“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 had been tenanted by six drunken people, who had been locked up, elsewhere, since Saturday night. But this is little. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial charges⁠—the word is worth noting⁠—in dungeons, compared with which, those in Newgate, occupied by the most atrocious felons, tried, found guilty, and under sentence of death, are palaces. Let anyone who doubts this, compare the two.