Of course I was dragged off to the police-office, upon the charge of robbing myself. All that I could say would be of no avail, therefore I kept a most stoical silence. Having arrived at our destination, I was walked in before the head of the police, who, after a long and scrutinizing survey of my person, whispered an officer, who went out. I was then desired, or rather commanded, to extend my wrists to another officer, who placed upon them a very ornamental, but not very agreeable appendage, in the shape of a pair of manacles. I had subsided into a dogged, sullen, almost unconscious state of mind, and was becoming, in fact, very careless as regarded consequences. Half an hour had elapsed, when the officer who had spoken with the chief of police, returned. He whispered the presiding functionary, who grinned approvingly.
“Well, my kiddy,” said he, “the Saffron-Hill job warn’t enough for you, eh? But I’ve caged you now, bird, and you’ll be made to sing plenty loud for that matter, outcepting this altogether.”
“I never heerd the like of this lark,” said the under-strapper. “It’s a rigler demeanin’ of the trade. Here’s one of your Jimmy burglary swells come down to a-sneak of a pickpocket!”
It would be a work of supererogation to detail the variety of insults and the tortures of mind that I was forced to undergo from my appearance before the magistrate the next morning, until my final trial at the Old Bailey upon the charge of burglary. I had heard nothing of my ingenious tyrant, who was evidently, at the time I saw him last, in a very fair way to lead my lady-love to the altar. Nor, indeed, had I any opportunity of hearing from him. I saw no persons save my keeper, and a little, seedy, Jew attorney, whom I discovered to be in pay of the gang of which I was a worthy member. After various consultations with this gentleman, who informed me that he would be able, in spite of the veracious testimony of the respectable Mr. Ikey Solomons, to produce a satisfactory alibi, it was decided that I was to put in the plea of Not Guilty.
The day of trial arrived, after a weary and solitary residence within the walls of my prison of a month. None of the gang came near me, and I could never learn any tidings of Bess. At the appointed time, I was escorted into the court, and being duly arraigned, the charge was read to me, in that agreeable nasality of tone peculiar to the clerks of all legal tribunals. During this process, to which I paid not the least attention, I espied a newspaper lying by the side of the dock. I picked it up, and was vacantly pouring over the columns, unseen by my jailers, when my attention was riveted by the following paragraph, which filled my breast with horror and despair.
“Married, by the Right Rev. Doctor Dumfungle, at St. Martin’s in the Fields, Flashington Highflyer, Esq., to the Hon. Julia Adeliza, daughter of Sir Poins Dashleigh, Bart.”
The climax to my sorrows had then arrived. The whole man was quelled within me. Spectators, judge and jury were all forgotten, and the tide of my woes rushed irresistibly onward, overwhelming me in the vortex. The question was put in the usual form, “guilty or not guilty?” Life had cloyed with me. I longed to occupy a resting place where I should be secure from the scorn and the persecutions of the world. The grave offered this refuge, and I gladly embraced it.
I therefore rose from my seat, and replied to the query of the clerk, “guilty.”
My attorney fairly fell under the table with astonishment. The whole assemblage seemed utterly confounded at my audacity, and a voice was heard above the general buz of tongues, which I recognized as appertaining to my acquaintance, Mr. Sooterkins.
“Vell, by blazes, h’aint you gone and done it!”