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 neighborhood 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 archway, 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