oliver twist(雾都孤儿(孤星血泪))-第22章

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Furnishes　A　Slight　Specimen　Of　His　Mode　Of
Administering　Justice。


The　offence　had　been　committed　within　the　district；　and　
indeed　in　the　immediate　neighbourhood　of；　a　very　
notorious　metropolitan　police…office。　The　crowd　had　only　
the　satisfaction　of　accompanying　Oliver　through　two　or　three　
streets；　and　down　a　place　called　Mutton　Hill；　when　he　was　led　
beneath　a　low　archway；　and　up　a　dirty　court；　into　this　dispensary　
of　summary　justice；　by　the　back　way。　It　was　a　small　paved　yard　
into　which　they　turned；　and　here　they　encountered　a　stout　man　
with　a　bunch　of　whiskers　on　his　face；　and　a　bunch　of　keys　in　his　
hand。　

“What’s　the　matter　now？”　said　the　man　carelessly。　

“A　young　fogle…hunter；”　replied　the　man　who　had　Oliver　in　
charge。　

“Are　you　the　party　that’s　been　robbed；　sir？”　inquired　the　man　
with　the　keys。　

“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　

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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　any　one　who　doubts　this；　compare　the　
two。　

The　old　gentleman　looked　almost　as　rueful　as　Oliver　when　the　
key　grated　in　the　lock。　He　turned　with　a　sigh　to　the　book　which　
had　been　the　innocent　cause　of　all　this　disturbance。　

“There　is　something　in　that　boy’s　face；”　said　the　old　gentleman　
to　himself　as　he　walked　slowly　away；　tapping　his　chin　with　the　
cover　of　the　book；　in　a　thoughtful　manner；　“something　that　
touches　and　interests　me。　Can　he　be　innocent？　He　looked　like—By　
the　bye；”　exclaimed　the　old　gentleman；　halting　very　abruptly；　and　
staring　up　into　the　sky。　“Bless　my　soul！　where　have　I　seen　
something　like　that　look　before？”　

After　musing　for　some　minutes；　the　old　gentleman　walked；　with　
the　same　meditative　face；　into　a　back　ante…room　opening　from　the　
yard；　and　there；　retiring　into　a　corner；　called　up　before　his　mind’s　
eye　a　vast　amphitheatre　of　faces　over　which　a　dusky　curtain　had　
hung　for　many　years。　“No；”　said　the　old　gentleman；　shaking　his　
head；　“it　must　be　imagination。”　

He　wandered　over　them　again。　He　had　called　them　into　view；　
and　it　was　not　easy　to　replace　the　shroud　that　had　so　long　

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concealed　them。　There　were　the　faces　of　friends；　and　foes；　and　of　
many　that　had　been　almost　strangers　peering　intrusively　from　the　
crowd；　there　were　the　faces　of　young　and　blooming　girls　that　were　
now　old　women；　there　were　faces　that　the　grave　had　changed　and　
closed　upon；　but　which　the　mind　superior　to　its　power；　still　
dressed　in　their　old　freshness　and　beauty；　calling　back　the　lustre　of　
the　eyes；　the　brightness　of　the　smile；　the　beaming　of　the　soul　
through　its　mask　of　clay；　and　whispering　of　beauty　beyond　the　
tomb；　changed　but　to　be　heightened；　and　taken　from　earth　only　to　
be　sent　up　as　a　light；　to　shed　a　soft　and　gentle　glow　upon　the　path　
to　heaven。　

But　the　old　gentleman　could　recall　no　one　countenance　of　
which　Oliver’s　features　bore　a　trace。　So　he　heaved　a　sigh　over　the　
recollections　he　had　awakened；　and　being；　happily　for　himself；　an　
absent　old　gentleman；　buried　them　again　in　the　pages　of　the　musty　
book。　

He　was　roused　by　a　touch　on　the　shoulder；　and　a　request　from　
the　man　with　the　keys　to　follow　him　into　the　office。　He　closed　his　
book　hastily；　and　was　at　once　ushered　into　the　imposing　presence　
of　the　renowned　Mr。　Fang。　

The　office　was　a　front　parlour；　with　a　panelled　wall。　Mr。　Fang　
sat　behind　a　bar；　at　the　upper　end；　and　on　one　side　of　the　door　was　
a　sort　of　wooden　pen　in　which　poor　little　Oliver　was　already　
deposited；　trembling　very　much　at　the　awfulness　of　the　scene。　

