'
'What's he been a doing of?' asked a labourer with a hod of bricks,
against whom and a fellow-labourer Mr Squeers had backed, on the first
jerk of the umbrella.
'Everything!' replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil in
a sort of rapturous trance. 'Everything--running away, sir--joining in
bloodthirsty attacks upon his master--there's nothing that's bad that he
hasn't done. Oh, what a delicious go is this here, good Lord!'
The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mental faculties as the
poor fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him. The coach came up;
Master Wackford entered; Squeers pushed in his prize, and following
close at his heels, pulled up the glasses. The coachman mounted his
box and drove slowly off, leaving the two bricklayers, and an old
apple-woman, and a town-made little boy returning from an evening
school, who had been the only witnesses of the scene, to meditate upon
it at their leisure.
Mr Squeers sat himself down on the opposite seat to the unfortunate
Smike, and, planting his hands firmly on his knees, looked at him for
some five minutes, when, seeming to recover from his trance, he uttered
a loud laugh, and slapped his old pupil's face several times--taking the
right and left sides alternately.
Pages:
872
873
874
875
876
877
878
879
880
881
882
883
884
885
886
887
888
889
890
891
892
893
894
895
896