A/N: In this version Miss Rose is Oliver's cousin and not yet married to Harry Maylie. This takes place about two years following the events of the original story, placing Dodger's age at around 17.

Artless Rose

Chapter I

The Gamble

"No matter whether you believe in luck or chance, the final decision is from yourself."

-Stephen Richards

-.-.-.-

Sydney, Australia – February 27th, 1839

What a magnificent stroke of fortune it was to be walking free once again after a full two years of the finest education to be had! A pleased smirk crossed the face of the formerly known Artful Dodger as he strolled leisurely down the smoothed dirt path towards the neighboring settlement.

He'd ditched his prison attire for something less conspicuous, and carried nothing within his hands but a single apple, which he tossed absently, eyes fixed on the horizon ahead and the setting sun. He'd need to find somewhere to bunker down for the evening.

He'd been venturing for a full day, trying to put some reasonable distance between himself and the cages he'd ditched. It'd all started common enough, they were moving locations in the early morn, the sky all grey and cloudy-like. A lesser man might've taken the weather as a sign on its own, but Dodger had been keenly listening in on some bit of plotting and the rumors whispered when the guards were out of earshot.

Many of his fellows -the indigenous, angry natives that'd been caught only on account of overstepping the restrictions of the land which the high powered British had taken from them— had been covertly contacting their pals on the outside.

And an ambush was arranged.

The window had been small, only allowing a handful of minutes for chaos before the trappers would get backed. So Dodger began planning his own escape as he silently kept to himself. Just listening and seeming ignorant to all the hushed scheming.

It'd been tricky too, no doubt about it. If he'd been caught trying to get away, he'd either be shot dead right there or taken straight to the hanger's noose. But he hadn't earned his nickname for nothing. As soon as the confusion started, a crowd of twelve or so riled Australians ran towards the prison cars, and the guards briefly abandoned their duties to try and quell them, while also sounding the whistle for anyone nearby to offer aid. With a good bit of dynamite then, the caged doors were blown open, and Dodger snuck out right along with the six convicts.

But then he'd plunged and crawled under the car as gunshots rang out at the escapees, several dropping and others being set upon by the gathering crowd, who could most always be relied upon to rush towards and witness any sort of drama in their otherwise uneventful slice of heaven.

And it was through this crowd that Dodger made his escape. The trappers earnestly tried to keep them all back, but were met with quite a humorous bit of resistance. Dodger took advantage of an opening and fell right along in with the hoard, not running or shoving, but smoothly making his way through to an alley corner, where he intended to hide out until everything settled. He couldn't linger though, as the trappers would certainly send out searchers to try and nab the stragglers.

Once the shots settled and he saw four of the escapees lying dead, Dodger backed away, carefully muffling his steps. His priority was to escape the cuffs and get out of his prison clothes. He'd be a walking target otherwise.

He'd set about looking for a slim piece of wiring, anything sharp and slender enough to be used as a pick. The find came to him by way of a barbed wire fence surrounding the perimeter of a cattle den. Hiding behind a trough, he went about untwisting a choice section before shaping the end into a small circle. He inserted it into the lock of his cuffs and nimbly turned and pivoted the handmade pick until a clean snap sounded and his hands were freed. He threw the cuffs into the pasture and then moved away to pursue his next goal.

New clothing.

And that came from a beggar's bundle, left for the evening until its owner would return to sleep. It was only a holed blanket, but it would do. Dodger removed his overcoat and shoes and wrapped the blanket about himself. He then mussed his hair further and used a bit of mud to dirty his skin. No one would really look twice at a beggar.

He moved locations to a darker corner and huddled under the blanket, discarding his jacket and shoes in a hay cart. Adopting a miserable face in all of this was by far the height of his struggle, as a victorious smirk practically demanded he bring it forth for all the world to see.

But he'd wait, bide his time, and then he'd have a good strong laugh when he finally cleared the city limits. And laugh he did, as he was doing just that. When it got dark, and the chaos became nonexistent, he rose, blanket around him still, and made for the slums.

