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.