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!"

"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 fustian 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!"

The "shop" was a bare and dirty room, with a couple of windows, whereof a
tenth part might be of glass, the remainder being stopped up with old
copybooks and paper. There were a couple of long, old rickety desks, cut
and notched, and inked, and damaged, 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 cross beams and rafters;
and the walls were so stained and discoloured, 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 faded from the mind of
Nicholas as he looked in dismay around! There were pale and haggard faces,
lank and bony figures, boys of stunted growth; little faces which should
have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering;
vicious-faced boys, brooding with leaden eyes, with every kindly sympathy
and affection blasted in its birth, with every young and healthy feeling
flogged and starved down.

And yet this scene, painful as it was, had its grotesque features. Mrs.
Squeers stood at one of the desks, presiding over an immense basin of
brimstone and treacle, of which delicious compound she administered a
large instalment to each boy in succession: using for the purpose a common
wooden spoon, which widened every young gentleman's mouth considerably:
they being all obliged, under heavy corporal penalties, to take in the
whole of the bowl at a gasp.

In another corner, huddled together for companionship, were the little
boys who had arrived on the preceding night: at no great distance from
these was seated the juvenile son and heir of Mr. Squeers, Wackford by
name--a striking likeness of his father--kicking, with great vigour, under
the hands of Smike, who was fitting upon him a pair of new boots that bore
a most suspicious