oliver twist(雾都孤儿(孤星血泪))-第18部分

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key　grated　in　the　lock。　He　turned　with　a　sigh　to　the　book　which　
had　been　the　innocent　cause　of　all　this　disturbance。　

“There　is　something　in　that　boy’s　face；”　said　the　old　gentleman　
to　himself　as　he　walked　slowly　away；　tapping　his　chin　with　the　
cover　of　the　book；　in　a　thoughtful　manner；　“something　that　
touches　and　interests　me。　Can　he　be　innocent？　He　looked　like—By　
the　bye；”　exclaimed　the　old　gentleman；　halting　very　abruptly；　and　
staring　up　into　the　sky。　“Bless　my　soul！　where　have　I　seen　
something　like　that　look　before？”　

After　musing　for　some　minutes；　the　old　gentleman　walked；　with　
the　same　meditative　face；　into　a　back　ante…room　opening　from　the　
yard；　and　there；　retiring　into　a　corner；　called　up　before　his　mind’s　
eye　a　vast　amphitheatre　of　faces　over　which　a　dusky　curtain　had　
hung　for　many　years。　“No；”　said　the　old　gentleman；　shaking　his　
head；　“it　must　be　imagination。”　

He　wandered　over　them　again。　He　had　called　them　into　view；　
and　it　was　not　easy　to　replace　the　shroud　that　had　so　long　

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Oliver　Twist　105　

concealed　them。　There　were　the　faces　of　friends；　and　foes；　and　of　
many　that　had　been　almost　strangers　peering　intrusively　from　the　
crowd；　there　were　the　faces　of　young　and　blooming　girls　that　were　
now　old　women；　there　were　faces　that　the　grave　had　changed　and　
closed　upon；　but　which　the　mind　superior　to　its　power；　still　
dressed　in　their　old　freshness　and　beauty；　calling　back　the　lustre　of　
the　eyes；　the　brightness　of　the　smile；　the　beaming　of　the　soul　
through　its　mask　of　clay；　and　whispering　of　beauty　beyond　the　
tomb；　changed　but　to　be　heightened；　and　taken　from　earth　only　to　
be　sent　up　as　a　light；　to　shed　a　soft　and　gentle　glow　upon　the　path　
to　heaven。　

But　the　old　gentleman　could　recall　no　one　countenance　of　
which　Oliver’s　features　bore　a　trace。　So　he　heaved　a　sigh　over　the　
recollections　he　had　awakened；　and　being；　happily　for　himself；　an　
absent　old　gentleman；　buried　them　again　in　the　pages　of　the　musty　
book。　

He　was　roused　by　a　touch　on　the　shoulder；　and　a　request　from　
the　man　with　the　keys　to　follow　him　into　the　office。　He　closed　his　
book　hastily；　and　was　at　once　ushered　into　the　imposing　presence　
of　the　renowned　Mr。　Fang。　

The　office　was　a　front　parlour；　with　a　panelled　wall。　Mr。　Fang　
sat　behind　a　bar；　at　the　upper　end；　and　on　one　side　of　the　door　was　
a　sort　of　wooden　pen　in　which　poor　little　Oliver　was　already　
deposited；　trembling　very　much　at　the　awfulness　of　the　scene。　

Mr。　Fang　was　a　lean；　long…backed；　stiff…necked；　middle…sized　
man；　with　no　great　quantity　of　hair；　and　what　he　had；　growing　on　
the　back　and　sides　of　his　head。　His　face　was　stern　and　much　
flushed。　If　he　were　really　not　in　the　habit　of　drinking　rather　more　
than　was　exactly　good　for　him；　he　might　have　brought　an　action　

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against　his　countenance　for　libel；　and　have　recovered　heavy　
damages。　

The　old　gentleman　bowed　respectfully；　and　advancing　to　the　
magistrate’s　desk；　said；　suiting　the　action　to　the　word；　“That　is　my　
name　and　address；　sir。”　He　then　withdrew　a　pace　or　two；　and；　with　
another　polite　and　gentlemanly　inclination　of　the　head；　waited　to　
be　questioned。　

