Chapter Ten – Fagin's Boys (And That Dog)

They survived that winter and the next, and numbers in the gang had soon risen by a considerable amount. Food was scarcer than it had been when it was just Fagin and Bill by themselves (as was the gin) but the boys brought back enough for ever decreasing amounts of food in the larder not to be much of an issue.

At their head there was Bill, now twelve years of age, the oldest, strongest and most experienced of the lot. None of the other boys dared cross him, as was often demonstrated by Morris; you didn't want to get in Bill's bad books. As the months wore on it became clear to them all that Bill was one to be idolized; he was smart, swift, strong and sharp tongued, and all the boys regarded him as the epitome of brilliance, which suited him just fine.

After Bill there was Morris. Over the course of two years he'd hardly changed; he was still Bill's rival for the position of Fagin's 'right hand' pickpocket, although there was no indication of Bill renouncing the title any time soon. Even despite their rivalry, Morris did try to appease Bill on occasion (if only to avoid being beaten up).

The next member of the gang after Morris was a short but stocky boy of eleven with a shock of red hair and a face full of freckles. His name was Jeremy and he was probably Bill's biggest fan. He made the mistake of following the older boy around like an irritating puppy, constantly bombarding him with questions and praise. Even Fagin found Jeremy's chatterbox ways irksome.

Then came the two ten year olds, Norman and Frankie, both as hyperactive and tiresome as young children can be; yelling, squealing, shrieking, irritating each other (and everyone else)… Luckily for Bill the pair of them swore fierce loyalty to him and instead took delight in torturing Morris; they delighted in pulling pranks and making stupid jokes that no-one but themselves could understand.

Finally, thus far at least, there was Ezra. He wasn't like any other member of the gang, most of the time he was in a world of his own creation, and no-one was quite sure what to make of him. He took a great liking to Fagin's rather sorry looking stuffed owl and took to carrying it around with him, talking to it in a hushed voice and feeding it scraps from his plate at mealtimes. He was the newest and youngest member of the gang at eight years of age; quiet, gentle and soft-spoken.

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It was a cool and blustery morning in late spring of the gang's third year. Breakfast as usual; Bill eating little and drinking heavily from his mug of gin, Morris poking fun at him at every opportunity, Norman and Frankie engaged in childishly throwing scraps of bread at Morris from their seats opposite him. Jeremy was sat on Bill's left, attempting in vain to copy Bill's drinking habits, while Ezra sat a little apart from the rest, the stuffed owl as ever wedged in beside him, which he was attempting to ply with a slice of bacon.

"'Ey Morris, you workin' in a bakery part time or summink? You've got crumbs all over ya!" Frankie piped up, tossing another crumb deftly at the aforementioned boy's head. Norman laughed heartily and took another swig of gin and water, while Morris glowered at the pair of them.

Bill rolled his eyes and poured himself another mug of gin, Jeremy scrutinizing his every move until Bill dealt him an irritated smack to the back of the head, causing the shorter lad to gain a much bigger interest in the tabletop.

Fagin, of course, reprimanded Bill for hitting Jeremy, Bill snarled something back, Jeremy slunk as discreetly as possible from the table, Norman and Frankie stopped giggling long enough to be privy to the conversation, and Morris ducked behind his mug of gin, lest he be the next target of Bill's fury. Ezra, as ever, remained completely unaware, wandering off absentmindedly while Bill and Fagin growled at each other to fetch his cap (and place it on the owl's head).

The argument between the two senior members of the gang was averted by Jeremy's frank observation that time was getting on and soon all six boys (sans the owl) were hitching their usual rides from the Cripples towards the centre of town.

It was a good day for business, with plenty of people out and about. The gang split up as they did every day; Norman and Frankie, aided by Ezra, were on grub duty, whilst the others hunted for prime plants and rich pickings.

Bill soon had six handkerchiefs and five wallets, a small, plain snuffbox and a pocketwatch. He was pleased but, all the same, he couldn't shake off the feeling that he was being watched. He knew it wasn't Fagin; he was at home doing whatever he did when they went out or off seeing one of his many acquaintances. So who could it be?

