“A nice person to prefer a charge against a poor boy!” said Fang, with a comical effort to look humane. “I consider, sir, that you have obtained possession of that book, under very suspicious and disreputable circumstances; and you may think yourself very fortunate that the owner of the property declines to prosecute. Let this be a lesson to you, my man, or the law will overtake you yet. The boy is discharged. Clear the office!”

“D⁠⸺⁠n me!” cried the old gentleman, bursting out with the rage he had kept down so long, “d⁠⸺⁠n me! I’ll⁠—”

“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.