tions were made of carrying off the
lost son by violence. Squeers had actually begun to haul him out, when
Nicholas (who, until then, had been evidently undecided how to act)
took him by the collar, and shaking him so that such teeth as he had,
chattered in his head, politely escorted him to the room-door, and
thrusting him into the passage, shut it upon him.

'Now,' said Nicholas to the other two, 'have the goodness to follow your
friend.'

'I want my son,' said Snawley.

'Your son,' replied Nicholas, 'chooses for himself. He chooses to remain
here, and he shall.'

'You won't give him up?' said Snawley.

'I would not give him up against his will, to be the victim of such
brutality as that to which you would consign him,' replied Nicholas, 'if
he were a dog or a rat.'

'Knock that Nickleby down with a candlestick,' cried Mr Squeers, through
the keyhole, 'and bring out my hat, somebody, will you, unless he wants
to steal it.'

'I am very sorry, indeed,' said Mrs Nickleby, who, with Mrs Browdie, had
stood crying and biting her fingers in a corner, while Kate (very pale,
but perfectly quiet) had kept as near her brother as she could. 'I am
very sorry, indeed, for all this. I really don't know what would be best
to do, and that's the truth. Nicholas ought to be the best judge, and I
hope he is. Of course, it's a hard thing to have to keep other people's
children, though young Mr Snawley is certainly as useful and willing
as it's possible for anybody to be; but, if it could be settled in any
friendly manner--if old Mr Snawley, for instance, would settle to pay
something certain for his board and lodging, and some fair arrangement
was come to, so that we undertook to have fish twice a week, and a
pudding twice, or a dumpling, or something of that sort--I do think that
it might be very satisfactory and pleasant for all parties.'

This compromise, which was proposed with abundance of tears and sighs,
not exactly meeting the point at issue, nobody took any notice of it;
and poor Mrs Nickleby accordingly proceeded to enlighten Mrs Browdie
upon the advantages of such a scheme, and the unhappy results flowing,
on all occasions, from her not being attended to when she proffered her
advice.

'You, sir,' said Snawley, addressing the terrified Smike, 'are an
unnatural, ungrateful, unlovable boy. You won't let me love you when I
want to. Won't you come home, won't you?'

'No, no, no,' cried Smike, shrinking back.

'He nev