"Take him into custody, p'leeceman," says the baker; "he stole a quartern loaf. Comes into my shop a-beggin', and because I would not give him anythin' he whips up a quartern loaf and bolts with it, but I ran after him and ketched him." Well, I looks at the baker and I looks at the man, and I thinks to myself, "Here's a case." But there was nothin' else for it, so I takes the loaf under my arm, and gets hold of the poor shiverin' crittur, and away we goes with a long train of boys and sech a follerin of us; but what with the bad night and the long ways as we had to go, they soon all drops off, and we goes along together, me and the poor chap, with only the people a lookin' at us as we passed 'em. "P'leeceman," says my prisoner all at once, and it was the first word he had spoken. "P'leeceman," he says, "are you a man?" Well, yer see, sir, I didn't like my job that evenin', for it raly did seem as if the poor chap took the bread because he was a starvin', and he wasn't a common chap neither, and we knows pretty well what sort a feller is by his looks, I can tell yer. So when he says them words in such an appealin' way like, I ain't werry soft, but I didn't like my job half so much as I did afore. However, it don't do for us to be soft, so I says quite chuffy, as if I'd cut up rough-- "What d'yer mean?" I says. "Were you ever hungry--ever famishing?" "Well," I says, "I can't say I ever was, but I've been precious dry." "Ah!" he says, with a sigh as went right through me, for I could see there was no sham in him, and then he hangs down his head and walks on without sayin' a word. He didn't say no more, so I thinks perhaps as he was hungry, and I says, you may as well carry this here loaf, and if it is picked why it don't much matter. Lord, sir, it was a precious good job we weren't in a busy street, for I'm blessed if he didn't ketch hold of my hand with both his and bust out a cryin' just like a child. "Hold up, old chap," I says, "I don't want to be rough with you. Are yer hungry?" "It's those at home," he says, "those at home; but I can't help it, I'm weak--weak--weak." And I'm blessed if he wasn't, sir, so weak that he tottered in his walk, and I could see there was no dodge in him, poor chap. Jest then we comes up to an "All hot" can, "Two or none for a penny," yer knows. Beefsteaks and hot kidney; so I pulls up, makin' believe as I should like one myself, and we has some half-a-dozen I think I bought, and makes him have best part of 'em; but, Lord bless yer, he wouldn't touch 'em, but begs of me to take 'em to Number 99, King's Court. "For God's sake," he says, "take 'em, and I'll bless yer." "Now come," I says, "none o' that ere; you're in custody, you know, so you'll jest eat them kidney or beefsteak pies, or whatsomever they is, and then come along; and if so be as you wants half-a-dozen hot kidney, or a few taters, or what not, took to number 99, King's Court, why I knows the man as'll take 'em, so peg away."