“Clear the office!” said the magistrate. “Officers, do you hear? Clear the office!”
The mandate was obeyed; and the indignant Mr. Brownlow was conveyed out, with the book in one hand, and the bamboo cane in the other: in a perfect frenzy of rage and defiance. He reached the yard; and his passion vanished in a moment. Little Oliver Twist lay on his back on the pavement, with his shirt unbuttoned, and his temples bathed with water; his face a deadly white; and a cold tremble convulsing his whole frame.
“Poor boy, poor boy!” said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. “Call a coach, somebody, pray. Directly!”
A coach was obtained, and Oliver having been carefully laid on the seat, the old gentleman got in and sat himself on the other.
“May I accompany you?” said the bookstall keeper, looking in.
“Bless me, yes, my dear sir,” said Mr. Brownlow quickly. “I forgot you. Dear, dear! I have this unhappy book still! Jump in. Poor fellow! There’s no time to lose.”
The bookstall keeper got into the coach; and away they drove.