Oliver Twist
TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE; AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
The had been the district, and in the neighborhood of, a very police office. The had only the of Oliver through two or three streets, and a place called Mutton Hill, when he was a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this of justice, by the way. It was a small into which they turned; and here they a man with a of on his face, and a of keys in his hand.
“What’s the now?” said the man carelessly.
“A fogle-hunter,” the man who had Oliver in charge.
“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” the man with the keys.
“Yes, I am,” the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would not press the case.”
“Must go the now, sir,” the man. “His will be in a minute. Now, gallows!”
This was an for Oliver to enter through a door which he as he spoke, and which into a cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being upon him, locked up.
This was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most dirty; for it was Monday morning; and it had been by six people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and are every night on the most charges—the word is noting—in dungeons, with which, those in Newgate, by the most felons, tried, guilty, and under of death, are palaces. Let any one who this, the two.
The old looked almost as as Oliver when the key in the lock. He with a to the book, which had been the of all this disturbance.
“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old to himself as he walked slowly away, his with the of the book, in a manner; “something that touches and me. Can he be innocent? He looked like—Bye the bye,” the old gentleman, very abruptly, and up into the sky, “Bless my soul!—where have I something like that look before?”
After for some minutes, the old walked, with the same face, into a opening from the yard; and there, retiring into a corner, called up his mind’s a of over which a had for many years. “No,” said the old gentleman, his head; “it must be imagination.”
He over them again. He had called them into view, and it was not easy to replace the that had so long them. There were the of friends, and foes, and of many that had been almost from the crowd; there were the of and girls that were now old women; there were that the had and closed upon, but which the mind, to its power, still in their old and beauty, calling the of the eyes, the of the smile, the of the through its of clay, and of the tomb, but to be heightened, and taken from earth only to be set up as a light, to a soft and upon the path to Heaven.
But the old no one of which Oliver’s a trace. So, he a over the he awakened; and being, for himself, an old gentleman, them again in the pages of the book.
He was by a touch on the shoulder, and a from the man with the keys to him into the office. He closed his book hastily; and was at once into the presence of the Mr. Fang.
The office was a parlour, with a wall. Mr. Fang sat a bar, at the upper end; and on one the door was a of pen in which little Oliver was already deposited; very much at the of the scene.
Mr. Fang was a lean, long-backed, stiff-necked, middle-sized man, with no great quantity of hair, and what he had, on the and of his head. His was stern, and much flushed. If he were not in the of more than was good for him, he might have action against his for libel, and have damages.
The old respectfully; and to the magistrate’s desk, said, the action to the word, “That is my name and address, sir.” He then a or two; and, with another and of the head, waited to be questioned.
Now, it so that Mr. Fang was at that moment a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, to some of his, and him, for the three hundred and time, to the special and particular notice of the Secretary of State for the Home Department. He was out of temper; and he looked up with an angry scowl.
“Who are you?” said Mr. Fang.
The old pointed, with some surprise, to his card.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, the card away with the newspaper. “Who is this fellow?”
“My name, sir,” said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, “my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to the name of the who offers a and to a person, under the protection of the bench.” Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked around the office as if in search of some person who would him the information.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, the paper on one side, “what’s this with?”
“He’s not at all, your worship,” the officer. “He against this boy, your worship.”
His this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.
“Appears against the boy, he?” said Mr. Fang, Mr. Brownlow from to foot. “Swear him!”
“Before I am sworn, I must to say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow; “and that is, that I never, without experience, have believed—”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” said Mr. Fang, peremptorily.
“I will not, sir!” the old gentleman.
“Hold your this instant, or I’ll have you out of the office!” said Mr. Fang. “You’re an fellow. How you a magistrate!”
“What!” the old gentleman, reddening.
“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I’ll not another word. Swear him.”
Mr. Brownlow’s was roused; but perhaps, that he might only the boy by to it, he his and submitted to be at once.
“Now,” said Fang, “what’s the against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?”
“I was at a bookstall—” Mr. Brownlow began.
“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where’s the policeman? Here, this policeman. Now, policeman, what is this?”
The policeman, with humility, related how he had taken the charge; how he had Oliver, and nothing on his person; and how that was all he about it.