Now；　it　so　happened　that　Mr。　Fang　was　at　that　moment　
perusing　a　leading　article　in　a　newspaper　of　the　morning；　
adverting　to　some　recent　decision　of　his；　and　commending　him；　for　
the　three　hundred　and　fiftieth　time；　to　the　special；　and　particular　
notice　of　the　Secretary　of　State　for　the　Home　Department。　He　was　
out　of　temper；　and　he　looked　up　with　an　angry　scowl。　

“Who　are　you？”　said　Mr。　Fang。　

The　old　gentleman　pointed；　with　some　surprise；　to　his　card。　

“Officer！”　said　Mr。　Fang；　tossing　the　card　contemptuously　away　
with—the　newspaper。　“Who　is　this　fellow？”　

“My　name；　sir；”　said　the　old　gentleman；　speaking　like　a　
gentleman；　“my　name；　sir；　is　Brownlow。　Permit　me　to　inquire　the　
name　of　the　magistrate　who　offers　a　gratuitous　and　unprovoked　
insult　to　a　respectable　person；　under　the　protection　of　the　bench。”　
Saying　this；　Mr。　Brownlow　looked　round　the　office　as　if　in　search　
of　some　person　who　would　afford　him　the　required　information。　

“Officer！”　said　Mr。　Fang；　throwing　the　paper　on　one　side；　
“what’s　this　fellow　charged　with？”　

“He’s　not　charged　at　all；　your　Worship；”　replied　the　officer。　“He　
appears　against　the　boy；　your　Worship。”　

His　Worship　knew　this　perfectly　well；　but　it　was　a　good　
annoyance；　and　a　safe　one。　

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“Appears　against　the　boy；　does　he？”　said　Fang；　surveying　Mr。　
Brownlow　contemptuously　from　head　to　foot。　“Swear　him！”　

“Before　I　am　sworn；　I　must　beg　to　say　one　word；”　said　Mr。　
Brownlow；　“and　that　is；　that　I　really　never；　without　actual　
experience；　could　have　believed—”　

“Hold　your　tongue；　sir！”　said　Mr。　Fang　peremptorily。　

“I　will　not；　sir！”　replied　the　old　gentleman。　

“Hold　your　tongue　this　instant；　or　I’ll　have　you　turned　out　of　the　
office！”　said　Mr。　Fang。　“You’re　an　insolent；　impertinent　fellow。　
How　dare　you　bully　a　magistrate！”　

“What！”　exclaimed　the　old　gentleman；　reddening。　

“Swear　this　person！”　said　Fang　to　the　clerk。　“I’ll　not　hear　
another　word。　Swear　him。”　

Mr。　Brownlow’s　indignation　was　greatly　roused；　but　reflecting　
perhaps；　that　he　might　only　injure　the　boy　by　giving　vent　to　it；　he　
suppressed　his　feelings　and　submitted　to　be　sworn　at　once　“Now；”　
said　Fang；　“what’s　the　charge　against　this　boy？　What　have　you　got　
to　say；　sir？”　

“I　was　standing　at　a　bookstall—”　Mr。　Brownlow　began。　

“Hold　your　tongue；　sir；”　said　Mr。　Fang。　“Policeman！　Where’s　
the　policeman？　Here；　swear　this　policeman。　Now；　policeman；　what　
is　this？”　

The　policeman；　with　becoming　humility；　related　how　he　had　
taken　the　charge；　how　he　had　searched　Oliver；　and　found　nothing　
on　his　person；　and　how　that　was　all　he　knew　about　it。　

“Are　there　any　witnesses？”　inquired　Mr。　Fang。　

“None；　your　Worship；”　replied　the　policeman。　

Mr。　Fang　sat　silent　for　some　minutes；　and　then；　turning　round　
to　the　prosecutor；　said　in　a　towering　passion：　

