gesture of defeat. After all, it was only cards. But this game hadn't just been about cards, not to Bill. Dodger evidently sensed this, looking guiltily from the cards splayed on the table to Bill's face. Fagin, who had wandered over halfway through the game, looked at Bill too. Everyone did.
Abruptly Bill got to his feet, throwing down his remaining cards. The boys behind him took an involuntary step backwards, as did Nancy. What was he going to do; how could he salvage his wounded pride? Would he fly at Dodger? Would he take his winning from him? Would he-
He did none of these things. Instead, Bill simply stalked away from the table, disappearing to his bed. He could have sworn he heard at least twenty sighs of relief.
He may have been behaving like a complete idiot for all appearances, but he wasn't. Bill Sykes wasn't an idiot, even if he had lost at cards to a boy half his size. He'd had enough; true Nancy had returned to his side during the game of cards, but it was obvious from the way she'd commended Dodger and fawned over that bleeding watch of his…
When Nancy came to her bed later that night, Bill pretended to be asleep. Only when he heard Nancy's soft breathing as she slept did he heave himself from the bed, donning his hat as he did so. He didn't bother waking her for parting words; he'd be back soon enough. Would she even listen to a word he said?
He doubted it.
The main body of the loft was quiet; all the boys who had only hours earlier been so rowdy, now quietly slumbering in moth-eaten blankets. As Bill headed for the door he spotted Dodger's hat, on a peg by the boy's bed. Having battered it sufficiently to make a significant, if not childish impression, he continued as he had done before.
Reaching the door he whistled softly for Bulls-Eye; the dog bounded to his side.
Without a last look back, Bill fled Fagin's den, leaving his dearest companions and treasures behind.
--
When Nancy awoke the following morning, she found Bill's bed empty.
And she wept.
He was gone.
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A/N: Thank you Katarina Sparrow; without you, my dear, this chapter could not have been written (nor this story for that matter!) You are a constant source of inspiration to me; thank you so very much my dear. :3
Please R&R everyone! ^^
