"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 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 nothing. In our station-houses, men and women are every night confined on the most trivial
