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Updated: July 6, 2025
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.
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.
Seldom has a poor prisoner received sweeter sympathy, or more salutary counsel, than was given to Rodney within the walls of that old Arch-street jail, by his fellow-prisoner.
"What is your last name, Hank?" inquired Sam, after a few moments' pause. "Johnson," said Hank. "Ah! I know now what you did. I read it in the paper, just before I came in, and, somehow, I thought you was one of the larks as soon as I clapped eyes on you. "You see, Hank and some of his gang, watching about, saw a house in Arch-street, and noticed that it was empty.
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