‘So they used to say in that part of the country I come from,’ observed Peg, complacently, ‘but I think oil’s better.’
‘Better than what?’ roared Squeers, adding some rather strong language in an undertone.
‘No,’ said Peg, ‘of course not.’
‘I never saw such a monster as you are!’ muttered Squeers, looking as amiable as he possibly could the while; for Peg’s eye was upon him, and she was chuckling fearfully, as though in delight at having made a choice repartee, ‘Do you see this? This is a bottle.’
‘I see it,’ answered Peg.
‘Well, and do you see this?’ bawled Squeers. ‘This is a glass.’ Peg saw that too.
‘See here, then,’ said Squeers, accompanying his remarks with appropriate action, ‘I fill the glass from the bottle, and I say “Your health, Slider,” and empty it; then I rinse it genteelly with a little drop, which I’m forced to throw into the fire—hallo! we shall have the chimbley alight next—fill it again, and hand it over to you.’
‘Your health,’ said Peg.
‘She understands that, anyways,’ muttered Squeers, watching Mrs. Sliderskew as she dispatched her portion, and choked and gasped in a most awful manner after so doing. ‘Now then, let’s have a talk. How’s the rheumatics?’
Mrs. Sliderskew, with much blinking and chuckling, and with looks expressive of her strong admiration of Mr. Squeers, his person, manners, and conversation, replied that the rheumatics were better.