“Are there any witnesses?” Mr. Fang.
“None, your worship,” the policeman.
Mr. Fang sat for some minutes, and then, to the prosecutor, said in a passion.
“Do you to what your against this boy is, man, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you there, to give evidence, I’ll you for to the bench; I will, by—”
By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the and very loud, just at the right moment; and the a book upon the floor, thus the word from being heard—accidently, of course.
With many interruptions, and insults, Mr. Brownlow to his case; that, in the of the moment, he had after the boy he had saw him away; and his that, if the should him, although not actually the thief, to be with the thieves, he would as with him as would allow.
“He has been already,” said the old in conclusion. “And I fear,” he added, with great energy, looking the bar, “I that he is ill.”
“Oh! yes, I say!” said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. “Come, none of your here, you vagabond; they won’t do. What’s your name?”
Oliver to reply but his failed him. He was pale; and the whole place and round.
“What’s your name, you scoundrel?” Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”
This was to a old fellow, in a waistcoat, who was by the bar. He over Oliver, and the inquiry; but him of the question; and that his not would only the the more, and add to the of his sentence; he a guess.
“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kind-hearted thief-taker.
“Oh, he won’t speak out, won’t he?” said Fang. “Very well, very well. Where he live?”
“Where he can, your worship,” the officer; again to Oliver’s answer.
“Has he any parents?” Mr. Fang.
“He says they died in his infancy, your worship,” the officer: the reply.
At this point of the inquiry, Oliver his head; and, looking with eyes, a prayer for a of water.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Mr. Fang: “don’t try to make a of me.”
“I think he is ill, your worship,” the officer.
“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.
“Take of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, his hands instinctively; “he’ll down.”
“Stand away, officer,” Fang; “let him, if he likes.”
Oliver himself of the permission, and to the in a fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one to stir.
“I he was shamming,” said Fang, as if this were proof of the fact. “Let him there; he’ll soon be of that.”
“How do you to with the case, sir?” the in a low voice.
“Summarily,” Mr. Fang. “He for three months—hard of course. Clear the office.”
The door was opened for this purpose, and a of men were preparing to the boy to his cell; when an man of but appearance, in an old of black, into the office, and the bench.
“Stop, stop! don’t take him away! For Heaven’s stop a moment!” the new comer, with haste.
Although the Genii in such an office as this, a and power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives, of Her Majesty’s subjects, of the class; and although, such walls, are daily played to make the with weeping; they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press.[Footnote: Or were virtually, then.] Mr. Fang was not a little to see an guest enter in such disorder.
“What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office!” Mr. Fang.
“I will speak,” the man; “I will not be out. I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must me. You must not refuse, sir.”
The man was right. His manner was determined; and the was too to be up.
“Swear the man,” Mr. Fang, with a very grace. “Now, man, what have you got to say?”
“This,” said the man: “I saw three boys: two others and the here: on the opposite of the way, when this was reading. The was by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that this boy was perfectly and by it.” Having by this time a little breath, the book-stall to relate, in a more manner the exact of the robbery.
“Why didn’t you come here before?” said Fang, after a pause.
“I hadn’t a to mind the shop,” the man. “Everybody who have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve here all the way.”
“The was reading, was he?” Fang, after another pause.
“Yes,” the man. “The very book he has in his hand.”
“Oh, that book, eh?” said Fang. “Is it paid for?”
“No, it is not,” the man, with a smile.
“Dear me, I all about it!” the old gentleman, innocently.
“A person to a against a boy!” said Fang, with a to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have of that book, under very and circumstances; and you may think very that the owner of the property to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”
“D—n me!” the old gentleman, out with the he had so long, “d—n me! I’ll—”
“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!”
The was obeyed; and the Mr. Brownlow was out, with the book in one hand, and the in the other: in a perfect of and defiance. He the yard; and his in a moment. Little Oliver Twist on his on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples with water; his a white; and a cold his whole frame.
“Poor boy, boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, over him. “Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!”
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been on the seat, the old got in and sat himself on the other.
“May I you?” said the book-stall keeper, looking in.
“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I you. Dear, dear! I have this book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.”
The book-stall got into the coach; and away they drove.
