“Lift him out,” said Squeers, after he had literally feasted his eyes upon the culprit.  “Bring him in; bring him in!”

“Take care!” cried Mrs. Squeers.  “We tied his legs under the apron and made ’em fast to the chaise, to prevent his giving us the slip again.”

With hands trembling with delight, Squeers unloosened the cord; and Smike, more dead than alive, was brought into the house and securely locked up in a cellar.

It may be a matter of surprise to some persons that Mr. and Mrs. Squeers should have taken so much trouble to repossess themselves of an incumbrance of which it was their wont to complain so loudly; but the services of the drudge, if performed by any one else, would have cost some ten or twelve shillings per week in the shape of wages; and furthermore, all runaways were, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of, at Dotheboys Hall, as in consequence of the limited extent of its attractions, there was but little inducement, beyond the powerful impulse of fear, for any pupil, provided with the usual number of legs and the power of using them, to remain.

The news that Smike had been caught and brought back in triumph, ran like wild-fire through the hungry community, and expectation was on tiptoe all the morning.  On tiptoe it was destined to remain, however, until afternoon; when Squeers called the school together, and dragged Smike by the collar to the front of the room before them all.

“Have you anything to say?” demanded Squeers, giving his right arm two or three flourishes to try its power and suppleness.  “Stand a little out of the way, Mrs. Squeers, my dear; I’ve hardly got room enough.”

“Spare me, sir!” cried Smike.

“Oh! that’s all, is it?” said Squeers.  “Yes, I’ll flog you within an inch of your life, and spare you that.”

“I was driven to do it,” said Smike faintly; and casting an imploring look about him.

“Driven to do it, were you?” said Squeers.  “Oh!  It wasn’t your fault; it was mine, I suppose—­eh?”

Squeers caught the boy firmly in his grip; one desperate cut had fallen on his body—­he was wincing from the lash and uttering a scream of pain—­it was raised again, and again about to fall—­when Nicholas Nickleby, suddenly starting up, cried “Stop!” in a voice that made the rafters ring.

“Who cried stop?” said Squeers, turning savagely round.

“I,” said Nicholas, stepping forward.  “This must not go on!”

“Must not go on!” cried Squeers, almost in a shriek.

“No!” thundered Nicholas.

Aghast and stupified by the boldness of the interference, Squeers released his hold of Smike, and, falling back a pace or two, gazed upon Nicholas with looks that were positively frightful.

“I say must not,” repeated Nicholas, nothing daunted; “shall not.  I will prevent it.”

Squeers continued to gaze upon him, with his eyes starting out of his head; but astonishment had actually, for the moment, bereft him of speech.