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Oliver　Twist　108　

“Do　you　mean　to　state　what　your　complaint　against　this　boy　is；　
or　do　you　not？　You　have　been　sworn。　Now；　if　you　stand　there；　
refusing　to　give　evidence；　I’ll　punish　you　for　disrespect　to　the　
bench；　I　will；　by—”　By　what；　or　by　whom；　nobody　knows；　for　the　
clerk　and　jailer　coughed　very　loud；　just　at　the　right　moment；　and　
the　former　dropped　a　heavy　book　upon　the　floor；　thus　preventing　
the　word　from　being　heard—accidentally；　of　course。　

With　many　interruptions；　and　repeated　insults；　Mr。　Brownlow　
contrived　to　state　his　case；　observing　that；　in　the　surprise　of　the　
moment；　he　had　run　after　the　boy　because　he　saw　him　running　
away；　and　expressing　his　hope　that；　if　the　magistrate　should　
believe　him；　although　not　actually　the　thief；　to　be　connected　with　
thieves；　he　would　deal　as　leniently　with　him　as　justice　would　allow。　

“He　has　been　hurt　already；”　said　the　old　gentleman　in　
conclusion。　“And　I　fear；”　he　added；　with　great　energy；　looking　
towards　the　bar；　“I　really　fear　that　he　is　ill。”　

“Oh！　yes；　I　dare　say！”　said　Mr。　Fang；　with　a　sneer。　“Come；　none　
of　your　tricks　here；　you　young　vagabond；　they　won’t　do。　What’s　
your　name？”　

Oliver　tried　to　reply；　but　his　tongue　failed　him。　He　was　deadly　
pale；　and　the　whole　place　seemed　turning　round　and　round。　

“What’s　your　name；　you　hardened　scoundrel？”　demanded　Mr。　
Fang。　“Officer；　what’s　his　name？”　

This　was　addressed　to　a　bluff　old　fellow；　in　a　striped　waistcoat；　
who　was　standing　by　the　bar。　He　bent　over　Oliver；　and　repeated　
the　inquiry；　but　finding　him　really　incapable　of　understanding　the　
question；　and　knowing　that　his　not　replying　would　only　infuriate　
the　magistrate　the　more；　and　add　to　the　severity　of　his　sentence；　
he　hazarded　a　guess。　

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“He　says　his　name’s　Tom　White；　your　Worship；”　said　the　kindhearted　thief…taker。　

“Oh；　he　won’t　speak　out；　won’t　he？”　said　Fang。　“Very　well；　very　
well。　Where　does　he　live？”　

“Where　he　can；　your　Worship；”　replied　the　officer；　again　
pretending　to　receive　Oliver’s　answer。　

“Has　he　any　parents？”　inquired　Mr。　Fang。　

“He　says　they　died　in　his　infancy；　your　Worship；”　hazarding　the　
usual　reply。　

At　this　point　of　the　inquiry；　Oliver　raised　his　head；　and；　looking　
round　with　imploring　eyes；　murmured　a　feeble　prayer　for　a　
draught　of　water。　

“Stuff　and　nonsense！”　said　Mr。　Fang；　“don’t　try　to　make　a　fool　
of　me。”　

“I　think　he　really　is　ill；　your　Worship；”　remonstrated　the　officer。　

“I　know　better；”　said　Mr。　Fang。　

“Take　care　of　him；　officer；”　said　the　old　gentleman；　raising　his　
hands　instinctively；　“he’ll　fall　down。”　

“Stand　away；　officer；”　cried　Fang；　“let　him；　if　he　likes。”　

Oliver　availed　himself　of　the　kind　permission；　and　fell　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　there；　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。”　

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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　towards　the　
bench。　

“Stop；　stop！　Don’t　take　him　away！　For　Heaven’s　sake　stop　a　
moment！”　cried　the　newcomer；　breathless　with　haste。　

Although　the　presiding　Genii　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　Ma