he entry in my book, since a
strange man brought him to my place, one autumn night, and left him
there; paying five pound five, for his first quarter in advance. He
might have been five or six year old at that time--not more.'

'What more do you know about him?' demanded Ralph.

'Devilish little, I'm sorry to say,' replied Squeers. 'The money was
paid for some six or eight year, and then it stopped. He had given an
address in London, had this chap; but when it came to the point, of
course nobody knowed anything about him. So I kept the lad out of--out
of--'

'Charity?' suggested Ralph drily.

'Charity, to be sure,' returned Squeers, rubbing his knees, 'and when he
begins to be useful in a certain sort of way, this young scoundrel of
a Nickleby comes and carries him off. But the most vexatious and
aggeravating part of the whole affair is,' said Squeers, dropping his
voice, and drawing his chair still closer to Ralph, 'that some questions
have been asked about him at last--not of me, but, in a roundabout kind
of way, of people in our village. So, that just when I might have had
all arrears paid up, perhaps, and perhaps--who knows? such things have
happened in our business before--a present besides for putting him out
to a farmer, or sending him to sea, so that he might never turn up to
disgrace his parents, supposing him to be a natural boy, as many of our
boys are--damme, if that villain of a Nickleby don't collar him in open
day, and commit as good as highway robbery upon my pocket.'

'We will both cry quits with him before long,' said Ralph, laying his
hand on the arm of the Yorkshire schoolmaster.

'Quits!' echoed Squeers. 'Ah! and I should like to leave a small balance
in his favour, to be settled when he can. I only wish Mrs Squeers could
catch hold of him. Bless her heart! She'd murder him, Mr Nickleby--she
would, as soon as eat her dinner.'

'We will talk of this again,' said Ralph. 'I must have time to think of
it. To wound him through his own affections and fancies--. If I could
strike him through this boy--'

'Strike him how you like, sir,' interrupted Squeers, 'only hit him hard
enough, that's all--and with that, I'll say good-morning. Here!--just
chuck that little boy's hat off that corner peg, and lift him off the
stool will you?'

Bawling these requests to Newman Noggs, Mr Squeers betook himself to the
little back-office, and fitted on his child's hat with parental anxiety,
while Newman, with his