Mr and Mrs Squeers at Home.

　　Mr Squeers, being safely landed, left Nicholas and theboys standing with the luggage in the road, to amusethemselves by looking at the coach as it changedhorses, while he ran into the tavern and went through the leg-stretching process at the bar. After some minutes, he returned,with his legs thoroughly stretched, if the hue of his nose and ashort hiccup afforded any criterion; and at the same time therecame out of the yard a rusty pony-chaise, and a cart, driven by twolabouring men.

　　‘Put the boys and the boxes into the cart,’ said Squeers, rubbinghis hands; ‘and this young man and me will go on in the chaise.

　　Get in, Nickleby.’

　　Nicholas obeyed. Mr. Squeers with some difficulty inducing thepony to obey also, they started off, leaving the cart-load of infantmisery to follow at leisure.

　　‘Are you cold, Nickleby?’ inquired Squeers, after they hadtravelled some distance in silence.

　　‘Rather, sir, I must say.’

　　‘Well, I don’t find fault with that,’ said Squeers; ‘it’s a longjourney this weather.’

　　‘Is it much farther to Dotheboys Hall, sir?’ asked Nicholas.

　　‘About three mile from here,’ replied Squeers. ‘But you needn’tcall it a Hall down here.’

　　Nicholas coughed, as if he would like to know why.

　　 ‘The fact is, it ain’t a Hall,’ observed Squeers drily.

　　‘Oh, indeed!’ said Nicholas, whom this piece of intelligencemuch astonished.

　　‘No,’ replied Squeers. ‘We call it a Hall up in London, because itsounds better, but they don’t know it by that name in these parts.

　　A man may call his house an island if he likes; there’s no act ofParliament against that, I believe?’

　　‘I believe not, sir,’ rejoined Nicholas.

　　Squeers eyed his companion slyly, at the conclusion of this littledialogue, and finding that he had grown thoughtful and appearedin nowise disposed to volunteer any observations, contentedhimself with lashing the pony until they reached their journey’send.

　　‘Jump out,’ said Squeers. ‘Hallo there! Come and put this horseup. Be quick, will you!’

　　While the schoolmaster was uttering these and other impatientcries, Nicholas had time to observe that the school was a long,cold-looking house, one storey high, with a few straggling outbuildings behind, and a barn and stable adjoining. After the lapseof a minute or two, the noise of somebody unlocking the yard-gatewas heard, and presently a tall lean boy, with a lantern in hishand, 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, withhumility.

　　‘Fire! what fire? Where’s there a fire?’ demanded theschoolmaster, sharply.

　　 ‘Only in the kitchen, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘Missus said as I wassitting up, I might go in there for a warm.’

　　‘Your missus is a fool,’ retorted Squeers. ‘You’d have been adeuced deal more wakeful in the cold, I’ll engage.’

　　By this time Mr Squeers had dismounted; and after orderingthe boy to see to the pony, and to take care that he hadn’t anymore corn that night, he told Nicholas to wait at the front-door aminute while he went round and let him in.

　　A host of unpleasant misgivings, which had been crowdingupon Nicholas during the whole journey, thronged into his mindwith redoubled force when he was left alone. His great distancefrom home and the impossibility of reaching it, except on foot,should he feel ever so anxious to return, presented itself to him inmost alarming colours; and as he looked up at the dreary houseand dark windows, and upon the wild country round, covered withsnow, he felt a depression of heart and spirit which he had neverexperienced before.

　　‘Now then!’ cried Squeers, poking his head out at the front-door. ‘Where are you, Nickleby?’

　　‘Here, sir,’ replied Nicholas.

　　‘Come in, then,’ said Squeers ‘the wind blows in, at this door, fitto knock a man off his legs.’

　　Nicholas sighed, and hurried in. Mr Squeers, having bolted thedoor to keep it shut, ushered him into a small parlour scantilyfurnished with a few chairs, a yellow map hung against the wall,and a couple of tables; one of which bore some preparations forsupper; while, on the other, a tutor’s assistant, a Murray’sgrammar, half-a-dozen cards of terms, and a worn letter directedto Wackford Squeers, Esquire, were arranged in picturesque confusion.

