"Eh," said Squeers, looking up. "Oh, it's you, is it?"
"Yes, sir," replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers. "Is there——"
"Well!" said Squeers.
"Have you—did anybody—has nothing been heard—about me?"
"Not a word," resumed Squeers, "and never will be. Now, this is a pretty sort of thing, isn't it, that you should have been left here, all these years, and no money paid after the first six—nor no notice taken, nor no clue to be got who you belong to? It's a pretty sort of thing that I should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one penny for it, isn't it?"
The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner, gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
The following morning, when Nicholas appeared downstairs, Mrs. Squeers was in a state of great excitement.
"I can't find the school spoon anywhere," she said anxiously.
"Never mind it, my dear," observed Squeers in a soothing manner; "it's of no consequence."
"No consequence? Why, how you talk!" retorted Mrs. Squeers sharply, "isn't it brimstone morning?"