It was where the homeless population gathered around their fires to stay warm during the cold desert night. Dodger looked about for a victim and, once spotted, he threw his blanket over the man before going about taking his pants, jacket and battered shoes. The alcohol on his breath was potent, but a blessing. The slumberer couldn't be less aware.

Dodger swiftly changed, grabbed the hat from the man's head and then strode away, determining to leave the miserable place altogether. He walked right out and onto the long stretch of road, all tiredness warded by his enthusiasm.

He laughed, clear and loud, thrusting his hands into his pockets and looking to the clear sky above. He breathed in and felt a rush of the most indispensable emotion a man could feel: freedom.

And now, here he was, some twenty odd hours later, a bit tired and having finally reached the next settlement. He knew it'd take a fair bit longer for any wanted notices to be posted, and so he had a small amount of time on his side to go about determining an exit strategy.

He needed to leave this continent.

Biting into his apple, he devoured it quickly and then threw it into a bit of bramble shrubbery. He hated Australia. It was too unpredictable. Scorching hot during the day, and blood freezing by night. The plant life was dead and the whole society was painfully uncivilized. He missed London. It was doubtful he could return there anytime soon and, even if he did, he'd have to go into hiding. There'd be bulletins of his face all over the place.

No, he needed to try for a passenger ship. With so many settlers going this way and that, he reasoned it wouldn't be too hard to come by. All he'd need was to somehow scrounge up a ticket. And, to do that, he'd be relying on his reserve of latent skill.

The Artful Dodger was back in business.

He spotted a tavern and made towards it. He thrust open the saloon doors and walked to the counter with his chin held high. The place was horribly dank, but it was what he was used to. Places like this were comfortable. It was loud and lively, and Dodger smirked widely when the tender looked up to acknowledge his arrival.

"Can I get you anythin'?"

"Nothin' by way of a drink just now," Dodger responded as he sat himself on a stool. "But I'll take on some information if y'can offer it."

"Englishman," the bartender responded to his heavy accent. "What sort of information you need?"

"English to my blood," Dodger leaned forward. "An' aimin' to get back. Any word on a passenger sailer?"

"Yer a lucky devil. Two fellas happen to be bettin' a pair of tickets off in that corner there," he indicated the far side of the room. "If yer the gamblin' sort, I'd suggest payin' in and weighing your chances."

Dodger glanced back, a certain slyness taking his eyes as his brows raised. Then, with another look to the bartender, he nodded and tipped his hat. "Luck, indeed. I'm thinkin' I'll do that very thing."

His fingers itched then as he stood and strode across the room, strategically planning his crossing with that of a swaying gent, who ever so conveniently slammed into him. His demeanor turned apologetic and Dodger went about disentangling himself—and the man's generous contribution from the pocket of his coat—and steadying him out with outstretched arms.

"S-sorry," the drunkard slurred.

"No need to trouble yerself, it's no problem at all," he smirked, giving the man a firm pat, before striding to the gambler's circle. "D'yuh s'pose yuh gots room for another player, fellas?"

They looked up at him, weighed him with their eyes, and looked about to refuse until Dodger landed his newly acquired coin purse onto the table. Their expressions turned greedy and he hid his triumphant smirk, instead only staring expectantly down at them.

The burly man to his left kicked the chair out towards him and Dodger smoothly took the seat. Now, he wasn't much for gambling in general, but all he had to do was stick with it long enough for the winner to take a ticket. It would be child's play then as he'd resort to a classic picking of the pockets to claim it as his own.

At least he recognized the game. Poker. Pure and simple. He could stick with it. The dealer slid his stack of cards over and he dropped his contribution to the pile at the center with but a glance to the ticket resting there amongst the lot of valuables.

It was to depart from Sydney at the end of the week and was set for the port of Southampton. He again hid his smirk. Why, it couldn't have been any more perfect if he'd planned it himself! Call it providence, luck, fate, whatever! Some greater power was smiling on him, and he intended to smile right back.

"Fold," he said a short bit after.

His peers poorly hid their delighted grins at his expense. They thought him inexperienced. A young, naïve fool who was ripe for their advantage. It was an all on open robbery. They would play perfectly into his hands though. Dodger knew enough about cards to keep up, and keep up he would. Right to the very end.

