of the
class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for
it's washing day to-morrow and they want the coppers filled."

So saying, he dismissed his first class to their experiments in
practical philosophy.

It was Squeers's custom to call the boys together, and make a sort of
report, after every half-yearly visit to the metropolis. They were
therefore soon recalled from the house, window, garden, stable, and cow
yard, and Mr. Squeers entered the room. A deathlike silence immediately
prevailed.

"Boys, I've been to London, and have returned to my family and you as
strong and as 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, 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. But I've had disappointments to contend against. Bolder's
father was two pound ten short. Where is Bolder?

"Here he is, please, sir."

"Come here, Bolder," said Squeers.

An unhealthy 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.

"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 the warts with an edifying aspect of horror and disgust.

"What do you call this, sir?"

"I can't help it, indeed, sir. 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, you're an incorrigible young scoundrel, and as the last
thrashing did you no good, we'll 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, rub away as hard as you like, you won't rub that off in a hurry.
Now let us see. A letter for Cobbey. Stand up, Cobbey. Oh! Cobbey's
grandmother is dead, and his uncle John has took to drinking, which is
all the news his sister sends, except eighteen pence, which will just
pay for that broken square of glass. Mrs. Squeers, my dear, will you
take the money?

"Graymarsh, he's the next. Stand up, G