his dinner,
and further strengthened himself by an extra libation or so, made his
appearance (accompanied by his amiable partner) with a countenance of
portentous import, and a fearful instrument of flagellation, strong,
supple, wax-ended, and new,--in short, purchased that morning, expressly
for the occasion.

'Is every boy here?' asked Squeers, in a tremendous voice.

Every boy was there, but every boy was afraid to speak, so Squeers
glared along the lines to assure himself; and every eye drooped, and
every head cowered down, as he did so.

'Each boy keep his place,' said Squeers, administering his favourite
blow to the desk, and regarding with gloomy satisfaction the universal
start which it never failed to occasion. 'Nickleby! to your desk, sir.'

It was remarked by more than one small observer, that there was a very
curious and unusual expression in the usher's face; but he took his
seat, without opening his lips in reply. Squeers, casting a triumphant
glance at his assistant and a look of most comprehensive despotism on
the boys, left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, dragging
Smike by the collar--or rather by that fragment of his jacket which was
nearest the place where his collar would have been, had he boasted such
a decoration.

In any other place, the appearance of the wretched, jaded, spiritless
object would have occasioned a murmur of compassion and remonstrance. It
had some effect, even there; for the lookers-on moved uneasily in their
seats; and a few of the boldest ventured to steal looks at each other,
expressive of indignation and pity.

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 cast