Bill looked over his shoulder having just snagged the pocketwatch, seeing nothing out of the ordinary save for a small white bulldog, with wide, staring eyes and a brown patch on his back, its legs slightly bent with the weight of its barrel-like body. He ignored it and walked on, only to see it again after pinching his seventh handkerchief of the day.

It soon became clear that the dog was following him; something Bill wasn't particularly pleased about. Even when he stopped work for a bit to get himself a bite of lunch, the dog was still there, staring solemnly at him with its large, glassy eyes.

Needless to say, young Sykes found this unnerving and tried to get the dog to leave him be (violently, of course). But no matter what he tried, the dog would not back away, even going so far as to lick Bill's hand as he tried to push it away.

Irritated, Bill tried to ignore the dog as he made his way back to the coach station. He had more than enough to warrant coming back early. Yet even then the dog pursued him, barking and yelping happily as it chased the coach back to the Cripples.

It followed Bill from the tavern all the way to Fagin's where, as luck would have it, Fagin, Ezra and Norman were grouped about the table engaged in discussion. As Bill closed the door behind him and made his way over, the dog was at his heels, wagging its tail.

"Wot the 'eck is tha' Bill?" asked Norman, gesturing to the dog.

"It's a dog," Ezra said quietly, talking more to the stuffed owl than anyone else.

"'Course it's a dog! Wot I mean is, wot's it doin' 'ere?"

"He has a point, my dear," Fagin chimed in, his brow furrowed. "Why have you brought a dog back, of all things?"

"For Gawd's sake!" snapped Bill, glowering at the dog and then at the assembled group. "The flippin' mutt followed me 'ere, alright?"

Norman let out a cackle of laughter but was quickly silenced by a glare from Bill. There was an awkward pause, which was only broken by the thump of the dog's tail on the floor.

"Can we keep it Mister Fagin? Please?" asked Ezra, casting his benefactor a plaintative glance. It was one of the longest sentences he'd ever strung together when not in conference with the owl, and it startled all of them.

"Um…" said Fagin, biting his lip.

Right on cue, the other boys returned from the day's work. Frankie almost collided with Morris, who was staring at the dog as if afraid it would attack him. The dog seemed to like all the attention it was getting.

"Can we keep it Fagin?" asked Jeremy suddenly; he approached the dog and began stroking it, the dog licking his face affectionately in return.

"Um…" said Fagin again.

He was soon accosted on all sides by cries of assent from the other boys (all except Morris who still looked scared and Bill himself, who looked like he wanted to kill the dumb animal; for once the two of them were agreed on something).

"Majority wins, I'm afraid my dears," Fagin said, with an apologetic glance in Bill and Morris' direction. "We're a democracy, ain't we? The dog can stay…but you lot must get its food and clean up after it, y'hear?"

This was followed by a cheer from the gang's younger members who were soon crowded around the dog, chattering away like canaries let out of a cage.

"We gotta name it though!"

"Yeah, Fagin's Boy's can't 'ave a dog wivout a name!"

"Reckon when it 'as a name Fagin'll let it be our mascot?"

Bill was seriously considering bashing his head against the wall by this point; what were they rabbiting on about? Naming that thing? Were they all mad?

"'Ow about callin' it Spt, cos of that patch on its back?"

"Nah, tha's borin'!"

"You come up wiv a better idea!"

"We could call it Bull's-Eye!"

Everyone stopped babbling as Ezra piped up yet again. They weren't used to him saying so much, and yet he had a very good point. Bull's-Eye suited the dog, for reason's no-one quite understood. The name certainly stuck; as soon as Ezra said it the dog lollopped over to him and began nuzzling at his hand.

"Bull's-Eye it is!" cried Frankie triumphantly.

"Oh Gawd…" groaned Bill.

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A/N: Hope you all liked this chapter my dears! =) Bull's-Eye, as Katarina Sparrow says, is oft underappreciated, so I likewise felt he deserved his own chapter.

Please R&R! ^^