As the next hand was dealt, he added more of his coin into the pile, and saw as those tickets were betted back in. He drummed his fingers on the table, determining the next wisest move, before trading in three of his five card draw.

It was nothing pretty, only a pair of tens, but he had to look as if he were making an effort. And so he raised the deck two coins, and he received another set of grins. The others added to the pile and went about showing their hands. When he displayed his, the burly man to his left clapped him on the back.

"Don't get down! Keep at it, lad!"

Dodger glanced to him, forcing a nervous smile. "I reckon I'll get the hang of it 'fore too long."

"You reckon correctly, I declare!"

And the game continued, as Dodger's coin purse dwindled. A couple men got up to leave after a good while, the tickets remaining where they were. It wouldn't be too much longer now. His sharp eyes kept those tickets in sight, and he patiently stuck with the game.

"All in," he declared finally, baiting the others to do the same and finally end it.

They exchanged a swift glance before the burly man nodded and added his remaining valuables to the pile. The ginger-haired gent across from him tried and failed to hide a victorious smile, before doing the same.

Dodger, however, maintained his straight face and revealed his cards. A full house. It'd been a lucky hand for sure, and even he wondered if this little game would actually turn in his favor, making things that much easier.

The burly man sighed, obviously having hoped for a bluff, and threw down his pair of kings. They then looked to the third gentleman who opened up his hand to four of a kind. A definitive, winning hand. Dodger shrugged and shook his head. He faked a look of disappointment.

As the third gentleman moved to collect his winnings, the burly man stood angrily and slammed his hands down on the table. "I aim to see you was cheatin'! Ain't no one that lucky by fate."

"Haven't cheated a day in my life," red responded as he shoved the tickets into his coat pocket and went about placing the coinage into his own purse. "Fate's exactly what it was."

Burly's eyes burned with rage and he hastily grasped red by the collar of his shirt, "I oughta pummel y'for it and take it all for m'self anyhow!"

Dodger glanced between them and recognized an opportunity. This was it. He didn't need to go about following this man or anything of the like at all. This little scuffle would suit his purposes so much better. He saw that the bartender's attention was caught and all eyes were directed to the pair.

And so, falling in behind red, he grasped him firmly and looked to burly sternly. "How's about you two go and take this outside? There ain't nothin' proper 'bout throwin' punches in 'ere." As he was talking, he slipped a hand smoothly into the coat pocket of red and took one of the tickets for himself, as well as the coin purse. "Go on then," he stepped back and nodded towards the door.

Burly shook his head, "this ain't England, lad." Then, having declared his refusal, he swiftly delivered a punch to red's face, sending him flying back. Chaos followed and all around the men hollered and rooted them on. The bartender crossed his arms and shook his head, obviously used to brawling like this.

Dodger only shrugged and turned to saunter across the room. He approached the tender and dropped a coin onto the counter, "I'll take that drink now."

The man nodded and stepped forward, taking the payment and pocketing it. "What'll ye have?"

"Whiskey."

It took him only a moment before he slid the filled glass to Dodger, who took it and swigged the contents before handing it back over.

"Sorry 'bout your luck there with the tickets."

Dodger waved it off, awarding the man a smirk. "I've never been much for luck anyhow. Least not the sort I don't earn for m'self."

"Aye, well said."

The artful tipped his hat to him then, before turning to leave the bar altogether. He observed the scuffle was still in full swing and then continued on his way. Most likely, those men would think they'd lost their belongings in the midst of all the commotion, or that any of the several others might've lifted. However, he still wouldn't risk hanging about to find out.

He intended to put quite a distance between himself and them by the time they roused. He was dead tired, but that wouldn't be enough to keep him. More important things needed attending to. The next part of the plan would require a bit more craft. He had to head back to Sydney, avoid the traps, and catch the passenger ship to England.

He wouldn't worry too much on all that before its time though. For now, all he could do was admit that he might be converting to believing in a bit of luck after all. Sure, he'd taken the tickets of his own accord, but the brawl and even his own prison escape had been incredibly fortunate. Maybe it would stay with him and he'd find himself on that lovely bit of London soil before too long.

Life was all just a big gamble, wasn't it?

To be continued…