'Stop thief! Stop thief!' The cry is taken up by a hundred
voices, and the crowd accumulate at every turning. Away they
fly, splashing through the mud, and rattling along the pavements:
up go the windows, out run the people, onward bear the mob, a
whole audience desert Punch in the very thickest of the plot,
and, joining the rushing throng, swell the shout, and lend fresh
vigour to the cry, 'Stop thief! Stop thief!'

'Stop thief! Stop thief!' There is a passion FOR _hunting_
_something_ deeply implanted in the human breast. One wretched
breathless child, panting with exhaustion; terror in his looks;
agony in his eyes; large drops of perspiration streaming down
his face; strains every nerve to make head upon his pursuers; and
as they follow on his track, and gain upon him every instant,
they hail his decreasing strength with joy. 'Stop thief!' Ay,
stop him for God's sake, were it only in mercy!

Stopped at last! A clever blow. He is down upon the pavement;
and the crowd eagerly gather round him: each new comer, jostling
and struggling with the others to catch a glimpse. 'Stand
aside!' 'Give him a little air!' 'Nonsense! he don't deserve
it.' 'Where's the gentleman?' 'Here his is, coming down the
street.' 'Make room there for the gentleman!' 'Is this the boy,
sir!' 'Yes.'

Oliver lay, covered with mud and dust, and bleeding from the
mouth, looking wildly round upon the heap of faces that
surrounded him, when the old gentleman was officiously dragged
and pushed into the circle by the foremost of the pursuers.