　　They had not been in this apartment a couple of minutes, whena female bounced into the room, and, seizing Mr Squeers by thethroat, gave him two loud kisses: one close after the other, like apostman’s knock. The lady, who was of a large raw-boned figure,was about half a head taller than Mr Squeers, and was dressed ina dimity night-jacket; with her hair in papers; she had also a dirtynightcap on, relieved by a yellow cotton handkerchief which tied itunder the chin.

　　‘How is my Squeery?’ said this lady in a playful manner, and avery hoarse voice.

　　‘Quite well, my love,’ replied Squeers. ‘How’s the cows?’

　　‘All right, every one of ’em,’ answered the lady.

　　‘And the pigs?’ said Squeers.

　　‘As well as they were when you went away.’

　　‘Come; that’s a blessing,’ said Squeers, pulling off his greatcoat. ‘The boys are all as they were, I suppose?’

　　‘Oh, yes, they’re well enough,’ replied Mrs Squeers, snappishly.

　　‘That young Pitcher’s had a fever.’

　　‘No!’ exclaimed Squeers. ‘Damn that boy, he’s always atsomething of that sort.’

　　‘Never was such a boy, I do believe,’ said Mrs Squeers;‘whatever he has is always catching too. I say it’s obstinacy, andnothing shall ever convince me that it isn’t. I’d beat it out of him;and I told you that, six months ago.’

　　‘So you did, my love,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘We’ll try what can bedone.’

　　Pending these little endearments, Nicholas had stood,awkwardly enough, in the middle of the room: not very well knowing whether he was expected to retire into the passage, or toremain where he was. He was now relieved from his perplexity byMr Squeers.

　　‘This is the new young man, my dear,’ said that gentleman.

　　‘Oh,’ replied Mrs Squeers, nodding her head at Nicholas, andeyeing him coldly from top to toe.

　　‘He’ll take a meal with us tonight,’ said Squeers, ‘and go amongthe boys tomorrow morning. You can give him a shake-down here,tonight, can’t you?’

　　‘We must manage it somehow,’ replied the lady. ‘You don’tmuch 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 humour wasconsidered to lie chiefly in retort, Mr Squeers laughed heartily,and seemed to expect that Nicholas should do the same.

　　After some further conversation between the master andmistress relative to the success of Mr Squeers’s trip and the peoplewho had paid, and the people who had made default in payment, ayoung servant girl brought in a Yorkshire pie and some cold beef,which being set upon the table, the boy Smike appeared with a jugof ale.

　　Mr Squeers was emptying his great-coat pockets of letters todifferent boys, and other small documents, which he had broughtdown in them. The boy glanced, with an anxious and timidexpression, at the papers, as if with a sickly hope that one amongthem might relate to him. The look was a very painful one, andwent to Nicholas’s heart at once; for it told a long and very sadhistory.

　　It induced him to consider the boy more attentively, and he was surprised to observe the extraordinary mixture of garments whichformed his dress. Although he could not have been less thaneighteen or nineteen years old, and was tall for that age, he wore askeleton suit, such as is usually put upon very little boys, andwhich, though most absurdly short in the arms and legs, was quitewide enough for his attenuated frame. In order that the lower partof his legs might be in perfect keeping with this singular dress, hehad a very large pair of boots, originally made for tops, whichmight have been once worn by some stout farmer, but were nowtoo patched and tattered for a beggar. Heaven knows how long hehad been there, but he still wore the same linen which he had firsttaken down; for, round his neck, was a tattered child’s frill, onlyhalf concealed by a coarse, man’s neckerchief. He was lame; andas he feigned to be busy in arranging the table, glanced at theletters with a look so keen, and yet so dispirited and hopeless, thatNicholas could hardly bear to watch him.

　　‘What are you bothering about there, Smike?’ cried MrsSqueers; ‘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, asthough 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 isa 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 nonotice taken, nor no clue to be got who you belong to? It’s a prettysort of thing that I should have to feed a great fellow like you, andnever hope to get one penny for it, isn’t it?’

