Oliver tried to reply, but his tongue failed him. He was deadly pale; and the whole place seemed turning round and round.

“What’s your name, you hardened scoundrel?” demanded Mr. Fang. “Officer, what’s his name?”

This was addressed to a bluff old fellow, in a striped waistcoat, who was standing by the bar. He bent over Oliver, and repeated the inquiry; but finding him really incapable of understanding the question; and knowing that his not replying would only infuriate the magistrate the more, and add to the severity of his sentence; he hazarded a guess.

“He says his name’s Tom White, your worship,” said the kindhearted thief-taker.

“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.