He stood, for a moment,with the blood so tingling through all his veins from terror,that he felt as if he were in a burning fire; then,confused and frightened, he took to his heels; and,not knowing what he did,made off as fast as he could lay his feet to the ground.
This was all done in a minute’s space.In the very instant when Oliver began to run,the old gentleman, putting his hand to his pocket,and missing his handkerchief, turned sharp round.Seeing the boy scudding away at such a rapid pace,he very naturally concluded him to be the depredator;and shouting “Stop thief!” with all his might, made off after him, book in hand.
But the old gentleman was not the only person who raised the hue-and-cry.The Dodger and Master Bates,unwilling to attract public attention by running down the open street,had merely retired into the very first doorway round the corner.They no sooner heard the cry, and saw Oliver running,than, guessing exactly how the matter stood,they issued forth with great promptitude; and,shouting “Stop thief!” too, joined in the pursuit like good citizens.
Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers,he was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom that self-preservation is the first law of nature. If he had been, perhaps he would have been prepared for this. Not being prepared, however, it alarmed him the more; so away he went like the wind, with the old gentleman and the two boys roaring and shouting behind him.
“Stop thief!Stop thief!” There is a magic in the sound.The tradesman leaves his counter,and the car-man his waggon;the butcher throws down his tray; the baker his basket;the milkman his pail; the errand-boy his parcels;the school-boy his marbles; the paviour his pickaxe;the child his battledore. Away they run, pell-mell,helter-skelter, slap-dash: tearing, yelling, screaming,knocking down the passengers as they turn the corners,rousing up the dogs, and astonishing the fowls:and streets, squares, and courts,re-echo with the sound.
“Stop thief!Stop thief!” The cry is taken up by a hundred voices,and the crowd accumulate at every turning.Away they fly, splashing through the mud,and rattling along the pavements: up go the windows,out run the people, onward bear the mob,a whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot,and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout,and lend fresh vigour to the cry, “Stop thief!Stop thief!”
“Stop thief!Stop thief!” There is a passion _for hunting something_ deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. “Stop thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last!A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement;and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer,jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little air!” “Nonsense!he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here he is, coming down the street.” “Make room there for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust,and bleeding from the mouth,looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him,when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”
“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“_I_ did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow,stepping forward; “and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth._I_ stopped him, sir.”
The fellow touched his hat with a grin,expecting something for his pains; but,the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike,look anxiously round,as if he contemplated running away himself:which it is very possible he might have attempted to do,and thus have afforded another chase,had not a police officer (who is generally the last person to arrive in such cases) at that moment made his way through the crowd, and seized Oliver by the collar.
“Come, get up,” said the man, roughly.
“It wasn’t me indeed, sir. Indeed, indeed,it was two other boys,” said Oliver,clasping his hands passionately, and looking round.“They are here somewhere.”
“Oh no, they ain’t,” said the officer.He meant this to be ironical, but it was true besides;for the Dodger and Charley Bates had filed off down the first convenient court they came to.
“Come, get up!”
“Don’t hurt him,” said the old gentleman, compassionately.
“Oh no, I won’t hurt him,” replied the officer,tearing his jacket half off his back, in proof thereof.“Come, I know you; it won’t do.Will you stand upon your legs, you young devil?”
Oliver, who could hardly stand,made a shift to raise himself on his feet,and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar,at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side;and as many of the crowd as could achieve the feat,got a little ahead,and stared back at Oliver from time to time.The boys shouted in triumph; and on they went.
CHAPTER XI. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE;AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE
The offence had been committed within the district,and indeed in the immediate neighborhood of,a very notorious metropolitan police office.The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton Hill, when he was led beneath a low archway, and up a dirty court, into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand.
“What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly.
“A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge.
“Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys.
“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman;“but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief.I—I would rather not press the case.”
“Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows!”
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched; and nothing being found upon him, locked up.
This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar,only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty;for it was Monday morning;and it had been tenanted by six drunken people,who had been locked up, elsewhere,since Saturday night. But this is little.In our station-houses,men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any one who doubts this, compare the two.
The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock. He turned with a sigh to the book, which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance.
“There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away,tapping his chin with the cover of the book,in a thoughtful manner;“something that touches and interests me._Can_ he be innocent?He looked like— Bye the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly,and staring up into the sky, “Bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”