The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens (books to read this summer txt) 📕

young men do when they get married,’ returned Squeers; ‘and as runs through with their money like nothing at all! How much better wouldn’t it be now, to save it up for the eddication of any little boys, for instance! They come on you,’ said Mr Squeers in a moralising way, ‘before you’re aware of it; mine did upon me.’

‘Will ‘ee pick a bit?’ said John.

‘I won’t myself,’ returned Squeers; ‘but if you’ll just let little Wackford tuck into something fat, I’ll be obliged to you. Give it him in his fingers, else the waiter charges it on, and there’s lot of profit on this sort of vittles without that. If you hear the waiter coming, sir, shove it in your pocket and look out of the window, d’ye hear?’

‘I’m awake, father,’ replied the dutiful Wackford.

‘Well,’ said Squeers, turning to his daughter, ‘it’s your turn to be married next. You must make haste.’

‘Oh, I’m in no hurry,’ said Miss Squeers, very sharply.

‘No, Fanny?’ cried her old friend with some archness.

‘No, ‘Tilda,’ replied Miss Squeers, shaking her head vehemently. ‘I can wait.’

‘So can the young men, it seems, Fanny,’ observed Mrs Browdie.

‘They an’t draw’d into it by ME, ‘Tilda,’ retorted Miss Squeers.

‘No,’ returned her friend; ‘that’s exceedingly true.’

The sarcastic tone of this reply might have provoked a rather acrimonious retort from Miss Squeers, who, besides being of a constitutionally vicious temper—aggravated, just now, by travel and recent jolting—was somewhat irritated by old recollections and the failure of her own designs upon Mr Browdie; and the acrimonious retort might have led to a great many other retorts, which might have led to Heaven knows what, if the subject of conversation had not been, at that precise moment, accidentally changed by Mr Squeers himself

‘What do you think?’ said that gentleman; ‘who do you suppose we have laid hands on, Wackford and me?’

‘Pa! not Mr—?’ Miss Squeers was unable to finish the sentence, but Mrs Browdie did it for her, and added, ‘Nickleby?’

‘No,’ said Squeers. ‘But next door to him though.’

‘You can’t mean Smike?’ cried Miss Squeers, clapping her hands.

‘Yes, I can though,’ rejoined her father. ‘I’ve got him, hard and fast.’

‘Wa’at!’ exclaimed John Browdie, pushing away his plate. ‘Got that poor—dom’d scoondrel? Where?’

‘Why, in the top back room, at my lodging,’ replied Squeers, ‘with him on one side, and the key on the other.’

‘At thy loodgin’! Thee’st gotten him at thy loodgin’? Ho! ho! The schoolmeasther agin all England. Give us thee hond, mun; I’m darned but I must shak thee by the hond for thot.—Gotten him at thy loodgin’?’

‘Yes,’ replied Squeers, staggering in his chair under the congratulatory blow on the chest which the stout Yorkshireman dealt him; ‘thankee. Don’t do it again. You mean it kindly, I know, but it hurts rather. Yes, there he is. That’s not so bad, is it?’

‘Ba’ad!’ repeated John Browdie. ‘It’s eneaf to scare a mun to hear tell on.’

‘I thought it would surprise you a bit,’ said Squeers, rubbing his hands. ‘It was pretty neatly done, and pretty quick too.’

‘Hoo wor it?’ inquired John, sitting down close to him. ‘Tell us all aboot it, mun; coom, quick!’

Although he could not keep pace with John Browdie’s impatience, Mr Squeers related the lucky chance by which Smike had fallen into his hands, as quickly as he could, and, except when he was interrupted by the admiring remarks of his auditors, paused not in the recital until he had brought it to an end.

‘For fear he should give me the slip, by any chance,’ observed Squeers, when he had finished, looking very cunning, ‘I’ve taken three outsides for tomorrow morning—for Wackford and him and me— and have arranged to leave the accounts and the new boys to the agent, don’t you see? So it’s very lucky you come today, or you’d have missed us; and as it is, unless you could come and tea with me tonight, we shan’t see anything more of you before we go away.’

‘Dean’t say anoother wurd,’ returned the Yorkshireman, shaking him by the hand. ‘We’d coom, if it was twonty mile.’

‘No, would you though?’ returned Mr Squeers, who had not expected quite such a ready acceptance of his invitation, or he would have considered twice before he gave it.

John Browdie’s only reply was another squeeze of the hand, and an assurance that they would not begin to see London till tomorrow, so that they might be at Mr Snawley’s at six o’clock without fail; and after some further conversation, Mr Squeers and his son departed.

During the remainder of the day, Mr Browdie was in a very odd and excitable state; bursting occasionally into an explosion of laughter, and then taking up his hat and running into the coachyard to have it out by himself. He was very restless too, constantly walking in and out, and snapping his fingers, and dancing scraps of uncouth country dances, and, in short, conducting himself in such a very extraordinary manner, that Miss Squeers opined he was going mad, and, begging her dear ‘Tilda not to distress herself, communicated her suspicions in so many words. Mrs Browdie, however, without discovering any great alarm, observed that she had seen him so once before, and that although he was almost sure to be ill after it, it would not be anything very serious, and therefore he was better left alone.

