III. OLIVER MAKES HIS WAY INTO GOOD SOCIETYBill Sikes and Toby Crackit were so hard pressed that they were soon forced to leave Oliver lying in a ditch. The hue and cry passed him to one side, leaving him alone and unconscious through the long cold night. Morning drew on apace. The rain came down thick and fast, but Oliver felt it not as it beat against him.At length a low cry of pain broke the stillness; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; and the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture. When he had at last done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with agony. Trembling in every joint from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.The rain was falling heavily now, but the cold drops roused him like whiplashes. He pressed forward with the last ounce of his strength, feeling that if he stopped he must surely die, and by chance reached the same house of the attempted burglary. He knew the place at once, but his strength was at an end, and he sank exhausted on the little portico by the door.The servants who presently opened the door were immensely surprised to find the wounded boy; and two of them were certain he was the same who had broken into the house. But in his pitiful condition they put him to bed and sent for a surgeon.A very kind-hearted lady, Mrs. Maylie, and her adopted niece Rose, lived here. They cared for Oliver tenderly; for, like his lost friend, Mr. Brownlow, they were greatly taken by his open face, and believed in him despite the strange story which he presently found strength to tell. With the aid of their friend the surgeon, they convinced the servants that a mistake had been made, and so Oliver was not taken to jail. Instead, he was received into this kindly home, and it really seemed that now his dark days were over at last.Oliver resumed the study of his beloved books, which he had begun with Mr. Brownlow. But he also spent much time in the open fields, and soon grew sturdy and strong, with the brown look of health in his face. Between him and Rose Maylie a tender affection sprang up. He was, in fact, her devoted knight.One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at his window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, by slow degrees he fell asleep.There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, or enable it to ramble at its pleasure.Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him."Hush, my dear!" he thought he heard the Jew say; "it is he, sure enough. Come away.""He!" the other man seemed to answer; "could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood among them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out!"The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear and started up.Good Heaven! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close that he could have almost touched him before he started back—with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his—there stood the Jew! And beside him were the scowling features of a dark man whom Oliver had seen only once, but had instinctively learned to fear.It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes, and they were gone. But they had recognized him, and he them. He knew they were once again lying in wait to seize him, and that his days of peace and happiness were numbered.Voice and motion came back to him with the fear; and leaping from the window he called loudly for help.Nevertheless, no trace of Fagin or the stranger could be found, though the search was pursued with haste; and Oliver's friends were forced to believe that it had been only a feverish dream.But Oliver had not been mistaken. The two figures at the window were really Fagin and a man named Monks, who for some mysterious reason had been the boy's most vindictive enemy. It was he who had found Oliver again and reported the fact to Fagin; and together they laid cunning plans to get him once more into their clutches.At this critical moment in Oliver's welfare, an unexpected friend to him appeared in the person of Nancy, the street-girl. She had bitterly repented her share in kidnapping him from Mr. Brownlow, and now longed for a chance to do him some service. The chance offered, when she happened to overhear the interview between Monks and the Jew. She could not understand all she heard, but she realized that the boy was in great danger unless she acted at once.Hastening to the home of Rose Maylie, Nancy contrived to see her alone and repeated word for word the conversation she had overheard. From the dark threats of this man Monks, it seemed that Oliver's very life was in danger, because of some secret connected with his birth. Nancy knew that it meant her own death also if her visit to Miss Maylie became known, but she could not remain silent.Miss Maylie listened to her story with horror and amazement. She realized that something must be done quickly, but did not know to whom to turn. In her perplexity Oliver made a discovery of great value to both of them. On the very day of Nancy's hurried visit and no less hurried departure he came running in, his eyes all aglow with excitement."I have seen him!" he exclaimed excitedly; "I knew that if I kept on looking, I should find him again, one day! I mean the gentleman who was so good to me—Mr. Brownlow!""Where?" asked Rose."Getting out of a coach," replied Oliver. "I didn't have the chance to speak to him, but I took the number of the house he went into. Here it is." And he flourished a scrap of paper delightedly. "Oh, let us go there at once!"Rose read the address eagerly, and decided to put the discovery to account. Not alone would Oliver be gratified, but Mr. Brownlow might be the very friend they needed at this momentous time."Quick!" she said; "tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are."Oliver needed no prompting to hasten, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way. When they arrived at the address noted, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing his friend to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat."Dear me," said the gentleman, hastily rising, with great politeness, "I beg your pardon, young lady—-I imagined it was some importunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray.""Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?" said Rose."That is my name.""I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally embarrassed; "but you once showed great kindness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again.""Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow."Oliver Twist, as you knew him," said Rose.Mr. Brownlow was naturally surprised, but said nothing for a few moments. Then looking straight into her eyes, he remarked quietly but earnestly, "Believe me, my dear young lady, if you can tell me good news of that child, or lift the shadow which rests upon his name, you will be doing me the greatest service."Rose at once related in a few words all that had befallen Oliver since leaving Mr. Brownlow's house; how he had searched for him but had only seen him that very day; and finally of the new danger which threatened the boy.You may believe that Mr. Brownlow sat very straight, upon the extreme edge of his chair, during the latter part of this recital."The poor lad!" he exclaimed; "but why have you not brought him with you?""I wished to talk with you alone about this plot. He does not know of it. But"—smilingly—"I believe he is now waiting in the coach at the door.""At this door?" cried Mr. Brownlow. And without another word he rushed from the room.In less than a minute he was back again, lugging Oliver in bodily and both laughing—yes, and shedding tears—at the same time.Then after the jolliest of visits, Rose and Oliver took their leave for the present; but not before Mr. Brownlow had told Rose privately that he would turn his whole attention to the new conspiracy.Nancy had promised to meet Rose on London Bridge, a few nights later, and Mr. Brownlow determined to be there also. In the meantime he made other plans for capturing the rogues.IV. THE END OF EVIL DAYSNow, unbeknown to Nancy, Fagin the Jew had become suspicious of her, and had set a spy upon her heels. This spy was none other than Noah Claypole, the undertaker's apprentice, whom Oliver had so soundly thrashed. Noah had lately come to London to try his fortune in any underhand way that might arise. The Jew was always on the lookout for just such fellows as he. So they soon struck a bargain.On the night when Nancy set forth to keep her appointment on the Bridge, Noah was kept busy darting from pillar to post, but all the time keeping her in sight. When she met Rose and Mr. Brownlow, the spy quickly slunk behind an abutment where he could hear every word of what she said. And you may be sure he lost no time in taking his story back to the Jew.Bill Sikes had just returned, in the early morning, from a house-breaking jaunt, and was as usual in an ugly mood. A word from the Jew about Nancy's defection set his brain on fire with hatred against the girl. He hastened to her room, and, disregarding all her appeals for mercy, struck her lifeless to the floor.This murder proved the beginning of the end for all the gang. Mr. Brownlow had already set the police to work, and now offered a large personal reward for Sikes's arrest. The murderer was tracked in and about the city for several days, until he finally hung himself in endeavoring to escape from the roof of a house.Fagin the Jew was captured at last, and for his share in this crime, and his other wickednesses was condemned to death. A great popular clamor had been aroused against him, and he was to be hung without delay.In the hope that the Jew would throw some light upon Monks and some secret papers which Mr. Brownlow had traced, that gentleman took Oliver with him to the prison to see Fagin on his last night upon earth."Is the young gentleman to come, too, sir?" said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. "It's not a sight for children, sir.""It is not indeed, my friend,", rejoined Mr. Brownlow; "but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now."These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiosity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, to the cell.The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision."Good boy, Charley—well done!"