"Take care of him, officer," said the old gentleman, raising his hands
instinctively; "he'll fall down."

"Stand away, officer," cried Fang; "let him, if he likes."

Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell to the floor in
a fainting fit. The men in the office looked at each other, but no one
dared to stir.

"I knew he was shamming," said Fang, as if this were enough proof of the
fact. "Let him lie there; he'll soon be tired of that."

"How do you propose to deal with the case, sir?" inquired the clerk in a
low voice.

"Summarily," replied Mr. Fang. "He stands committed for three
months--hard labor, of course. Clear the office."

The door was opened for this purpose, and a couple of men were preparing
to carry the insensible boy to his cell, when an elderly man of decent
but poor appearance, clad in an old suit of black, rushed in.

"Stop! stop! Don't take him away! For heaven's sake stop a moment!"
cried the newcomer, breathless with haste.

"What is this? Who is this? Turn this man out. Clear the office," cried
Mr. Fang.

"I _will_ speak," cried the man; "I will not be turned out. I saw it
all. I keep the book-stall. I demand to be sworn. I will not be put
down. Mr. Fang, you must hear me. You must not refuse, sir."

The man was right. His manner was determined; and the matter was growing
rather too serious to be hushed up.

"Swear the man," growled Mr. Fang, with a very ill grace. "Now, man,
what have you to say?"

"This," said the man: "I saw three boys--two two others and the prisoner
here--loitering on the opposite side of the way, when this gentleman was
reading. The robbery was committed by another boy. I saw it done; and I
saw this boy was perfectly amazed and stupefied by it."

"Why didn't you come here before?" said Fang, after a pause.

"I hadn't a soul to mind the shop," replied the man. "Everybody who
could have helped me had joined in the pursuit. I could get nobody till
five minutes ago; and I have run here all the way to speak the truth."

"The boy is discharged. Clear the office!" shouted the angry magistrate.

The command was obeyed; and as Oliver was taken out he fainted away
again in the yard, and lay with his face a deadly white and a cold
tremble convulsing his frame.

"Poor boy! poor boy!" said Mr. Brownlow, bending over him. "Call a
coach, somebody, pray. Directly!"

A coach was obtained, and Oliver, having been carefully laid on one
seat, the old gentleman