“Take care of him, officer,” said the old gentleman, raising his hands instinctively; “he’ll fall down.”
“Stand away, officer,” cried Fang savagely; “let him if he likes.”
Oliver availed himself of the kind permission, and fell heavily 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 incontestable proof of the fact. “Let him lie; 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 labour 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 hastily into the office, and advanced to the bench.
“Stop, stop,—don’t take him away,—for Heaven’s sake stop a moment,” cried the new-comer, breathless with haste.
Although the presiding geniuses in such an office as this, exercise a summary and arbitrary power over the liberties, the good name, the character, almost the lives of Her Majesty’s subjects, especially of the poorer class; and although within such walls enough fantastic tricks are daily played to make the angels weep hot tears of blood, they are closed to the public, save through the medium of the daily press. Mr. Fang was consequently not a little indignant to see an unbidden guest enter in such irreverent disorder.