Part 3 (2/2)

”Breaking into a house, you dumb-head.”

[Ill.u.s.tration]

The boy shuddered at the thought of being taken for an accomplice of house-breakers; and told him he knew nothing about them. He had read that boys are sometimes employed by house-breakers to climb in through windows or broken pannels, to open the door on the inside; and now he was thought to be such a one himself.

It was a dismal night for him.

Early in the morning the prisoners were all taken before a magistrate.

The drunkard, who claimed to be a gentleman, and who had been taken to the watch-house for a.s.saulting the barkeeper of a tavern, was fined five dollars, and dismissed.

The negro and the old white man had been caught in the attempt to break into a house, and were sent to prison, to await their trial for burglary; and the other white man was also sent to prison, until he could be tried, for stealing a pocket-book in an auction store.

Rodney was then called forward. The watchman told how and why he had taken him; and the boy was asked to give an account of himself. He told his story truthfully and tearfully, while the magistrate looked coldly at him.

”A very good story,” said the magistrate; ”it seems to be well studied. I suspect you are an artful fellow, notwithstanding your innocent face. I shall bind you over for trial, my lad. I think such boys as you should be stopped in time; and a few years in some penitentiary would do you good.”

What could Rodney say? What could he do? He was among strangers.

He could send for no one to testify of his good character, or to become bail for him. And, if his friends had been near, he felt that he had rather die than that they should know of his disgrace.

The magistrate gave an officer a paper--a commitment--and told him to take the boy to the Arch-street jail. The constable took him by the arm, and led him out.

As they walked along the street, Rodney looked around him to see if there was no way of escape. If he could only get a chance to run! As they came to the corner of a little alley, he asked the constable to let him tie his shoe, the string of which was loose. The man nodded, and Rodney placed his foot upon a door-step, sheering round beyond the reach of the officer's hand, and towards the alley. Rodney, as he rose, made one spring, and in a moment was gone down the alley. The officer rushed after him, and shouted, ”Stop thief! stop thief!”

”O, that I should ever be chased for a thief!” groaned Rodney, clenching his teeth together, and running at his best speed.

That terrible cry, ”_Stop thief!_” rung after him, and soon seemed to be echoed by a hundred voices, as the boy dashed along Ninth street and down Market street; and, from behind him, and from doors and windows, and from the opposite side of the street, and at length from before him, the very welkin rung with the cries of ”Stop thief! stop thief!” A hundred eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of the culprit; but Rodney dashed on, the crowd never thinking that _he_ was the hunted fox, but only one of the hounds in pursuit, eager to be ”in at the death.” At the corner of Fifth and Market-streets, a porter was standing by his wheelbarrow. He saw the chase coming down, and truly scented the victim; and, as Rodney neared the corner, he suddenly pushed out his barrow across the pavement. Rodney could not avoid it; he stumbled, fell across it, and was captured.

”You young scoundrel! is this one of your tricks?” said the constable, as he came up; ”I'll teach you one of mine;” and he struck him a blow on the side of the head, that knocked the poor boy senseless on the pavement.

Those who stood by cried, ”Shame! shame!” and the officer glared furiously around him; but, seeing that the numbers were against him, he raised the boy from the ground. Rodney soon recovered; and the constable, grasping him firmly by the wrist of his coat, and, drawing his arm tightly under his own, led him, followed by a crowd of hooting boys, up Fifth, and through Arch-street, toward the old jail.

What a walk was that to poor Rodney! The officer, stern and angry, held him with so firm a grip as to convince him of the uselessness of a second attempt.

Fatigued, and nearly fainting as he was from the race and the blow, he was compelled almost to run, to keep up with the long strides of the constable. A crowd of boys pressed around, to get a glimpse of his face.

”What has he done?” one would ask of another.

”Broke open a trunk, and stole money,” would be the reply.

Rodney pulled Bill Seegor's old hat over his face, and hung his head, in bitter anguish of soul, as he heard himself denounced as a thief at every step; and as he heard doors dashed open, and windows thrown up, similar questions and replies smote his heart. He knew that he was innocent of such a crime; his soul scorned it; he felt that he was incapable of theft; but he felt that he had been too guilty, too disobedient and too ungrateful, to dare to hold up his head, or utter a word in his own defence. It seemed as though that long and terrible walk with the constable would never end, and he felt relieved when he reached the heavy door of the jail, amid two files of staring boys, who had ran before him, and arranged themselves by the gate, to watch him as he entered. He was rudely thrust in, the bolt shot back upon the closed door, and he was delivered over to the keeping of the jailer, with the a.s.surance of the policeman, that ”he was a sharp miscreant, and needed to be watched.”

CHAPTER VIII.

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