The result proved her to be perfectly correct for, while they were all sitting in Mr Snawley’s parlour that night, and just as it was beginning to get dusk, John Browdie was taken so ill, and seized with such an alarming dizziness in the head, that the whole company were thrown into the utmost consternation. His good lady, indeed, was the only person present, who retained presence of mind enough to observe that if he were allowed to lie down on Mr Squeers’s bed for an hour or so, and left entirely to himself, he would be sure to recover again almost as quickly as he had been taken ill. Nobody could refuse to try the effect of so reasonable a proposal, before sending for a surgeon. Accordingly, John was supported upstairs, with great difficulty; being a monstrous weight, and regularly tumbling down two steps every time they hoisted him up three; and, being laid on the bed, was left in charge of his wife, who, after a short interval, reappeared in the parlour, with the gratifying intelligence that he had fallen fast asleep.

Now, the fact was, that at that particular moment, John Browdie was sitting on the bed with the reddest face ever seen, cramming the corner of the pillow into his mouth, to prevent his roaring out loud with laughter. He had no sooner succeeded in suppressing this emotion, than he slipped off his shoes, and creeping to the adjoining room where the prisoner was confined, turned the key, which was on the outside, and darting in, covered Smike’s mouth with his huge hand before he could utter a sound.

‘Ods-bobs, dost thee not know me, mun?’ whispered the Yorkshireman to the bewildered lad. ‘Browdie. Chap as met thee efther schoolmeasther was banged?’

‘Yes, yes,’ cried Smike. ‘Oh! help me.’

‘Help thee!’ replied John, stopping his mouth again, the instant he had said this much. ‘Thee didn’t need help, if thee warn’t as silly yoongster as ever draw’d breath. Wa’at did ‘ee come here for, then?’

‘He brought me; oh! he brought me,’ cried Smike.

‘Brout thee!’ replied John. ‘Why didn’t ‘ee punch his head, or lay theeself doon and kick, and squeal out for the pollis? I’d ha’ licked a doozen such as him when I was yoong as thee. But thee be’est a poor broken-doon chap,’ said John, sadly, ‘and God forgi’ me for bragging ower yan o’ his weakest creeturs!’

Smike opened his mouth to speak, but John Browdie stopped him.

‘Stan’ still,’ said the Yorkshireman, ‘and doant’ee speak a morsel o’ talk till I tell’ee.’

With this caution, John Browdie shook his head significantly, and drawing a screwdriver from his pocket, took off the box of the lock in a very deliberate and workmanlike manner, and laid it, together with the implement, on the floor.

‘See thot?’ said John ‘Thot be thy doin’. Noo, coot awa’!’

Smike looked vacantly at him, as if unable to comprehend his meaning.

‘I say, coot awa’,’ repeated John, hastily. ‘Dost thee know where thee livest? Thee dost? Weel. Are yon thy clothes, or schoolmeasther’s?’

‘Mine,’ replied Smike, as the Yorkshireman hurried him to the adjoining room, and pointed out a pair of shoes and a coat which were lying on a chair.

‘On wi’ ‘em,’ said John, forcing the wrong arm into the wrong sleeve, and winding the tails of the coat round the fugitive’s neck. ‘Noo, foller me, and when thee get’st ootside door, turn to the right, and they wean’t see thee pass.’

‘But—but—he’ll hear me shut the door,’ replied Smike, trembling from head to foot.

‘Then dean’t shut it at all,’ retorted John Browdie. ‘Dang it, thee bean’t afeard o’ schoolmeasther’s takkin cold, I hope?’

‘N-no,’ said Smike, his teeth chattering in his head. ‘But he brought me back before, and will again. He will, he will indeed.’

‘He wull, he wull!’ replied John impatiently. ‘He wean’t, he wean’t. Look’ee! I wont to do this neighbourly loike, and let them think thee’s gotten awa’ o’ theeself, but if he cooms oot o’ thot parlour awhiles theer’t clearing off, he mun’ have mercy on his oun boans, for I wean’t. If he foinds it oot, soon efther, I’ll put ‘un on a wrong scent, I warrant ‘ee. But if thee keep’st a good hart, thee’lt be at whoam afore they know thee’st gotten off. Coom!’

Smike, who comprehended just enough of this to know it was intended as encouragement, prepared to follow with tottering steps, when John whispered in his ear.

‘Thee’lt just tell yoong Measther that I’m sploiced to ‘Tilly Price, and to be heerd on at the Saracen by latther, and that I bean’t jealous of ‘un—dang it, I’m loike to boost when I think o’ that neight! ‘Cod, I think I see ‘un now, a powderin’ awa’ at the thin bread an’ butther!’

It was rather a ticklish recollection for John just then, for he was within an ace of breaking out into a loud guffaw. Restraining himself, however, just in time, by a great effort, he glided downstairs, hauling Smike behind him; and placing himself close to the parlour door, to confront the first person that might come out, signed to him to make off.

Having got so far, Smike needed no second bidding. Opening the house-door gently, and casting a look of mingled gratitude and terror at his deliverer, he took the direction which had been indicated to him, and sped away like the wind.

The Yorkshireman remained on his post for a few minutes, but, finding that there was no pause in the conversation inside, crept back again unheard, and stood, listening over the stair-rail, for a full hour. Everything remaining perfectly quiet, he got into Mr Squeers’s bed, once more, and drawing the clothes over his head, laughed till he was nearly smothered.

If there could only have been somebody by, to see how the bedclothes shook, and to see the Yorkshireman’s great red face and round head appear above the sheets, every now and then, like some jovial monster coming to the surface to breathe, and once more dive down convulsed with the laughter which came bursting forth afresh—that somebody would have been scarcely less amused than John Browdie himself.