“Stop thief! Stop thief!” There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks; agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant, they hail his decreasing strength with joy. “Stop thief!” Ay, stop him for God’s sake, were it only in mercy!
Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement; and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each newcomer, jostling and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. “Stand aside!” “Give him a little air!” “Nonsense! he don’t deserve it.” “Where’s the gentleman?” “Here he is, coming down the street.” “Make room there for the gentleman!” “Is this the boy, sir!” “Yes.”
Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.
“Yes,” said the gentleman, “I am afraid it is the boy.”
“Afraid!” murmured the crowd. “That’s a good ’un!”
“Poor fellow!” said the gentleman, “he has hurt himself.”
“ I did that, sir,” said a great lubberly fellow, stepping forward; “and preciously I cut my knuckle agin’ his mouth. I stopped him, sir.”
The fellow touched his hat with a grin, expecting something for his pains; but, the old gentleman, eyeing him with an expression of dislike,