“What!” exclaimed the old gentleman, reddening.

“Swear this person!” said Fang to the clerk. “I'll not bear another word. Swear him.”

Mr. Brownlow's indignation was greatly roused; but reflecting perhaps, 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 bookstall – ” Mr. Brownlow began.

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where's the policeman? Here, swear this policeman. 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, man, 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 jailor coughed very loud, just at the right moment; and the former dropped a heavy book upon 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 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?” demanded Mr. Fang. “Officer, what's his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff 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.