"I beg your honour's pardon, my lord, but they have forgot to bring him."
"Forgot to bring him! What do you mean? Where is he?"
"They've left him at Chelmsford, your honour."
It seemed there was no jail at Saffron Walden, because, to the honour of the borough be it said, they had no one to put into it; and this small child had been committed for safe custody to Chelmsford to wait his trial at sessions, and had been there so long that he was actually forgotten when the day of trial came. I never heard anything more of him; but hope his small offence was forgotten as well as himself.
CHAPTER IX.
THE ONLY "RACER" I EVER OWNED—SAM LINTON, THE DOG-FINDER.
I have been often asked whether I ever owned a racer. In point of fact, I never did, although I went as near to that honour as any man who never arrived at it—a racer, too, who afterwards carried its owner's colours triumphantly past the winning-post.
The reader may have been shocked at the story I told of those poor ill-brought-up children whose mother was murdered, from the natural feeling that if pure innocence is not to be found in childhood, where are we to seek it?
I will indicate the spot in three words—on the Turf.
True, you will find fraud, cunning, knavery, and robbery, but you will find also the most unsophisticated innocence.