So saying, he dismissed the first class to their experiments in practical philosophy, and eyed Nicholas with a look, half cunning and half doubtful, as if he were not altogether certain what he might think of him by this time.
“That’s the way we do it, Nickleby,” he said, after a pause.
Nicholas shrugged his shoulders in a manner that was scarcely perceptible, and said he saw it was.
“And a very good way it is, too,” said Squeers. “Now, just take them fourteen little boys and hear them some reading, because, you know, you must begin to be useful. Idling about here won’t do.”
Mr. Squeers said this, as if it had suddenly occurred to him, either that he must not say too much to his assistant, or that his assistant did not say enough to him in praise of the establishment. The children were arranged in a semicircle round the new master, and he was soon listening to their dull, drawling, hesitating recital of those stories of engrossing interest which are to be found in the more antiquated spelling-books.
In this exciting occupation, the morning lagged heavily on. At one o’clock, the boys, having previously had their appetites thoroughly taken away by stir-about and potatoes, sat down in the kitchen to some hard salt beef, of which Nicholas was graciously permitted to take his portion to his own solitary desk, to eat it there in peace. After this, there was another hour of crouching in the schoolroom and shivering with cold, and then school began again.
It was Mr. Squeer’s custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis, regarding the relations and friends he had seen, the news he had heard, the letters he had brought down, the bills which had been paid, the accounts which had been left unpaid, and so forth. This solemn proceeding always took place in the afternoon of the day succeeding his return; perhaps, because the boys acquired strength of mind from the suspense of the morning, or, possibly, because Mr. Squeers himself acquired greater sternness and inflexibility from certain warm potations in which he was wont to indulge after his early dinner. Be this as it may, the boys were recalled from house-window, garden, stable, and cow-yard, and the school were assembled in full conclave, when Mr. Squeers, with a small bundle of papers in his hand, and Mrs. S. following with a pair of canes, entered the room and proclaimed silence.
“Let any boy speak a word without leave,” said Mr. Squeers mildly, “and I’ll take the skin off his back.”
This special proclamation had the desired effect, and a deathlike silence immediately prevailed, in the midst of which Mr. Squeers went on to say:
“Boys, I’ve been to London, and have returned to my family and you, as strong and well as ever.”
According to half-yearly custom, the boys gave three feeble cheers at this refreshing intelligence. Such cheers! Sighs of extra strength with the chill on.
“I have seen the parents of some boys,” continued Squeers, turning over his papers, “and they’re so glad to hear how their sons are getting on, that there’s no prospect at all of their going away, which of course is a very pleasant thing to reflect upon, for all parties.”
Two or three hands went to two or three eyes when Squeers said this, but the greater part of the young gentlemen having no particular parents to speak of, were wholly uninterested in the thing one way or other.
“I have had disappointments to contend against,” said Squeers, looking very grim; “Bolder’s father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?”
“Here he is, please sir,” rejoined twenty officious voices. Boys are very like men to be sure.
“Come here, Bolder,” said Squeers.
An unhealthy-looking boy, with warts all over his hands, stepped from his place to the master’s desk, and raised his eyes imploringly to Squeers’s face; his own, quite white from the rapid beating of his heart.
“Bolder,” said Squeers, speaking very slowly, for he was considering, as the saying goes, where to have him. “Bolder, if your father thinks that because—why, what’s this, sir?”
As Squeers spoke, he caught up the boy’s hand by the cuff of his jacket, and surveyed it with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.
“What do you call this, sir?” demanded the schoolmaster, administering a cut with the cane to expedite the reply.
“I can’t help it, indeed, sir,” rejoined the boy, crying. “They will come; it’s the dirty work I think, sir—at least I don’t know what it is, sir, but it’s not my fault.”
“Bolder,” said Squeers, tucking up his wristbands, and moistening the palm of his right hand to get a good grip of the cane, “you’re an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last thrashing did you no good, we must see what another will do towards beating it out of you.”
With this, and wholly disregarding a piteous cry for mercy, Mr. Squeers fell upon the boy and caned him soundly: not leaving off, indeed, until his arm was tired out.
“There,” said Squeers, when he had quite done; “rub away as hard as you like, you won’t rub that off in a hurry. Oh! you won’t hold that noise, won’t you? Put him out, Smike.”
The drudge knew better from long experience, than to hesitate about obeying, so he bundled the victim out by a side-door, and Mr. Squeers perched himself again on his own stool, supported by Mrs. Squeers, who occupied another at his side.
“Now let us see,” said Squeers. “A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey.”
Another boy stood up, and eyed the letter very hard while Squeers made a mental abstract of the same.
“Oh!” said Squeers: “Cobbey’s grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is all the news his sister
