en, at
the sight of an old gentleman reading at a bookstall. So intent was he
over his book that he might have been sitting in an easy chair in his
study.

To Oliver's horror, the Dodger plunged his hand into the gentleman's
pocket, drew out a handkerchief, and handed it to Bates. Then both boys
ran away round the corner at full speed. Oliver, frightened at what he
had seen, ran off, too; the old gentleman, at the same moment missing
his handkerchief, and seeing Oliver scudding off, concluded he was the
thief, and gave chase, still holding his book in his hand.

The cry of "Stop thief!" was raised. Oliver was knocked down, captured,
and taken to the police-station by a constable.

The magistrate was still sitting, and Oliver would have been convicted
there and then but for the arrival of the bookseller.

"Stop, stop! Don't take him away! I saw it all! I keep the bookstall,"
cried the man. "I saw three boys, two others, and the prisoner here. The
robbery was committed by another boy. I saw that this one was amazed by
it."

Oliver was acquitted. But he had fainted. Mr. Brownlow, for that was the
name of the old gentleman, shocked and moved at the boy's deathly
whiteness, straightway carried the boy off in a cab to his own house in
a quiet, shady street near Pentonville.

_III.--Back in Fagin's Den_

For many days Oliver remained insensible to the goodness of his new
friends. But all that careful nursing could do was done, and he slowly
and surely recovered. Mr. Brownlow, a kind-hearted old bachelor, took
the greatest interest in his _protege_, and Oliver implored him not to
turn him out of doors to wander in the streets.

"My dear child," said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of Oliver's
appeal, "you need not be afraid of my deserting you. I have been
deceived before in people I have endeavored to benefit, but I feel
strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and I am more interested
in your behalf than I can well account for. Let me hear your story;
speak the truth to me, and you shall not be friendless while I am
alive."

A certain unmistakable likeness in Oliver to a lady's portrait that was
on the wall of the room struck Mr. Brownlow. What connection could there
be between the original of the portrait, and this poor child?

But before Mr. Brownlow had heard Oliver's story he had lost the boy.
For Fagin, horribly uneasy lest Oliver should be the means of betraying
his late companions, resolved