December 17, 1828
. . . The next morning, I awoke and found Fagin cooking breakfast.
"Feeling better?" I asked him.
"Yes, my dear; perfectly normal," he grinned at me.
"I'm still really so. . ."
"Never mind, my dear. I am overlooking it. Don't even try to repay me," he stirred a pot of oatmeal. After a couple of minutes, he stopped, "Want to see something?" he walked over (a little weakly, I noticed) and handed me a piece of paper. Written on it, with sloppy handwriting, was:
BOOM! goes a bomb,
Umbrellas are yellow,
Please forgive Tom,
He's such a worthy fellow.
P.S. (although, if you think otherwise, don't shoot him in the house) - Love, Charlie
"He left it on the bed, my dear. Must have snuck down here last night," Fagin grinned.
"That's clever," I replied, "need any help with breakfast?"
"Oh no, my dear. It's practically ready."
Five minutes later, everyone was eating breakfast as usual. None of the boys seemed bothered or nervous. We ate, laughed at Charlie's jokes, read bits of the morning newspaper, and even did the dishes together - all without any reference to the happenings of the prier night.
"Ready to go, Charlie?" Dodge asked his friend once the dishes were done.
"Why don't you relax today, my dears?" Fagin interrupted, kindly, "Have a holiday."
All the boys looked at one another in shock. What was Fagin talking about? Holidays? What happened to profits and plunder?
"What about work?" Dodge seemed almost put out by this sudden oddity and loosening of the rules.
"Go out and do some shopping or something . . . Christmas is coming. I'm tired of you all whining every year about having no presents, my dears. Now go! Shoo!"
All the boys, except the Dodger, left the room.
"You coming, Dodge?" asked Charlie, waiting in the doorway.
Dodge sighed and shrugged his shoulders, "Yeah."
The two of them went out into the passage and Charlie began to give Dodge all sorts of gift ideas, "You could get me a new jacket, my own snuff box, a beer-making kit . . ," his voice faded as they left the house.
"Should I go, too?" I was unsure about leaving or staying, but I had to go to work.
"Stay, my dear. I need you; Bill will be coming over this morning and I want you here when he shows up."
Oh great. Now, he was going to have me murder Bill in the kitchen. I really proved my skills last night . . .
It is a short one, but, once again, important. We are getting closer to the end, now. A little sad, but all things must end sometime. Please review! - Elaine Dawkins