　　The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effortto recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at hisquestioner, gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.

　　‘I’ll tell you what, Squeers,’ remarked his wife as the doorclosed, ‘I think that young chap’s turning silly.’

　　‘I hope not,’ said the schoolmaster; ‘for he’s a handy fellow outof doors, and worth his meat and drink, anyway. I should thinkhe’d have wit enough for us though, if he was. But come; let’s havesupper, for I am hungry and tired, and want to get to bed.’

　　This reminder brought in an exclusive steak for Mr Squeers,who speedily proceeded to do it ample justice. Nicholas drew uphis chair, but his appetite was effectually taken away.

　　‘How’s the steak, Squeers?’ said Mrs S.

　　‘Tender as a lamb,’ replied Squeers. ‘Have a bit.’

　　‘I couldn’t eat a morsel,’ replied his wife. ‘What’ll the youngman take, my dear?’

　　‘Whatever he likes that’s present,’ rejoined Squeers, in a mostunusual burst of generosity.

　　‘What do you say, Mr Knuckleboy?’ inquired Mrs Squeers.

　　‘I’ll take a little of the pie, if you please,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Avery little, for I’m not hungry.’

　　Well, it’s a pity to cut the pie if you’re not hungry, isn’t it?’ saidMrs Squeers. ‘Will you try a bit of the beef?’

　　‘Whatever you please,’ replied Nicholas abstractedly; ‘it’s all thesame to me.’

　　 Mrs Squeers looked vastly gracious on receiving this reply; andnodding to Squeers, as much as to say that she was glad to find theyoung man knew his station, assisted Nicholas to a slice of meatwith her own fair hands.

　　‘Ale, Squeery?’ inquired the lady, winking and frowning to givehim to understand that the question propounded, was, whetherNicholas should have ale, and not whether he (Squeers) wouldtake any.

　　‘Certainly,’ said Squeers, re-telegraphing in the same manner.

　　‘A glassful.’

　　So Nicholas had a glassful, and being occupied with his ownreflections, drank it, in happy innocence of all the foregoneproceedings.

　　‘Uncommon juicy steak that,’ said Squeers, as he laid down hisknife and fork, after plying it, in silence, for some time.

　　‘It’s prime meat,’ rejoined his lady. ‘I bought a good large pieceof it myself on purpose for—’

　　‘For what!’ exclaimed Squeers hastily. ‘Not for the—’

　　‘No, no; not for them,’ rejoined Mrs Squeers; ‘on purpose foryou against you came home. Lor! you didn’t think I could havemade such a mistake as that.’

　　‘Upon my word, my dear, I didn’t know what you were going tosay,’ said Squeers, who had turned pale.

　　‘You needn’t make yourself uncomfortable,’ remarked his wife,laughing heartily. ‘To think that I should be such a noddy! Well!’

　　This part of the conversation was rather unintelligible; butpopular rumour in the neighbourhood asserted that Mr Squeers,being amiably opposed to cruelty to animals, not unfrequentlypurchased for by consumption the bodies of horned cattle who had died a natural death; possibly he was apprehensive of havingunintentionally devoured some choice morsel intended for theyoung gentlemen.

　　Supper being over, and removed by a small servant girl with ahungry eye, Mrs Squeers retired to lock it up, and also to take intosafe custody the clothes of the five boys who had just arrived, andwho were half-way up the troublesome flight of steps which leadsto death’s door, in consequence of exposure to the cold. They werethen regaled with a light supper of porridge, and stowed away,side by side, in a small bedstead, to warm each other, and dreamof a substantial meal with something hot after it, if their fancies setthat way: which it is not at all improbable they did.

　　Mr Squeers treated himself to a stiff tumbler of brandy andwater, made on the liberal half-and-half principle, allowing for thedissolution of the sugar; and his amiable helpmate mixed Nicholasthe ghost of a small glassful of the same compound. This done, Mrand Mrs Squeers drew close up to the fire, and sitting with theirfeet on the fender, talked confidentially in whispers; whileNicholas, taking up the tutor’s assistant, read the interestinglegends in the miscellaneous questions, and all the figures into thebargain, with as much thought or consciousness of what he wasdoing, as if he had been in a magnetic slumber.