—he mumbled. "Oliver too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!"The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and, whispering to him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking."Take him away to bed!" cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this!""Fagin," said the jailer."That's me!" cried the Jew, falling, instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!""Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. "Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?""I sha'n't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?"As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there."Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him what you want—quick if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on.""You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks.""It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one—not one.""For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not tell a lie now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; and that there is no hope of any farther gain. Where are those papers?""Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper to you.""I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a firm voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand."The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you.""Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning.""Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to sleep—they'll believeyou. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!""Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of tears."That's right, that's right," said the Jew. "That'll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!""Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey."No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—""Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had better leave him."The door of the cell opened and the attendants returned."Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!"The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.And this—thought Oliver shudderingly—was the last of the Jew—the man from whose clutches he had so narrowly escaped!Noah Claypole turned state's evidence at this time, and thus escaped the law. Dawkins, the Artful Dodger, had been caught picking pockets and was transported from the country. Charley Bates was so unnerved by the fate of Nancy, and the swift punishment of his companions, that he reformed and became an honest, hard-working young man.And, finally, what of Monks? He was shadowed and seized by Mr. Brownlow's agents, and proved to be none other than the half-brother of Oliver Twist! Their father was dead, but he had left a will providing for the boy also. And it was on this account that Monks had wished to get him out of the way and had employed Fagin in trying to ruin the lad.The papers were found, as the Jew had indicated, and they not only cleared up Oliver's past history, but proved his right to a share in a considerable family estate. Mr. Brownlow had known Monks's father in their early days, and now used this knowledge to wring a full confession from the villain.Another strange secret came to light also, at this time. Rose Maylie was found to be a younger sister of Oliver's dead mother, and therefore the boy's own aunt."Not aunt!" cried Oliver, when he heard this amazing but delightful news; "I'll never call her aunt! Sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear darling Rose!"And the two orphans, no longer alone but united and surrounded by loving friends, were clasped in each other's arms.THE STORY OF SMIKE AND HIS TEACHERI. HOW NICHOLAS NICKLEBY CAME TO DOTHEBOYS HALL"Education.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary £5. A Master of Arts would be preferred."To Nicholas Nickleby, a young man of nineteen, who had come to London seeking his fortune, this advertisement in a daily paper seemed a godsend—that is, provided he could secure the position referred to in the last two lines. It is true the salary was not large; but he reflected that his board and living would be included, and that a young man of his education and ability would be bound to rise. He even fancied himself, in a rosy-colored future, at the head of this model school, Dotheboys Hall, in the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire.But it would not do to sit dreaming. Some one else might snap up this golden opportunity. Nicholas brushed his clothes carefully and lost no time in calling upon Mr. Squeers, at the tavern called the Saracen's Head.Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye which, while it was unquestionably useful, was decidedly not ornamental, being of a greenish gray and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street-door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his expression bordered closely on the villanous. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size; and he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic black.Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fireplaces, fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms. In a corner of the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched—his lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air—a diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident dread. Presently the boy chanced to give a violent sneeze."Hallo, sir!" growled the schoolmaster, turning round. "What's that, sir?""Nothing, please, sir," replied the little boy."Nothing, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Squeers."Please, sir, I sneezed," rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him."Oh! sneezed, did you?" retorted Mr. Squeers. "Then what did you say 'nothing' for, sir?"In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry; wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other."Wait till I get you down to Yorkshire, my young gentleman," said Mr. Squeers, "and then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise, sir?""Ye-ye-yes," sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard."Then do so at once, sir," said Squeers. "Do you hear?"The little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back; and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking, gave no farther vent to his emotions."Mr. Squeers," said the waiter, looking in at this juncture, "here's a gentleman asking for you at the bar.""Show the gentleman in, Richard," replied Mr. Squeers, in a soft voice. "Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel!"The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper, when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice to his youthful pupil."My dear child," said Mr. Squeers, "all people have their trials. This early trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst and your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? Nothing; less than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries—""Mr. Squeers, I believe," said Nicholas Nickleby, as that worthy man stopped to cough."The same, sir. What can I do for you?""I came in answer to an advertisement in this morning's paper," said Nicholas. "I believe you desire an assistant.""I do, sir," rejoined Mr. Squeers, coolly; "but if you are applying for the place, don't you think you're too young?""I hope not, sir, and I have a fair education. I could—""Could what?" interrupted the schoolmaster. "Could you lick the boys if they needed it?""I do not usually believe in that sort of punishment—" hesitated Nicholas."Could you do it?" urged Mr. Squeers."I think—if they needed it—I could lick anybody in your school," smiled Nicholas."Well, why didn't you say so? I guess I had better take you. I've got to leave town at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, and haven't time to look around. So be on hand sharp!"Nicholas thanked him and promised to be on hand.The next day he was as good as his word, and reached the tavern a little in advance of the appointed hour.He found Mr. Squeers sitting at breakfast, with the little boy before noticed, and four others who had turned up by some lucky chance since the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys."This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said he, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it."That's twopenn'orth, sir," replied the waiter."What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!" said Mr. Squeers, with a sigh. "Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?""To the wery top, sir?" inquired the waiter. "Why, the milk will be drownded.""Never you mind that," replied Mr. Squeers. "Serve it right for being so dear! You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?""Coming directly, sir.""You needn't hurry yourself," said Squeers; "there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas."Sit down, Mr. Nickleby," said Squeers. "Here we are, a breakfasting, you see!"Nicholas did not see that anybody was breakfasting except Mr. Squeers; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could."Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William?" said Squeers. "Very good; don't forget the bread and butter presently."At this fresh mention of the bread and butter the five little boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out with their eyes; meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water."Ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips, "here's richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?""Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas."When I say number one," pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the children, "the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?""Yes, sir," cried all the little boys with great eagerness."That's right," said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast; "keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby," said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.Nicholas murmured something—he knew not what—in reply; and the little boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which had by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation."Thank God for a good breakfast," said Squeers when he had finished. "Number one may take a drink."Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five."And now," said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for three into as many portions as there were children, "you had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off."Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat voraciously and in desperate haste; while the schoolmaster (who was in high good-humor after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and looked smilingly on. In a very short time the horn was heard."I thought it wouldn't be long," said Squeers, jumping up and producing a little basket from under the seat; "put what you haven't had time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road!"Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economical arrangements; but he had no time to reflect upon them, for the little boys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and this task was in his department. But soon they were all stowed away, and the coach started off with a flourish.The journey proved long and hard, however. They were detained several times by the bad roads and inclement weather, so that it was not until nightfall of the second day that they reached their destination."Jump out," said Squeers. "Hallo there! come and put this horse up. Be quick, will you!"While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries, Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking house, one story high, with a few straggling outbuildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a tall, lean boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth."Is that you, Smike?" cried Squeers."Yes, sir," replied the boy."Then why the devil didn't you come before?""Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire," answered Smike, with humility."Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?" demanded the schoolmaster, sharply."Only in the kitchen, sir," replied the boy. "Missus said, as I was sitting up, I might go in there for a warm.""Your Missus is a fool," retorted Squeers. "You'd have been a deuced deal more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage."By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn't any more corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front door a minute while he went round and let him in.A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas during the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled force when he was left alone. And as he looked up at the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild country round, covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had never experienced before.Presently he was ushered into a cheerless-looking parlor where stood a large, angular woman about half a head taller than Mr. Squeers."This is the new young man, my dear," said that gentleman."Oh," replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him coldly from top to toe."He'll take a meal with us to-night," said Squeers, "and go among the boys to-morrow morning. You can give him a shakedown here, to-night, can't you?""We must manage it somehow," replied the lady. "You don't much mind how you sleep, I suppose, sir?""No, indeed," replied Nicholas, "I am not particular.""That's lucky," said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady's humor was considered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.After some conversation between the master and mistress relative to the success of Mr. Squeers's trip, and the people who had paid, and the people who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the boy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different boys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if with a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look was a very painful one, and went to Nicholas's heart at once, for it told a long and very sad history.It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which formed his dress. Although he could not have been less than eighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit, such as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his thin body. In order that the lower part of his legs might be in perfect keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of boots, originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some stout farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. He was lame; and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, he glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him."What are you bothering about there, Smike?" cried Mrs. Squeers; "let the things alone, can't you?""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?""Devil a bit," replied Squeers, testily.The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved towards the door."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."I'll tell you what, Squeers," remarked his wife, as the door closed, "I think that young chap's turning silly.""I hope not," said the schoolmaster; "for he's a handy fellow out-of-doors, and worth his meat and drink anyway. I should think he'd have wit enough for us, though, if he was."Supper being over, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully and was of opinion that it was high time to go to bed. Upon this, Mrs. Squeers and a servant dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged them into a couch for Nicholas."We'll put you into a regular bedroom with the boys to-morrow, Nickleby," said Squeers. "Good-night. Seven o'clock, in the morning, mind."The next morning, when Nicholas appeared in the main room, he found Mrs. Squeers very much distressed."I can't find the school spoon," she said."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?""I forgot, my dear," rejoined Squeers; "yes, it certainly is. We purify the boys' bloods now and then, Nickleby.""Purify fiddlesticks' ends!" said his lady. "Don't think, young man, that we go to the expense of brimstone and molasses, just to purify them; because if you think we carry on the business in that way, you'll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly.""My dear," said Squeers, frowning. "Hem!""Oh! nonsense," rejoined Mrs. Squeers. "If the young man comes to be a teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don't want any foolery about the boys. They have the brimstone and treacle, partly because if they hadn't something or other in the way of medicine they'd be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So it does them good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough, I'm sure."A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless, Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers and boxed by Mr. Squeers; which course of treatment brightening his intellects, enabled him to suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket—as indeed turned out to be the case. But as Mrs. Squeers had previously protested that she was quite certain she had not got it, Smike received another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his mistress; so that he gained nothing of advantage by his idea."But come," said Squeers, "let's go to the schoolroom; and lend me a hand with my school-coat, will you?"Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old shooting-jacket; and Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way across a yard, to a door in the rear of the house."There," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together; "this is our shop, Nickleby!"It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, stopped up with old copybooks and paper. There were two rickety desks, cut and notched, and inked in every possible way; two or three forms; a detached desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by crossbeams and rafters, and the walls were so stained and discolored that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash.But the pupils! How the last faint traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay around! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the countenances of old men, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long, meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together.
