THE WATCH-HOUSE.
For poor Rodney there was no more sleep that night, even had
they placed him on a bed of roses. But they locked him up in a
little square room, with an iron-barred window, into which a dim
light 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 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 assurance of the
policeman, that "he was a sharp miscreant, and needed to be
watched."