Mr Headstone, who was still suffering from the blow to the head he had received from the displaced contents of the carpet bag, was lugged along the streets by the jacket collar, at a rapid pace, which was not entirely conducive to his comfort or his well-being. Despite his protestations to the officer of the law, who provided the locomotive force for the two of them, the situation was in no manner ameliorated until they came within sight of a very notorious metropolitan police station near Mutton Hill. By this time a crowd of onlookers, attracted by the spectacle of the pedagogue being propelled through the streets against his own inclinations, had formed a veritable procession about them. Some of them ran behind, jeering and shouting, whilst others went before them, calling to other idlers lolling in the doorways of taverns to join the parade, which, lacking any other form of useful employment, they willingly did. Each member of the mob being desirous of discovering the cause of the arrest, there was a great exchange of views and opinions on the matter, all of which were compensated in terms of imagination for what they lacked in veracity.
Some whispered that the villain had robbed an old lady of her reticule, others that he had stolen six silver spoons from a grieving widow, or that he had made away with the plate from a house on Muswell Hill; that he had bludgeoned a woman to death with a cudgel; that he had run through a prominent member of the aristocracy with a sword to settle a matter of honour; that he had sold adulterated elixirs to the sick; that he had stolen coppers from the poor box; that he had cheated at cards; that he had robbed a grave and sold its contents to a medical man; that he had set fire to a rick, and smashed a threshing machine; & co, & co. In fact, had the crowd been given the satisfaction of accompanying Mr Headstone and his guardian through any more streets, it is likely that the former gentleman would have been publicly accused of every criminal act then extant on the statute books.
At last the officer and his charge were able to disengage themselves from the mob, and, passing beneath a low archway and up a dirty court, they entered the dispensary of summary justice by the back way. It was a small paved yard into which they turned; and here they encountered a stout man with a bunch of whiskers on his face, and a bunch of keys in his hand. This fellow, being eager to extend all the courtesies of hospitality to his guest, led Mr Headstone down a flight of steps and into a stone cell. Here the pedagogue was obliged to turn out his pockets, and these being, as they usually were, empty, Mr Headstone was allowed to make himself as comfortable as he could on the stone flags and wait until morning.
Mr Charles Dickens