III. OLIVER MAKES HIS WAY INTO GOOD SOCIETY
Bill Sikes and Toby Crackit were so hard pressed that they were soon forced to leave Oliver lying in a ditch. The hue and cry passed him to one side, leaving him alone and unconscious through the long cold night. Morning drew on apace. The rain came down thick and fast, but Oliver felt it not as it beat against him.
At length a low cry of pain broke the stillness; and uttering it, the boy awoke. His left arm, rudely bandaged in a shawl, hung heavy and useless at his side; and the bandage was saturated with blood. He was so weak that he could scarcely raise himself into a sitting posture. When he had at last done so, he looked feebly round for help, and groaned with agony. Trembling in every joint from cold and exhaustion, he made an effort to stand upright; but, shuddering from head to foot, fell prostrate on the ground.
After a short return of the stupor in which he had been so long plunged, Oliver got upon his feet, and essayed to walk. His head was dizzy, and he staggered to and fro like a drunken man. But he kept up, nevertheless, and, with his head drooping languidly on his breast, went stumbling onward, he knew not whither.
The rain was falling heavily now, but the cold drops roused him like whiplashes. He pressed forward with the last ounce of his strength, feeling that if he stopped he must surely die, and by chance reached the same house of the attempted burglary. He knew the place at once, but his strength was at an end, and he sank exhausted on the little portico by the door.
The servants who presently opened the door were immensely surprised to find the wounded boy; and two of them were certain he was the same who had broken into the house. But in his pitiful condition they put him to bed and sent for a surgeon.
A very kind-hearted lady, Mrs. Maylie, and her adopted niece Rose, lived here. They cared for Oliver tenderly; for, like his lost friend, Mr. Brownlow, they were greatly taken by his open face, and believed in him despite the strange story which he presently found strength to tell. With the aid of their friend the surgeon, they convinced the servants that a mistake had been made, and so Oliver was not taken to jail. Instead, he was received into this kindly home, and it really seemed that now his dark days were over at last.
Oliver resumed the study of his beloved books, which he had begun with Mr. Brownlow. But he also spent much time in the open fields, and soon grew sturdy and strong, with the brown look of health in his face. Between him and Rose Maylie a tender affection sprang up. He was, in fact, her devoted knight.
One beautiful evening, when the first shades of twilight were beginning to settle upon the earth, Oliver sat at his window, intent upon his books. He had been poring over them for some time; and, as the day had been uncommonly sultry, and he had exerted himself a great deal, by slow degrees he fell asleep.
There is a kind of sleep that steals upon us sometimes, which, while it holds the body prisoner, does not free the mind from a sense of things about it, or enable it to ramble at its pleasure.
Oliver knew, perfectly well, that he was in his own little room; that his books were lying on the table before him; that the sweet air was stirring among the creeping plants outside. And yet he was asleep. Suddenly, the scene changed; the air became close and confined; and he thought, with a glow of terror, that he was in the Jew's house again. There sat the hideous old man, in his accustomed corner, pointing at him, and whispering to another man, with his face averted, who sat beside him.
"Hush, my dear!" he thought he heard the Jew say; "it is he, sure enough. Come away."
"He!" the other man seemed to answer; "could I mistake him, think you? If a crowd of ghosts were to put themselves into his exact shape, and he stood among them, there is something that would tell me how to point him out!"
The man seemed to say this with such dreadful hatred, that Oliver awoke with the fear and started up.
Good Heaven! what was that which sent the blood tingling to his heart, and deprived him of his voice and of power to move! There—there—at the window—close before him—so close that he could have almost touched him before he started back—with his eyes peering into the room, and meeting his—there stood the Jew! And beside him were the scowling features of a dark man whom Oliver had seen only once, but had instinctively learned to fear.
It was but an instant, a glance, a flash, before his eyes, and they were gone. But they had recognized him, and he them. He knew they were once again lying in wait to seize him, and that his days of peace and happiness were numbered.
Voice and motion came back to him with the fear; and leaping from the window he called loudly for help.
Nevertheless, no trace of Fagin or the stranger could be found, though the search was pursued with haste; and Oliver's friends were forced to believe that it had been only a feverish dream.
But Oliver had not been mistaken. The two figures at the window were really Fagin and a man named Monks, who for some mysterious reason had been the boy's most vindictive enemy. It was he who had found Oliver again and reported the fact to Fagin; and together they laid cunning plans to get him once more into their clutches.
At this critical moment in Oliver's welfare, an unexpected friend to him appeared in the person of Nancy, the street-girl. She had bitterly repented her share in kidnapping him from Mr. Brownlow, and now longed for a chance to do him some service. The chance offered, when she happened to overhear the interview between Monks and the Jew. She could not understand all she heard, but she realized that the boy was in great danger unless she acted at once.
Hastening to the home of Rose Maylie, Nancy contrived to see her alone and repeated word for word the conversation she had overheard. From the dark threats of this man Monks, it seemed that Oliver's very life was in danger, because of some secret connected with his birth. Nancy knew that it meant her own death also if her visit to Miss Maylie became known, but she could not remain silent.
Miss Maylie listened to her story with horror and amazement. She realized that something must be done quickly, but did not know to whom to turn. In her perplexity Oliver made a discovery of great value to both of them. On the very day of Nancy's hurried visit and no less hurried departure he came running in, his eyes all aglow with excitement.
"I have seen him!" he exclaimed excitedly; "I knew that if I kept on looking, I should find him again, one day! I mean the gentleman who was so good to me—Mr. Brownlow!"
