“Come here, sir!” said Mr. Creakle, beckoning to me.
“Come here!” said the man with the wooden leg, repeating the gesture.
“I have the happiness of knowing your stepfather,” whispered Mr. Creakle, taking me by the ear; “and a worthy man he is, and a man of strong character. He knows me, and I know him. Do you know me! Hey?” said Mr. Creakle, pinching my ear with ferocious playfulness.
“Not yet, sir,” I said, flinching with the pain.
“Not yet! Hey?” repeated Mr. Creakle. “But you will soon. Hey?”
“You will soon. Hey?” repeated the man with the wooden leg. I afterward found that he generally acted, with his strong voice, as Mr. Creakle’s interpreter to the boys.
I was very much frightened, and said, I hoped so, if he pleased. I felt all this while as if my ear were blazing; he pinched it so hard.
“I’ll tell you what I am,” whispered Mr. Creakle, letting it go at last, with a screw at parting that brought the water to my eyes, “I’m a Tartar.”
Mr. Creakle proved to be as good as his word. He was a Tartar.
On the first day of school he revealed himself. His opening address was very brief and to the point.