The offence had been committed within the district, and indeed in the immediate neighbourhood, of a notorious London police station. The crowd had only the satisfaction of accompanying Oliver through two or three streets and down a hill before he was led beneath a low archway. They entered a dirty court, a place where justice was served quickly and harshly. As they turned into the small paved yard, they encountered a broad-shouldered man with thick whiskers and a large bunch of keys in his hand.
“What’s the matter now?” the man asked carelessly.
“A young pickpocket,” replied the officer who was in charge of Oliver.
“Are you the person who was robbed, sir?” inquired the man with the keys.
“Yes, I am,” replied the old gentleman; “but I am not entirely certain that this boy actually took the handkerchief. I—I would really prefer not to press charges.”
“He must go before the magistrate now, sir,” the man replied. “His worship will be free in half a minute. Now, move along, young criminal!”
This was an invitation for Oliver to enter through a door, which the man unlocked as he spoke. It led into a stone cell. Here Oliver was searched; when nothing was found on him, he was locked inside.
In shape and size, the cell resembled a dark basement, though it was even more poorly lit. It was unbearably filthy, as it was Monday morning and the room had been occupied by several rowdy prisoners since Saturday night. This, however, was common. In these station-houses, men and women are confined every night on the most trivial charges in dungeons that are far worse than the prisons where the most dangerous criminals await execution.
Mr. Brownlow looked almost as miserable as Oliver when he heard the key turn in the lock. With a sigh, he looked down at the book that had been the innocent cause of all this trouble.
“There is something in that boy’s face,” Mr. Brownlow said to himself as he walked slowly away, thoughtfully tapping his chin with the cover of the book. “Something that touches and interests me. Is it possible he is innocent? He looked like— Good heavens!” he exclaimed, stopping abruptly and staring up at the sky. “Where have I seen that look before?”
After reflecting for some minutes, he walked with a meditative expression into a waiting room. There, retiring into a corner, he searched his memory, calling to mind a vast crowd of faces from his past. He shook his head, thinking it must be his imagination. He thought of old friends and enemies, of faces long since buried, yet still vivid in his mind. But despite his efforts, he could not recall anyone whose features resembled Oliver’s. He sighed over these memories and, being an easily distracted man, buried them once more within the pages of his book.
He was eventually roused by a touch on the shoulder. The man with the keys requested that he follow him into the office. He closed his book hastily and was ushered into the imposing presence of the renowned Mr. Fang.
The office was a formal room with wood-panelled walls. Mr. Fang sat behind a high desk at the far end, while poor little Oliver had been placed in a wooden enclosure, trembling with fear at the solemnity of the scene. Mr. Fang was a lean, stiff man of middle height with very little hair. His face was stern and remarkably red. If he were not actually a heavy drinker, his appearance certainly suggested otherwise.
Mr. Brownlow bowed respectfully and, approaching the magistrate’s desk, placed his card upon it. “That is my name and address, sir,” he said. He then stepped back and waited politely to be questioned.
At that moment, Mr. Fang was reading a newspaper article that criticised one of his recent decisions. He was in a foul temper and looked up with an angry scowl.
“Who are you?” Mr. Fang demanded.
The old gentleman pointed to his card in surprise.
“Officer!” said Mr. Fang, tossing the card and the newspaper away contemptuously. “Who is this fellow?”
“My name, sir,” the old gentleman said, maintaining his dignity, “is Brownlow. Permit me to ask the name of the magistrate who offers such a deliberate insult to a respectable person.”
“Officer!” Fang shouted, ignoring the question. “What is this fellow charged with?”
“He isn't charged with anything, your worship,” the officer replied. “He is the witness against the boy.”
The magistrate knew this perfectly well, but he enjoyed being difficult. “He’s the witness, is he?” said Mr. Fang, looking at Mr. Brownlow with disdain. “Swear him in!”
“Before I am sworn, I must say one word,” said Mr. Brownlow. “And that is, that I really could not have believed—”
“Hold your tongue, sir!” Mr. Fang interrupted sharply.
“I will not, sir!” replied the old gentleman.
“Be quiet this instant, or I’ll have you removed!” said Mr. Fang. “You are an insolent fellow. How dare you bully a magistrate!”
“What!” exclaimed Mr. Brownlow, his face turning red with indignation.
“Swear him in!” Fang commanded his clerk. “I will not hear another word.”
Mr. Brownlow was furious, but reflecting that his anger might only hurt the boy, he suppressed his feelings and submitted to the oath.
“Now,” said Fang, “what is the charge against this boy? What do you have to say, sir?”
