The Artful Dodger

5. The Yankee Dodge

Dawkins stood at the table where the failed surgery had happened that evening, in which an extremely drunk professor had nearly operated on Mr. Higgins' swollen leg mass. Stupidly, Dawkins had intervened, thinking he could save the man, and had only made everything worse.

"You shouldn't have intervened, Dawkins," he remembered Sneed saying smugly as Dawkins slowly dropped his hands from where they had been pressed against Mr. Higgins' gushing artery. The bleeding, alongside his breathing, had slowed to a stop. "That'll go on your loss tally."

His loss tally was still lower than Sneed's, but it was piling up. And he hated it.

He squeezed his eyes closed, sorrow and grief wrapping their thick tails around his neck and squeezing, making his throat close up and his eyes water. This was the part of the job that others forgot he had to go through, the part of the job that made it feel as if his very soul was crying out in fiery anguish.

When he opened his eyes, he was thirteen again, being violently dragged down a dark hallway by the scruff of his oversized peacoat. He was thrown into a dank cell, hands skinning against the rough stone floor, a barred window far above the only source of light. Snow drifted in in flurries, sweeping together on the floor where rats scurried back and forth.

Scrambling to his feet, he lunged for the iron gate of his cell, but it had already slammed closed. The click of the lock resounded throughout the dungeon-like prison, sending prickles of panic dancing down Dawkins' spine. He clutched at the bars.

"Your old pal Fagin can't save you now," the keeper taunted, twirling the large brass key in his hand. A wicked smile twisted around his rotten, crooked teeth. "You's gonna be in here a loooong time, boy. Fifteen years!"

Young Dawkins had sank to the ground, his back against the wall, hopelessness welling in his throat. He was all alone.

It wasn't a few minutes later that he heard familiar whispering by the window, and he recognized Fagin's hissing voice bossing at someone to scoot over. His heart gave a leap of joy as he ran towards the window.

"Fagin?" he called, face breaking into a grin as he saw the old man kneeling by the window alongside several of Dawkins' young, scabby comrades. He laughed with relief, and a huge weight was lifted from his chest; he wouldn't have to spend the rest of his days wasting away in here after all. "Fagin! I knew you wouldn't leave me!"

Fagin's hand, stretched into a glove where the fingertips had long since been torn away, gripped the bars of the window and looked down, only half of his face visible through them.

"I would never do that, Dodge," he said hurriedly, sounding tense. One of the boys looked sharply over his shoulder, keeping watch. "But the thing is, my dear, is that I'm being blamed for a murder I definitely didn't do. We're gonna keep our heads down for the moment. I can't get you out immediately, I've gotta look out for number one."

From the cold depths of the cell, the horrible despair returned, grabbing at Dawkins with strong, greedy hands and dragging him back down. "No!" he pleaded, young voice cracking with emotion. "You can't leave me here! Please!"

"Who's really in prison, eh?" Fagin gave his head a sad shake. "I mean, you got a roof over your head, y'have a meal every once in awhile. Whereas me'n the boys are still chained to the vicissitudes of having to make a living."

Dawkins gave a cry. "Fagin, please---"

"And you'll be a king when you get out of here!" Fagin shouted over him, not seeming keen on listening to what the young prisoner had to say. "Lagged for fifteen years at thirteen, I'm proud of you, boy! You've established a glorious reputation. The gang won't be the same without you."