“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; “let him, if he likes.”
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell 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 there; he’ll soon be tired of that.”
“How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?” inquired the clerk in a low voice.