“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 eye, 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 still louder shouts, and whoop and scream with joy “Stop thief!”—Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy! Stopped at last. A clever blow that. 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, and made this reply to their anxious inquiries. “Yes,” said the gentleman in a benevolent voice, “I am afraid it is.” “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 gain’ 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 disgust, looked anxiously round, as if he contemplated running away himself: which it is very possible he might have attempted to do, and thus 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?”