"Where?" asked Rose.
"Getting out of a coach," replied Oliver. "I didn't have the chance to speak to him, but I took the number of the house he went into. Here it is." And he flourished a scrap of paper delightedly. "Oh, let us go there at once!"
Rose read the address eagerly, and decided to put the discovery to account. Not alone would Oliver be gratified, but Mr. Brownlow might be the very friend they needed at this momentous time.
"Quick!" she said; "tell them to fetch a hackney-coach, and be ready to go with me. I will take you there directly, without a minute's loss of time. I will only tell my aunt that we are going out for an hour, and be ready as soon as you are."
Oliver needed no prompting to hasten, and in little more than five minutes they were on their way. When they arrived at the address noted, Rose left Oliver in the coach, under pretence of preparing his friend to receive him; and sending up her card by the servant, requested to see Mr. Brownlow on very pressing business. The servant soon returned, to beg that she would walk upstairs; and following him into an upper room, Miss Maylie was presented to an elderly gentleman of benevolent appearance, in a bottle-green coat.
"Dear me," said the gentleman, hastily rising, with great politeness, "I beg your pardon, young lady—-I imagined it was some importunate person who—I beg you will excuse me. Be seated, pray."
"Mr. Brownlow, I believe, sir?" said Rose.
"That is my name."
"I shall surprise you very much, I have no doubt," said Rose, naturally embarrassed; "but you once showed great kindness to a very dear young friend of mine, and I am sure you will take an interest in hearing of him again."
"Indeed!" said Mr. Brownlow.
"Oliver Twist, as you knew him," said Rose.
Mr. Brownlow was naturally surprised, but said nothing for a few moments. Then looking straight into her eyes, he remarked quietly but earnestly, "Believe me, my dear young lady, if you can tell me good news of that child, or lift the shadow which rests upon his name, you will be doing me the greatest service."
Rose at once related in a few words all that had befallen Oliver since leaving Mr. Brownlow's house; how he had searched for him but had only seen him that very day; and finally of the new danger which threatened the boy.
You may believe that Mr. Brownlow sat very straight, upon the extreme edge of his chair, during the latter part of this recital.
"The poor lad!" he exclaimed; "but why have you not brought him with you?"
"I wished to talk with you alone about this plot. He does not know of it. But"—smilingly—"I believe he is now waiting in the coach at the door."
"At this door?" cried Mr. Brownlow. And without another word he rushed from the room.
In less than a minute he was back again, lugging Oliver in bodily and both laughing—yes, and shedding tears—at the same time.
Then after the jolliest of visits, Rose and Oliver took their leave for the present; but not before Mr. Brownlow had told Rose privately that he would turn his whole attention to the new conspiracy.
Nancy had promised to meet Rose on London Bridge, a few nights later, and Mr. Brownlow determined to be there also. In the meantime he made other plans for capturing the rogues.
IV. THE END OF EVIL DAYS
Now, unbeknown to Nancy, Fagin the Jew had become suspicious of her, and had set a spy upon her heels. This spy was none other than Noah Claypole, the undertaker's apprentice, whom Oliver had so soundly thrashed. Noah had lately come to London to try his fortune in any underhand way that might arise. The Jew was always on the lookout for just such fellows as he. So they soon struck a bargain.
On the night when Nancy set forth to keep her appointment on the Bridge, Noah was kept busy darting from pillar to post, but all the time keeping her in sight. When she met Rose and Mr. Brownlow, the spy quickly slunk behind an abutment where he could hear every word of what she said. And you may be sure he lost no time in taking his story back to the Jew.
Bill Sikes had just returned, in the early morning, from a house-breaking jaunt, and was as usual in an ugly mood. A word from the Jew about Nancy's defection set his brain on fire with hatred against the girl. He hastened to her room, and, disregarding all her appeals for mercy, struck her lifeless to the floor.
This murder proved the beginning of the end for all the gang. Mr. Brownlow had already set the police to work, and now offered a large personal reward for Sikes's arrest. The murderer was tracked in and about the city for several days, until he finally hung himself in endeavoring to escape from the roof of a house.
Fagin the Jew was captured at last, and for his share in this crime, and his other wickednesses was condemned to death. A great popular clamor had been aroused against him, and he was to be hung without delay.
In the hope that the Jew would throw some light upon Monks and some secret papers which Mr. Brownlow had traced, that gentleman took Oliver with him to the prison to see Fagin on his last night upon earth.
"Is the young gentleman to come, too, sir?" said the man whose duty it was to conduct them. "It's not a sight for children, sir."
"It is not indeed, my friend,", rejoined Mr. Brownlow; "but my business with this man is intimately connected with him; and as this child has seen him in the full career of his success and villany, I think it well—even at the cost of some pain and fear—that he should see him now."
These few words had been said apart, so as to be inaudible to Oliver. The man touched his hat; and glancing at Oliver with some curiosity, opened another gate, opposite to that by which they had entered, and led them on, through dark and winding ways, to the cell.
The condemned criminal was seated on his bed, rocking himself from side to side, with a countenance more like that of a snared beast than the face of a man. His mind was evidently wandering to his old life, for he continued to mutter, without appearing conscious of their presence otherwise than as a part of his vision.
"Good boy, Charley—well done!"—he mumbled. "Oliver too, ha! ha! ha! Oliver too—quite the gentleman now—quite the—take that boy away to bed!"
The jailer took the disengaged hand of Oliver, and, whispering to him not to be alarmed, looked on without speaking.
"Take him away to bed!" cried the Jew. "Do you hear me, some of you? He has been the—the—somehow the cause of all this!"
"Fagin," said the jailer.
"That's me!" cried the Jew, falling, instantly, into the attitude of listening he had assumed upon his trial. "An old man, my Lord; a very old, old man!"
"Here," said the turnkey, laying his hand upon his breast to keep him down. "Here's somebody wants to see you, to ask you some questions, I suppose. Fagin, Fagin! Are you a man?"
