‘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. ‘We’ll try and find out.’