‘This,’ said the man: ’I saw
three boys: two others and the prisoner here:
loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this
gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed
by another boy. I saw it done; and I saw that
this boy was perfectly amazed and stupified by it.’
Having by this time recovered a little breath, the
worthy book-stall keeper proceeded to relate, in a
more coherent manner the exact circumstances of the
robbery.
‘Why didn’t you come here before?’
said Fang, after a pause.
‘I hadn’t a soul to mind the shop,’
replied the man. ’Everybody who could
have helped me, had joined in the pursuit. I
could get nobody till five minutes ago; and I’ve
run here all the way.’
‘The prosecutor was reading, was he?’
inquired Fang, after another pause.
‘Yes,’ replied the man. ‘The
very book he has in his hand.’
‘Oh, that book, eh?’ said Fang.
‘Is it paid for?’
‘No, it is not,’ replied the man, with
a smile.
‘Dear me, I forgot all about it!’ exclaimed
the absent old gentleman, innocently.
‘A nice person to prefer a charge against a
poor boy!’ said Fang, with a comical effort
to look humane. ’I consider, sir, that
you have obtained possession of that book, under very
suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you
may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of
the property declines 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!’ cried the old gentleman,
bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long,
‘d—n me! I’ll—’
‘Clear the office!’ said the magistrate.
’Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!’
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow
was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the
bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect phrenzy
of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and
his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver
Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt
unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his
face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing
his whole frame.
‘Poor boy, poor boy!’ said Mr. Brownlow,
bending over him. ’Call a coach, somebody,
pray. Directly!’
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully
laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat
himself on the other.
‘May I accompany you?’ said the book-stall
keeper, looking in.
‘Bless me, yes, my dear sir,’ said Mr.
Brownlow quickly. ’I forgot you.
Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still!
Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no
time to lose.’
The book-stall keeper got into the coach; and away
they drove.
IN WHICH OLIVER IS TAKEN BETTER CARE OF THAN HE EVER
WAS BEFORE. AND IN WHICH THE NARRATIVE REVERTS
TO THE MERRY OLD GENTLEMAN AND HIS YOUTHFUL FRIENDS.