"I sha'n't be one long," replied the Jew, looking up with a face retaining no human expression but rage and terror. "Strike them all dead! What right have they to butcher me?"
As he spoke he caught sight of Oliver and Mr. Brownlow. Shrinking to the farthest corner of the seat, he demanded to know what they wanted there.
"Steady," said the turnkey, still holding him down. "Now, sir, tell him what you want—quick if you please, for he grows worse as the time gets on."
"You have some papers," said Mr. Brownlow, advancing, "which were placed in your hands, for better security, by a man called Monks."
"It's all a lie together," replied the Jew. "I haven't one—not one."
"For the love of God," said Mr. Brownlow, solemnly, "do not tell a lie now, upon the very verge of death; but tell me where they are. You know that Sikes is dead; and that there is no hope of any farther gain. Where are those papers?"
"Oliver," cried the Jew, beckoning to him. "Here, here! Let me whisper to you."
"I am not afraid," said Oliver, in a firm voice, as he relinquished Mr. Brownlow's hand.
"The papers," said the Jew, drawing him towards him, "are in a canvas bag, in a hole a little way up the chimney in the top front room. I want to talk to you, my dear. I want to talk to you."
"Yes, yes," returned Oliver. "Let me say a prayer. Do! Let me say one prayer. Say only one, upon your knees, with me, and we will talk till morning."
"Outside, outside," replied the Jew, pushing the boy before him towards the door, and looking vacantly over his head. "Say I've gone to sleep—they'll believeyou. You can get me out, if you take me so. Now then, now then!"
"Oh! God forgive this wretched man!" cried the boy, with a burst of tears.
"That's right, that's right," said the Jew. "That'll help us on. This door first. If I shake and tremble, as we pass the gallows, don't you mind, but hurry on. Now, now, now!"
"Have you nothing else to ask him, sir?" inquired the turnkey.
"No other question," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If I hoped we could recall him to a sense of his position—"
"Nothing will do that, sir," replied the man, shaking his head. "You had better leave him."
The door of the cell opened and the attendants returned.
"Press on, press on," cried the Jew. "Softly, but not so slow. Faster, faster!"
The men laid hands upon him, and disengaging Oliver from his grasp, held him back. He struggled with the power of desperation for an instant, and then sent up cry upon cry that penetrated even those massive walls and rang in their ears until they reached the open yard.
And this—thought Oliver shudderingly—was the last of the Jew—the man from whose clutches he had so narrowly escaped!
Noah Claypole turned state's evidence at this time, and thus escaped the law. Dawkins, the Artful Dodger, had been caught picking pockets and was transported from the country. Charley Bates was so unnerved by the fate of Nancy, and the swift punishment of his companions, that he reformed and became an honest, hard-working young man.
And, finally, what of Monks? He was shadowed and seized by Mr. Brownlow's agents, and proved to be none other than the half-brother of Oliver Twist! Their father was dead, but he had left a will providing for the boy also. And it was on this account that Monks had wished to get him out of the way and had employed Fagin in trying to ruin the lad.
The papers were found, as the Jew had indicated, and they not only cleared up Oliver's past history, but proved his right to a share in a considerable family estate. Mr. Brownlow had known Monks's father in their early days, and now used this knowledge to wring a full confession from the villain.
Another strange secret came to light also, at this time. Rose Maylie was found to be a younger sister of Oliver's dead mother, and therefore the boy's own aunt.
"Not aunt!" cried Oliver, when he heard this amazing but delightful news; "I'll never call her aunt! Sister, my own dear sister, that something taught my heart to love so dearly from the first! Rose, dear darling Rose!"
And the two orphans, no longer alone but united and surrounded by loving friends, were clasped in each other's arms.
THE STORY OF SMIKE AND HIS TEACHER
I. HOW NICHOLAS NICKLEBY CAME TO DOTHEBOYS HALL
"Education.—At Mr. Wackford Squeers's Academy, Dotheboys Hall, at the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, Youth are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries, instructed in all languages living and dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, astronomy, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single stick (if required), writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classical literature. Terms, twenty guineas per annum. No extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled. Mr. Squeers is in town, and attends daily, from one till four, at the Saracen's Head, Snow Hill. N.B. An able assistant wanted. Annual salary £5. A Master of Arts would be preferred."
To Nicholas Nickleby, a young man of nineteen, who had come to London seeking his fortune, this advertisement in a daily paper seemed a godsend—that is, provided he could secure the position referred to in the last two lines. It is true the salary was not large; but he reflected that his board and living would be included, and that a young man of his education and ability would be bound to rise. He even fancied himself, in a rosy-colored future, at the head of this model school, Dotheboys Hall, in the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire.
But it would not do to sit dreaming. Some one else might snap up this golden opportunity. Nicholas brushed his clothes carefully and lost no time in calling upon Mr. Squeers, at the tavern called the Saracen's Head.
Mr. Squeers's appearance was not prepossessing. He had but one eye which, while it was unquestionably useful, was decidedly not ornamental, being of a greenish gray and in shape resembling the fan-light of a street-door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled and puckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance, especially when he smiled, at which times his expression bordered closely on the villanous. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below the middle size; and he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suit of scholastic black.
Mr. Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-room fireplaces, fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms. In a corner of the seat was a very small deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord; and on the trunk was perched—his lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousers dangling in the air—a diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawn up to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who glanced timidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident dread. Presently the boy chanced to give a violent sneeze.
"Hallo, sir!" growled the schoolmaster, turning round. "What's that, sir?"
"Nothing, please, sir," replied the little boy.
"Nothing, sir!" exclaimed Mr. Squeers.
"Please, sir, I sneezed," rejoined the boy, trembling till the little trunk shook under him.
"Oh! sneezed, did you?" retorted Mr. Squeers. "Then what did you say 'nothing' for, sir?"
