The Runaway | Page 9

struggled from a lamp hung outside in the entry, showing a wooden bench, fastened against the wall. There were four men in the room.
One, whose clothes looked fine and fashionable, but all covered with dirt, lay on the floor. A hat, that seemed new, but crushed out of all shape, was under his head for a pillow. His face was bruised and bloody. He was entirely stupefied, and Rodney saw at a glance that he was intoxicated.
On the bench, stretched out at full length, was a short, stout negro, fast asleep. On another part of the bench lay a white man, who seemed about fifty years old, with a sneering, malicious face, and wrapped up in a shaggy black coat. The remaining occupant of the cell sat in one corner, with his head down on his knees, and his hat slouched over his face.
Rodney stood for a few moments in the middle of the cell, and, in sickening dismay, looked round him. Here he was with felons and rioters, locked up in a dungeon! True, he had committed no crime against the law; but yet he felt that he deserved it all; and the hot tears rolled from his eyes as he thought of his mother and his home.
Hearing his sobs, the man in the corner raised his head, looked at him for a moment, and said:
"Why, you blubbering boy, what have you been about? Are you the pal of these cracksmen, or have you been on a lay on your own hook?"
Rodney did not know what he meant, and he said so.
"I mean," said the man, in the same low, thieves' jargon, "have you been helping these fellows crack a crib?"
"Doing what?" said Rodney.
"Breaking into a house, you dumb-head."
[Illustration]
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 assaulting 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