“I was standing at a book-stall—” Mr. Brownlow began.
“Silence!” shouted Mr. Fang. “Policeman! Where is the policeman? Swear him in. Now, policeman, tell me what happened.”
The policeman related how he had arrested the boy and searched him, finding nothing. He admitted that was all he knew.
“Are there any witnesses?” inquired Mr. Fang.
“None, your worship,” the policeman replied.
Mr. Fang sat in silence for a few minutes. Then, turning to Mr. Brownlow, he demanded in a rage, “Are you going to state your complaint, or not? If you refuse to give evidence, I will punish you for disrespecting this court!”
With many interruptions and repeated insults, Mr. Brownlow managed to explain his case. He admitted that he had run after the boy in the confusion of the moment. He expressed his hope that, even if the boy were associated with thieves, the magistrate would be as lenient as possible.
“He has been hurt already,” the old gentleman concluded. “And I fear,” he added with concern, “that he is actually ill.”
“Oh, I’m sure he is!” said Mr. Fang with a sneer. “None of your tricks here, you young vagabond. What’s your name?”
Oliver tried to reply, but he was so pale and weak that he could not speak. The room seemed to be spinning around him.
“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” Fang demanded again. “Officer, what is his name?”
An officer bent over Oliver, but seeing that the boy was incapable of understanding, and knowing that silence would only make the magistrate more furious, he made a guess.
“He says his name is Tom White, your worship,” the officer said.
“Oh, so he won’t speak up?” said Fang. “Very well. Where does he live?”
“Wherever he can, your worship,” the officer replied, pretending to hear another answer from Oliver.
At this point, Oliver raised his head and, with imploring eyes, whispered a plea for a drink of water.
“Nonsense!” said Mr. Fang. “Don’t try to make a fool of me.”
“I think he really is ill, your worship,” the officer insisted.
“I know better,” said Mr. Fang.
“Watch him, officer,” cried Mr. Brownlow, reaching out instinctively. “He’s going to fall!”
“Stay back!” Fang shouted. “Let him fall if he wants to.”
Oliver did exactly that, collapsing to the floor in a dead faint. The people in the office looked at each other, but no one dared to move.
“I knew he was faking,” said Fang, as if this proved his point. “Let him lie there; he’ll soon get tired of it.”
“How do you wish to settle the case, sir?” the clerk whispered.
“Immediately,” replied Mr. Fang. “He is sentenced to three months of hard labour. Clear the office!”
The door was opened, and two men were about to carry the unconscious boy to a cell when a poorly dressed but respectable elderly man rushed into the room.
“Stop! Don’t take him away! For heaven’s sake, wait a moment!” the newcomer cried, out of breath.
Mr. Fang was outraged by this sudden intrusion. “What is this? Who is this man? Turn him out!”
“I will speak!” the man shouted. “I saw everything. I am the owner of the book-stall. I demand to be heard. Mr. Fang, you must listen to me!”
The man’s determination was clear, and the situation was becoming too serious to ignore.
“Swear him in,” Fang growled. “Now, what do you have to say?”
“This,” said the man. “I saw three boys—two others and this prisoner—standing across the street while this gentleman was reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it happen, and I saw that this boy was completely shocked by it.”
He then explained that he hadn't come sooner because he had no one to watch his shop.
“The witness was reading, was he?” Fang asked after a pause.
“Yes,” replied the man. “The very book he is holding now.”
“Oh, that book?” said Fang, looking at Mr. Brownlow. “Is it paid for?”
“No, it is not,” the shopkeeper replied with a slight smile.
“Dear me, I forgot all about it!” exclaimed the absent-minded Mr. Brownlow.
“A fine person you are to accuse a poor boy!” said Fang with a fake show of moral superiority. “I consider that you obtained that book under very suspicious circumstances. You are fortunate the owner does not wish to prosecute you. Let this be a lesson. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”
“How dare you!” cried Mr. Brownlow, finally letting out his suppressed rage. “I’ll—”
“Clear the office!” the magistrate shouted.
Mr. Brownlow was forced out into the yard, still clutching his book and his cane, trembling with anger. However, his fury vanished the moment he saw Oliver. The boy lay on the pavement, his face a deadly white, his body shivering.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Someone call a coach, please! Immediately!”
A coach was brought, and Oliver was carefully placed on the seat. Mr. Brownlow got in beside him.
“May I come with you?” asked the book-stall keeper.
“Of course, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I forgot about you in the confusion. And I still have this book! Jump in. We have no time to lose.”
The book-stall keeper joined them, and the coach drove away.