They were lost on Squeers, however, whose gaze was fastened on the
luckless Smike, as he inquired, according to custom in such cases,
whether he had anything to say for himself.
'Nothing, I suppose?' said Squeers, with a diabolical grin.
Smike glanced round, and his eye rested, for an instant, on Nicholas,
as if he had expected him to intercede; but his look was riveted on his
desk.
'Have you anything to say?' demanded Squeers again: giving his right arm
two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness. 'Stand a little
out of the way, Mrs Squeers, my dear; I've hardly got room enough.'
'Spare me, sir!' cried Smike.
'Oh! that's all, is it?' said Squeers. 'Yes, I'll flog you within an
inch of your life, and spare you that.'
'Ha, ha, ha,' laughed Mrs Squeers, 'that's a good 'un!'
'I was driven to do it,' said Smike faintly; and casting another
imploring look about him.
'Driven to do it, were you?' said Squeers. 'Oh! it wasn't your fault; it
was mine, I suppose--eh?'
'A nasty, ungrateful, pig-headed, brutish, obstinate, sneaking
dog,' exclaimed Mrs Squeers, taking Smike's head under her arm, and
administering a cuff at every epithet; 'what does he mean by that?'
'Stand aside, my dear,' replied Squeers.
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