Mr。　Fang　was　a　lean；　long…backed；　stiff…necked；　middle…sized　
man；　with　no　great　quantity　of　hair；　and　what　he　had；　growing　on　
the　back　and　sides　of　his　head。　His　face　was　stern　and　much　
flushed。　If　he　were　really　not　in　the　habit　of　drinking　rather　more　
than　was　exactly　good　for　him；　he　might　have　brought　an　action　

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against　his　countenance　for　libel；　and　have　recovered　heavy　
damages。　

The　old　gentleman　bowed　respectfully；　and　advancing　to　the　
magistrate’s　desk；　said；　suiting　the　action　to　the　word；　“That　is　my　
name　and　address；　sir。”　He　then　withdrew　a　pace　or　two；　and；　with　
another　polite　and　gentlemanly　inclination　of　the　head；　waited　to　
be　questioned。　

Now；　it　so　happened　that　Mr。　Fang　was　at　that　moment　
perusing　a　leading　article　in　a　newspaper　of　the　morning；　
adverting　to　some　recent　decision　of　his；　and　commending　him；　for　
the　three　hundred　and　fiftieth　time；　to　the　special；　and　particular　
notice　of　the　Secretary　of　State　for　the　Home　Department。　He　was　
out　of　temper；　and　he　looked　up　with　an　angry　scowl。　

“Who　are　you？”　said　Mr。　Fang。　

The　old　gentleman　pointed；　with　some　surprise；　to　his　card。　

“Officer！”　said　Mr。　Fang；　tossing　the　card　contemptuously　away　
with—the　newspaper。　“Who　is　this　fellow？”　

“My　name；　sir；”　said　the　old　gentleman；　speaking　like　a　
gentleman；　“my　name；　sir；　is　Brownlow。　Permit　me　to　inquire　the　
name　of　the　magistrate　who　offers　a　gratuitous　and　unprovoked　
insult　to　a　respectable　person；　under　the　protection　of　the　bench。”　
Saying　this；　Mr。　Brownlow　looked　round　the　office　as　if　in　search　
of　some　person　who　would　afford　him　the　required　information。　

“Officer！”　said　Mr。　Fang；　throwing　the　paper　on　one　side；　
“what’s　this　fellow　charged　with？”　

“He’s　not　charged　at　all；　your　Worship；”　replied　the　officer。　“He　
appears　against　the　boy；　your　Worship。”　

His　Worship　knew　this　perfectly　well；　but　it　was　a　good　
annoyance；　and　a　safe　one。　

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“Appears　against　the　boy；　does　he？”　said　Fang；　surveying　Mr。　
Brownlow　contemptuously　from　head　to　foot。　“Swear　him！”　

“Before　I　am　sworn；　I　must　beg　to　say　one　word；”　said　Mr。　
Brownlow；　“and　that　is；　that　I　really　never；　without　actual　
experience；　could　have　believed—”　

“Hold　your　tongue；　sir！”　said　Mr。　Fang　peremptorily。　

“I　will　not；　sir！”　replied　the　old　gentleman。　

“Hold　your　tongue　this　instant；　or　I’ll　have　you　turned　out　of　the　
office！”　said　Mr。　Fang。　“You’re　an　insolent；　impertinent　fellow。　
How　dare　you　bully　a　magistrate！”　

“What！”　exclaimed　the　old　gentleman；　reddening。　

“Swear　this　person！”　said　Fang　to　the　clerk。　“I’ll　not　hear　
another　word。　Swear　him。”　

Mr。　Brownlow’s　indignation　was　greatly　roused；　but　reflecting　
perhaps；　that　he　might　only　injure　the　boy　by　giving　vent　to　it；　he　
suppressed　his　feelings　and　submitted　to　be　sworn　at　once　“Now；”　
said　Fang；　“what’s　the　charge　against　this　boy？　What　have　you　got　
to　say；　sir？”　

“I　was　standing　at　a　bookstall—”　Mr。　Brownlow　began。　

“Hold　your　tongue；　sir；”　said　Mr。　Fang。　“Policeman！　Where’s　
the　policeman？　Here；　swear　this　policeman。　Now；　policeman；　what　
is　this？”　

The　policeman；　with　becoming　humility；　related　how　he　had　
taken　the　charge；　how　he　had　searched　Oliver；　and　found　nothing　
on　his　person；　and　how　that　was　all　he　knew　about　it。　

“Are　there　any　witnesses？”　inquired　Mr。　Fang。　

“None；　your　Worship；”　replied　the　policeman。　

Mr。　F