At the
same moment, a small boy clung tight round his leg, and a shrill cry of
'Here he is, father! Hooray!' vibrated in his ears.
Smike knew that voice too well. He cast his despairing eyes downward
towards the form from which it had proceeded, and, shuddering from head
to foot, looked round. Mr Squeers had hooked him in the coat collar with
the handle of his umbrella, and was hanging on at the other end with all
his might and main. The cry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford,
who, regardless of all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the
tenacity of a bull-dog!
One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified
creature became utterly powerless and unable to utter a sound.
'Here's a go!' cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand-over-hand down
the umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had got tight hold of the
victim's collar. 'Here's a delicious go! Wackford, my boy, call up one
of them coaches.'
'A coach, father!' cried little Wackford.
'Yes, a coach, sir,' replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the
countenance of Smike. 'Damn the expense. Let's have him in a coach.
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