Cruikshank, George, 1792-1878; Illustration of books -- Great Britain -- 19th century; Watercolor painting, British
Messrs. Blathers and Duff looked at Mr. Giles, as he was thus
recommended to their notice. The bewildered butler gazed from them
towards Oliver, and from Oliver towards Mr. Losberne, with a most
ludicrous mixture of fear and perplexity.
‘You don’t mean to deny that, I suppose?’ said the doctor, laying
Oliver gently down again.
‘It was all done for the--for the best, sir,’ answered Giles. ‘I am
sure I thought it was the boy, or I wouldn’t have meddled with him.
I am not of an inhuman disposition, sir.’
‘Thought it was what boy?’ inquired the senior officer.
‘The housebreaker’s boy, sir!’ replied Giles. ‘They--they certainly
had a boy.’
‘Well? Do you think so now?’ inquired Blathers.
‘Think what, now?’ replied Giles, looking vacantly at his
questioner.
‘Think it’s the same boy, Stupid-head?’ rejoined Blathers,
impatiently.
‘I don’t know; I really don’t know,’ said Giles, with a rueful
countenance. ‘I couldn’t swear to him.’
‘What do you think?’ asked Mr. Blathers.
‘I don’t know what to think,’ replied poor Giles. ‘I don’t think it
is the boy; indeed, I’m almost certain that it isn’t. You know it
can’t be.’
‘Has this man been a-drinking, sir?’ inquired Blathers, turning to
the doctor.
‘What a precious muddle-headed chap you are!’ said Duff, addressing
Mr. Giles, with supreme contempt.
Mr. Losberne had been feeling the patient’s pulse during this
short dialogue; but he now rose from the chair by the bedside, and
remarked, that if the officers had any doubts upon the subject, they
would perhaps like to step into the next room, and have Brittles
before them.
Acting upon this suggestion, they adjourned to a neighbouring
apartment, where Mr. Brittles, being called in, involved himself
and his respected superior in such a wonderful maze of fresh
contradictions and impossibilities, as tended to throw no particular
light on anything, but the fact of his own strong mystification;
except, indeed, his declarations that he shouldn’t know the real
boy, if he were put before him that instant; that he had only taken
Oliver to be he, because Mr. Giles had said he was; and that Mr.
Giles had, five minutes previously, admitted in the kitchen, that he
began to be very much afraid he had been a little too hasty.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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