In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began to cry; wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of his face, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.
"Wait till I get you down to Yorkshire, my young gentleman," said Mr. Squeers, "and then I'll give you the rest. Will you hold that noise, sir?"
"Ye-ye-yes," sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hard.
"Then do so at once, sir," said Squeers. "Do you hear?"
The little boy rubbed his face harder, as if to keep the tears back; and, beyond alternately sniffing and choking, gave no farther vent to his emotions.
"Mr. Squeers," said the waiter, looking in at this juncture, "here's a gentleman asking for you at the bar."
"Show the gentleman in, Richard," replied Mr. Squeers, in a soft voice. "Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel!"
The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fierce whisper, when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, Mr. Squeers feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, and offering benevolent advice to his youthful pupil.
"My dear child," said Mr. Squeers, "all people have their trials. This early trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst and your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it? Nothing; less than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but you will have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs. Squeers. At the delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries—"
"Mr. Squeers, I believe," said Nicholas Nickleby, as that worthy man stopped to cough.
"The same, sir. What can I do for you?"
"I came in answer to an advertisement in this morning's paper," said Nicholas. "I believe you desire an assistant."
"I do, sir," rejoined Mr. Squeers, coolly; "but if you are applying for the place, don't you think you're too young?"
"I hope not, sir, and I have a fair education. I could—"
"Could what?" interrupted the schoolmaster. "Could you lick the boys if they needed it?"
"I do not usually believe in that sort of punishment—" hesitated Nicholas.
"Could you do it?" urged Mr. Squeers.
"I think—if they needed it—I could lick anybody in your school," smiled Nicholas.
"Well, why didn't you say so? I guess I had better take you. I've got to leave town at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, and haven't time to look around. So be on hand sharp!"
Nicholas thanked him and promised to be on hand.
The next day he was as good as his word, and reached the tavern a little in advance of the appointed hour.
He found Mr. Squeers sitting at breakfast, with the little boy before noticed, and four others who had turned up by some lucky chance since the interview of the previous day, ranged in a row on the opposite seat. Mr. Squeers had before him a small measure of coffee, a plate of hot toast, and a cold round of beef; but he was at that moment intent on preparing breakfast for the little boys.
"This is twopenn'orth of milk, is it, waiter?" said he, looking down into a large blue mug, and slanting it gently, so as to get an accurate view of the quantity of liquid contained in it.
"That's twopenn'orth, sir," replied the waiter.
"What a rare article milk is, to be sure, in London!" said Mr. Squeers, with a sigh. "Just fill that mug up with lukewarm water, William, will you?"
"To the wery top, sir?" inquired the waiter. "Why, the milk will be drownded."
"Never you mind that," replied Mr. Squeers. "Serve it right for being so dear! You ordered that thick bread and butter for three, did you?"
"Coming directly, sir."
"You needn't hurry yourself," said Squeers; "there's plenty of time. Conquer your passions, boys, and don't be eager after vittles." As he uttered this moral precept, Mr. Squeers took a large bite out of the cold beef, and recognized Nicholas.
"Sit down, Mr. Nickleby," said Squeers. "Here we are, a breakfasting, you see!"
Nicholas did not see that anybody was breakfasting except Mr. Squeers; but he bowed with all becoming reverence, and looked as cheerful as he could.
"Oh! that's the milk and water, is it, William?" said Squeers. "Very good; don't forget the bread and butter presently."
At this fresh mention of the bread and butter the five little boys looked very eager, and followed the waiter out with their eyes; meanwhile Mr. Squeers tasted the milk and water.
"Ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips, "here's richness! Think of the many beggars and orphans in the streets that would be glad of this, little boys. A shocking thing hunger is, isn't it, Mr. Nickleby?"
"Very shocking, sir," said Nicholas.
"When I say number one," pursued Mr. Squeers, putting the mug before the children, "the boy on the left hand nearest the window may take a drink; and when I say number two, the boy next him will go in, and so till we come to number five, which is the last boy. Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir," cried all the little boys with great eagerness.
"That's right," said Squeers, calmly getting on with his breakfast; "keep ready till I tell you to begin. Subdue your appetites, my dears, and you've conquered human natur. This is the way we inculcate strength of mind, Mr. Nickleby," said the schoolmaster, turning to Nicholas, and speaking with his mouth very full of beef and toast.
Nicholas murmured something—he knew not what—in reply; and the little boys, dividing their gaze between the mug, the bread and butter (which had by this time arrived), and every morsel which Mr. Squeers took into his mouth, remained with strained eyes in torments of expectation.
"Thank God for a good breakfast," said Squeers when he had finished. "Number one may take a drink."
Number one seized the mug ravenously, and had just drunk enough to make him wish for more, when Mr. Squeers gave the signal for number two, who gave up at the same interesting moment to number three; and the process was repeated until the milk and water terminated with number five.
"And now," said the schoolmaster, dividing the bread and butter for three into as many portions as there were children, "you had better look sharp with your breakfast, for the horn will blow in a minute or two, and then every boy leaves off."
Permission being thus given to fall to, the boys began to eat voraciously and in desperate haste; while the schoolmaster (who was in high good-humor after his meal) picked his teeth with a fork, and looked smilingly on. In a very short time the horn was heard.
"I thought it wouldn't be long," said Squeers, jumping up and producing a little basket from under the seat; "put what you haven't had time to eat in here, boys! You'll want it on the road!"
Nicholas was considerably startled by these very economical arrangements; but he had no time to reflect upon them, for the little boys had to be got up to the top of the coach, and this task was in his department. But soon they were all stowed away, and the coach started off with a flourish.
The journey proved long and hard, however. They were detained several times by the bad roads and inclement weather, so that it was not until nightfall of the second day that they reached their destination.
"Jump out," said Squeers. "Hallo there! come and put this horse up. Be quick, will you!"