　　At length, Mr Squeers yawned fearfully, and opined that it washigh time to go to bed; upon which signal, Mrs Squeers and thegirl dragged in a small straw mattress and a couple of blankets,and arranged them into a couch for Nicholas.

　　‘We’ll put you into your regular bedroom tomorrow, Nickleby,’

　　said Squeers. ‘Let me see! Who sleeps in Brooks’s bed, my dear?’

　　‘In Brooks’s,’ said Mrs Squeers, pondering. ‘There’s Jennings, little Bolder, Graymarsh, and what’s his name.’

　　‘So there is,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Yes! Brooks is full.’

　　‘Full!’ thought Nicholas. ‘I should think he was.’

　　‘There’s a place somewhere, I know,’ said Squeers; ‘but I can’tat this moment call to mind where it is. However, we’ll have thatall settled tomorrow. Good-night, Nickleby. Seven o’clock in themorning, mind.’

　　‘I shall be ready, sir,’ replied Nicholas. ‘Good-night.’

　　‘I’ll come in myself and show you where the well is,’ saidSqueers. ‘You’ll always find a little bit of soap in the kitchenwindow; that belongs to you.’

　　Nicholas opened his eyes, but not his mouth; and Squeers wasagain going away, when he once more turned back.

　　‘I don’t know, I am sure,’ he said, ‘whose towel to put you on;but if you’ll make shift with something tomorrow morning, MrsSqueers will arrange that, in the course of the day. My dear, don’tforget.’

　　‘I’ll take care,’ replied Mrs Squeers; ‘and mind you take care,young man, and get first wash. The teacher ought always to haveit; but they get the better of him if they can.’

　　Mr Squeers then nudged Mrs Squeers to bring away thebrandy bottle, lest Nicholas should help himself in the night; andthe lady having seized it with great precipitation, they retiredtogether.

　　Nicholas, being left alone, took half-a-dozen turns up and downthe room in a condition of much agitation and excitement; but,growing gradually calmer, sat himself down in a chair, andmentally resolved that, come what come might, he wouldendeavour, for a time, to bear whatever wretchedness might be in store for him, and that remembering the helplessness of hismother and sister, he would give his uncle no plea for desertingthem in their need. Good resolutions seldom fail of producingsome good effect in the mind from which they spring. He grew lessdesponding, and—so sanguine and buoyant is youth—even hopedthat affairs at Dotheboys Hall might yet prove better than theypromised.

　　He was preparing for bed, with something like renewedcheerfulness, when a sealed letter fell from his coat pocket. In thehurry of leaving London, it had escaped his attention, and had notoccurred to him since, but it at once brought back to him therecollection of the mysterious behaviour of Newman Noggs.

　　‘Dear me!’ said Nicholas; ‘what an extraordinary hand!’

　　It was directed to himself, was written upon very dirty paper,and in such cramped and crippled writing as to be almost illegible.

　　After great difficulty and much puzzling, he contrived to read asfollows:—My dear young Man.

　　I know the world. Your father did not, or he would not havedone me a kindness when there was no hope of return. You do not,or you would not be bound on such a journey.

　　If ever you want a shelter in London (don’t be angry at this, Ionce thought I never should), they know where I live, at the sign ofthe Crown, in Silver Street, Golden Square. It is at the corner ofSilver Street and James Street, with a bar door both ways. Youcan come at night. Once, nobody was ashamed—never mind that.

　　It’s all over.

　　Excuse errors. I should forget how to wear a whole coat now. I have forgotten all my old ways. My spelling may have gone withthem.

　　NEWMAN NOGGS.

　　P.S. If you should go near Barnard Castle, there is good ale atthe King’s Head. Say you know me, and I am sure they will notcharge you for it. You may say Mr Noggs there, for I was agentleman then. I was indeed.

　　It may be a very undignified circumstances to record, but afterhe had folded this letter and placed it in his pocket-book, NicholasNickleby’s eyes were dimmed with a moisture that might havebeen taken for tears.