Oliver, who could hardly stand, made a shift to raise himself upon his feet, and was at once lugged along the streets by the jacket-collar at a rapid pace. The gentleman walked on with them by the officer’s side; and as many of the crowd as could, got a little a-head, and stared back at Oliver from time to time. The boys shouted in triumph, and on they went. CHAPTER XI. TREATS OF MR. FANG THE POLICE MAGISTRATE, AND FURNISHES A SLIGHT SPECIMEN OF HIS MODE OF ADMINISTERING JUSTICE. THE offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighbourhood of a very notorious metropolitan police office. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets, and down a place called Mutton-hill, when he was led beneath a low arch-way, and up a dirty court into this dispensary of summary justice, by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand. “What’s the matter now?” said the man carelessly. “A young fogle-hunter,” replied the man who had Oliver in charge. “Are you the party that’s been robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys. “Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not sure that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would rather not press the case.” “Must go before the magistrate now, sir,” replied the man. “His worship will be disengaged in half a minute. Now, young gallows.” This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door which he unlocked as he spoke, and which led into a stone cell. Here he was searched, and, nothing being found upon him, locked up. This cell was in shape and size something like an area cellar, only not so light. It was most intolerably dirty, for it was Monday morning, and it had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up elsewhere since Saturday night. But this is nothing. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial _charges_—the word is worth noting—in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let any man who doubts this, compare the two. The old gentleman looked almost as rueful as Oliver when the key grated in the lock; and turned with a sigh to the book which had been the innocent cause of all this disturbance. “There is something in that boy’s face,” said the old gentleman to himself as he walked slowly away, tapping his chin with the cover of the book in a thoughtful manner, “something that touches and interests me. _Can_ he be innocent? He looked like— By the bye,” exclaimed the old gentleman, halting very abruptly, and staring up into the sky, “God bless my soul!—where have I seen something like that look before?”