While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatient cries, Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long, cold-looking house, one story high, with a few straggling outbuildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapse of a minute or two, the noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gate was heard, and presently a tall, lean boy, with a lantern in his hand, issued forth.
"Is that you, Smike?" cried Squeers.
"Yes, sir," replied the boy.
"Then why the devil didn't you come before?"
"Please, sir, I fell asleep over the fire," answered Smike, with humility.
"Fire! what fire? Where's there a fire?" demanded the schoolmaster, sharply.
"Only in the kitchen, sir," replied the boy. "Missus said, as I was sitting up, I might go in there for a warm."
"Your Missus is a fool," retorted Squeers. "You'd have been a deuced deal more wakeful in the cold, I'll engage."
By this time Mr. Squeers had dismounted; and after ordering the boy to see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn't any more corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front door a minute while he went round and let him in.
A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowding upon Nicholas during the whole journey, thronged into his mind with redoubled force when he was left alone. And as he looked up at the dreary house and dark windows, and upon the wild country round, covered with snow, he felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had never experienced before.
Presently he was ushered into a cheerless-looking parlor where stood a large, angular woman about half a head taller than Mr. Squeers.
"This is the new young man, my dear," said that gentleman.
"Oh," replied Mrs. Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, and eyeing him coldly from top to toe.
"He'll take a meal with us to-night," said Squeers, "and go among the boys to-morrow morning. You can give him a shakedown here, to-night, can't you?"
"We must manage it somehow," replied the lady. "You don't much mind how you sleep, I suppose, sir?"
"No, indeed," replied Nicholas, "I am not particular."
"That's lucky," said Mrs. Squeers. And as the lady's humor was considered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr. Squeers laughed heartily, and seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.
After some conversation between the master and mistress relative to the success of Mr. Squeers's trip, and the people who had paid, and the people who had made default in payment, a young servant girl brought in a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef, which being set upon the table, the boy Smike appeared with a jug of ale.
Mr. Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters to different boys, and other small documents, which he had brought down in them. The boy glanced, with an anxious and timid expression, at the papers, as if with a sickly hope that one among them might relate to him. The look was a very painful one, and went to Nicholas's heart at once, for it told a long and very sad history.
It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments which formed his dress. Although he could not have been less than eighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore a skeleton suit, such as is usually put upon very little boys, and which, though most absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quite wide enough for his thin body. In order that the lower part of his legs might be in perfect keeping with this singular dress, he had a very large pair of boots, originally made for tops, which might have been once worn by some stout farmer, but were now too patched and tattered for a beggar. He was lame; and as he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, he glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, that Nicholas could hardly bear to watch him.
"What are you bothering about there, Smike?" cried Mrs. Squeers; "let the things alone, can't you?"
"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?"
"Devil a bit," replied Squeers, testily.
The lad withdrew his eyes, and, putting his hand to his face, moved towards the door.
"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.
"I'll tell you what, Squeers," remarked his wife, as the door closed, "I think that young chap's turning silly."
"I hope not," said the schoolmaster; "for he's a handy fellow out-of-doors, and worth his meat and drink anyway. I should think he'd have wit enough for us, though, if he was."
Supper being over, Mr. Squeers yawned fearfully and was of opinion that it was high time to go to bed. Upon this, Mrs. Squeers and a servant dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple of blankets, and arranged them into a couch for Nicholas.
"We'll put you into a regular bedroom with the boys to-morrow, Nickleby," said Squeers. "Good-night. Seven o'clock, in the morning, mind."
The next morning, when Nicholas appeared in the main room, he found Mrs. Squeers very much distressed.
"I can't find the school spoon," she said.
"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?"
"I forgot, my dear," rejoined Squeers; "yes, it certainly is. We purify the boys' bloods now and then, Nickleby."
"Purify fiddlesticks' ends!" said his lady. "Don't think, young man, that we go to the expense of brimstone and molasses, just to purify them; because if you think we carry on the business in that way, you'll find yourself mistaken, and so I tell you plainly."
"My dear," said Squeers, frowning. "Hem!"
"Oh! nonsense," rejoined Mrs. Squeers. "If the young man comes to be a teacher here, let him understand, at once, that we don't want any foolery about the boys. They have the brimstone and treacle, partly because if they hadn't something or other in the way of medicine they'd be always ailing and giving a world of trouble, and partly because it spoils their appetites and comes cheaper than breakfast and dinner. So it does them good and us good at the same time, and that's fair enough, I'm sure."
A vast deal of searching and rummaging ensued, and it proving fruitless, Smike was called in, and pushed by Mrs. Squeers and boxed by Mr. Squeers; which course of treatment brightening his intellects, enabled him to suggest that possibly Mrs. Squeers might have the spoon in her pocket—as indeed turned out to be the case. But as Mrs. Squeers had previously protested that she was quite certain she had not got it, Smike received another box on the ear for presuming to contradict his mistress; so that he gained nothing of advantage by his idea.
"But come," said Squeers, "let's go to the schoolroom; and lend me a hand with my school-coat, will you?"
Nicholas assisted his master to put on an old shooting-jacket; and Squeers, arming himself with his cane, led the way across a yard, to a door in the rear of the house.
"There," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together; "this is our shop, Nickleby!"
It was such a crowded scene, and there were so many objects to attract attention, that, at first, Nicholas stared about him, really without seeing anything at all. By degrees, however, the place resolved itself into a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, stopped up with old copybooks and paper. There were two rickety desks, cut and notched, and inked in every possible way; two or three forms; a detached desk for Squeers, and another for his assistant. The ceiling was supported, like that of a barn, by crossbeams and rafters, and the walls were so stained and discolored that it was impossible to tell whether they had ever been touched with paint or whitewash.
But the pupils! How the last faint traces of hope, the remotest glimmering of any good to be derived from his efforts in this den, faded from the mind of Nicholas as he looked in dismay around! Pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, children with the countenances of old men, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long, meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies, all crowded on the view together.