one, will you?'

'But, hear me speak a word,' cried Kit, raising his eyes and looking
imploringly about him. 'Hear me speak a word. I am no more guilty
than any one of you. Upon my soul I am not. I a thief! Oh, Mr Brass,
you know me better. I am sure you know me better. This is not right
of you, indeed.'

'I give you my word, constable--' said Brass. But here the constable
interposed with the constitutional principle 'words be blowed;'
observing that words were but spoon-meat for babes and sucklings, and
that oaths were the food for strong men.

'Quite true, constable,' assented Brass in the same mournful tone.
'Strictly correct. I give you my oath, constable, that down to a few
minutes ago, when this fatal discovery was made, I had such confidence
in that lad, that I'd have trusted him with--a hackney-coach, Mr
Richard, sir; you're very slow, Sir.'

'Who is there that knows me,' cried Kit, 'that would not trust me--
that does not? ask anybody whether they have ever doubted me; whether I
have ever wronged them of a farthing. Was I ever once dishonest when I
was poor and hungry, and is it likely I would begin now! Oh consider
what you do. How can I meet the kindest friends that ever human
creature had, with this dreadful charge upon me!'

Mr Brass rejoined that it would have been well for the prisoner if he
had thought of that, before, and was about to make some other gloomy
observations when the voice of the single gentleman was heard,
demanding from above-stairs what was the matter, and what was the cause
of all that noise and hurry. Kit made an involuntary start towards the
door in his anxiety to answer for himself, but being speedily detained
by the constable, had the agony of seeing Sampson Brass run out alone
to tell the story in his own way.

'And he can hardly believe it, either,' said Sampson, when he returned,
'nor nobody will. I wish I could doubt the evidence of my senses, but
their depositions are unimpeachable. It's of no use cross-examining my
eyes,' cried Sampson, winking and rubbing them, 'they stick to their
first account, and will. Now, Sarah, I hear the coach in the Marks;
get on your bonnet, and we'll be off. A sad errand! a moral funeral,
quite!'

'Mr Brass,' said Kit. 'Do me one favour. Take me to Mr Witherden's
first.'

Sampson shook his head irresolutely.

'Do,' said Kit. 'My master's there. For Heaven's sake, take me there,
first.'

'Well, I don't know,' stamm