“Oh,” said the constable, opening the clasps, so that he could examine the writing on the leaves. “What's inside?”
“A lot of figures,” said the man. “Sums. Problems in arithmetic.”
“Right,” said the constable, handing over the book.
“Here you are, sir. What name, sir?”
“Edward Jermyn.”
“Edward German,” the constable repeated.
“Where d' you live, sir?”
“At Mr. Scott's in Fish Lane.”
“Right, sir,” said the constable, writing down the address, “You must appear tomorrow at ten before Mr. Garry, the magistrate. You, too, young master, to give your evidence.”
At this the boys burst out crying, begging us not to appear, using all those deceptive arts which the London thieves practise from childhood. I, who was new to the world's deceits, was touched to the marrow by their seeming misery. The constable roughly silenced them. “I know you,” he said. “I had my eye on you two ever since Christmas. Now you'll go abroad to do a bit of honest work, instead of nickin' pockets. Stow your blubbering now, or I'll give you Mogador Jack.” He produced “Mogador Jack,” a supple shark's backbone, from behind the door. The tears stopped on the instant.