LITMIR.BIZ

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old gentleman bowed respectfully, and, advancing to the magistrate's desk, said, suiting the action to the word, "That is my name and address, sir." He then withdrew a pace or two; and, with another polite and gentlemanly inclination of the head, waited to be questioned.

      Now, it so happened that Mr. Fang was at that moment perusing a leading article in a newspaper of the morning, adverting to some recent decision of his, and commending him, for the three hundred and fiftieth 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 gentleman pointed with some surprise to his card.

      "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, tossing the card contemptuously away with the newspaper, "who is this fellow?"

      "My name, sir," said the old gentleman, speaking like a gentleman, and consequently in strong contrast to Mr. Fang, – "my name, sir, is Brownlow. Permit me to inquire the name of the magistrate who offers a gratuitous and unprovoked insult to a respectable man, under the protection of the bench." Saying this, Mr. Brownlow looked round the office as if in search of some person who would afford him the required information.

      "Officer!" said Mr. Fang, throwing the paper on one side, "what's this fellow charged with?"

      "He's not charged at all, your worship," replied the officer. "He appears against the boy, your worship."

      His worship knew this perfectly well; but it was a good annoyance, and a safe one.

      "Appears against the boy, does he?" said Fang, surveying Mr. Brownlow contemptuously from head to foot. "Swear him."

      "Before I am sworn I must beg to say one word," said Mr. Brownlow; "and that is, that I never, without actual experience, could have believed – "

      "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang peremptorily.

      "I will not, sir!" replied the spirited old gentleman.

      "Hold your tongue this instant, or I'll have you turned out of the office!" said Mr. Fang. "You're an insolent impertinent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!"

      "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

      "Swear this person!" said Fang to the clerk. "I'll not hear another word. Swear him!"

      Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but, reflecting that he might only injure the boy by giving vent to it, he suppressed his feelings, and submitted to be sworn at once.

      "Now," said Fang, "what's the charge against this boy? What have you got to say, sir?"

      "I was standing at a book-stall – " Mr. Brownlow began.

      "Hold your tongue, sir!" said Mr. Fang. "Policeman! – where's the policeman? Here, swear this man. Now, policeman, what is this?"

      The policeman with becoming humility related how he had taken the charge, how he had searched Oliver and found nothing on his person; and how that was all he knew about it.

      "Are there any witnesses?" inquired Mr. Fang.

      "None, your worship," replied the policeman.

      Mr. Fang sat silent for some minutes, and then, turning round to the prosecutor, said, in a towering passion,

      "Do you mean to state what your complaint against this boy is, fellow, or do you not? You have been sworn. Now, if you stand there, refusing to give evidence, I'll punish you for disrespect to the bench; I will, by – "

      By what, or by whom, nobody knows, for the clerk and jailer coughed very loud just at the right moment, and the former dropped a heavy book on the floor; thus preventing the word from being heard – accidentally, of course.

      With many interruptions, and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow contrived to state his case; observing that, in the surprise of the moment, he had run after the boy because he saw him running away, and expressing his hope that, if the magistrate should believe him, although not actually the thief, to be connected with thieves, he would deal as leniently with him as justice would allow.

      "He has been hurt already," said the old gentleman in conclusion. "And I fear," he added, with great energy, looking towards the bar, – "I really fear that he is very ill."

      "Oh! yes; I dare say!" said Mr. Fang, with a sneer. "Come; none of your tricks here, you young vagabond; they won't do. What's your name?"

      Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale, and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

      "What's your name, you hardened scoundrel?" thundered Mr. Fang. "Officer, what's his name?"

      This was addressed to a bluff old fellow in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question, and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence, he hazarded a guess.

      "He says his name's Tom White, your worship," said this kind-hearted thief-taker.

      "Oh, he won't speak out, won't he?" said Fang. "Very well, very well. Where does he live?"

      "Where he can, your worship," replied the officer, again pretending to receive Oliver's answer.

      "Has he any parents?" inquired Mr. Fang.

      "He says they died in his infancy, your worship," replied the officer, hazarding the usual reply.

      At this point of the inquiry Oliver raised his head, and, looking round with imploring eyes, murmured a feeble prayer for a draught of water.

      "Stuff and nonsense!" said Mr. Fang; "don't try to make a fool of me."

      "I think he really is ill, your worship," remonstrated the officer.

      "I know better," said Mr. Fang.

      "Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; "he'll fall down."

      "Stand away, officer," cried Fang savagely; "let him if he likes."

      Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell heavily to the floor in a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to stir.

      "I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were incontestable proof of the fact. "Let him lie; he'll soon be tired of that."

      "How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?" inquired the clerk in a low voice.

      "Summarily," replied Mr. Fang. "He stands committed for three months, – hard labour of course. Clear the office."

      The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man of decent but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed hastily into the office, and advanced to the bench.

      "Stop, stop, – don't take him away, – for Heaven's sake stop a moment," cried the new-comer, breathless with haste.

      Although the presiding geniuses in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives of his Majesty's subjects, especially of the poorer class, and although within such walls enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels weep thick tears of blood, they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.

      "What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office," cried Mr. Fang.

      "I will speak," cried the man; "I will not be turned out, – I saw it all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You dare not refuse, sir."

      The man was right. His manner was bold and determined, and the matter was growing rather too serious to be hushed up.

      "Swear the fellow," growled Fang with a very ill grace. "Now, man, what have you got to say?"

      "This," said the man: "I saw three boys – two others and the prisoner here – loitering on the

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