Nicholas and his Uncle (to secure the Fortunewithout loss of time) wait upon Mr WackfordSqueers, the Yorkshire Schoolmaster.

　　S now Hill! What kind of place can the quiet townspeoplewho see the words emblazoned, in all the legibility of giltletters and dark shading, on the north-country coaches,take Snow Hill to be? All people have some undefined andshadowy notion of a place whose name is frequently before theireyes, or often in their ears. What a vast number of random ideasthere must be perpetually floating about, regarding this sameSnow Hill. The name is such a good one. Snow Hill—Snow Hilltoo, coupled with a Saracen’s Head: picturing to us by a doubleassociation of ideas, something stern and rugged! A bleak desolatetract of country, open to piercing blasts and fierce wintry storms—a dark, cold, gloomy heath, lonely by day, and scarcely to bethought of by honest folks at night—a place which solitarywayfarers shun, and where desperate robbers congregate;—this,or something like this, should be the prevalent notion of SnowHill, in those remote and rustic parts, through which the Saracen’sHead, like some grim apparition, rushes each day and night withmysterious and ghost-like punctuality; holding its swift andheadlong course in all weathers, and seeming to bid defiance tothe very elements themselves.

　　The reality is rather different, but by no means to be despisednotwithstanding. There, at the very core of London, in the heart of its business and animation, in the midst of a whirl of noise andmotion: stemming as it were the giant currents of life that flowceaselessly on from different quarters, and meet beneath its walls:

　　stands Newgate; and in that crowded street on which it frowns sodarkly—within a few feet of the squalid tottering houses—uponthe very spot on which the vendors of soup and fish and damagedfruit are now plying their trades—scores of human beings, amidsta roar of sounds to which even the tumult of a great city is asnothing, four, six, or eight strong men at a time, have been hurriedviolently and swiftly from the world, when the scene has beenrendered frightful with excess of human life; when curious eyeshave glared from casement and house-top, and wall and pillar; andwhen, in the mass of white and upturned faces, the dying wretch,in his all-comprehensive look of agony, has met not one—notone—that bore the impress of pity or compassion.

　　Near to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also,and the Compter, and the bustle and noise of the city; and just onthat particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses goingeastward seriously think of falling down on purpose, and wherehorses in hackney cabriolets going westward not unfrequently fallby accident, is the coach-yard of the Saracen’s Head Inn; its portalguarded by two Saracens’ heads and shoulders, which it was oncethe pride and glory of the choice spirits of this metropolis to pulldown at night, but which have for some time remained inundisturbed tranquillity; possibly because this species of humouris now confined to St James’s parish, where door knockers arepreferred as being more portable, and bell-wires esteemed asconvenient toothpicks. Whether this be the reason or not, therethey are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway. The inn itself garnished with another Saracen’s Head, frowns uponyou from the top of the yard; while from the door of the hind bootof all the red coaches that are standing therein, there glares asmall Saracen’s Head, with a twin expression to the largeSaracens’ Heads below, so that the general appearance of the pileis decidedly of the Saracenic order.

　　When you walk up this yard, you will see the booking-office onyour left, and the tower of St Sepulchre’s church, darting abruptlyup into the sky, on your right, and a gallery of bedrooms on bothsides. Just before you, you will observe a long window with thewords ‘coffee-room’ legibly painted above it; and looking out ofthat window, you would have seen in addition, if you had gone atthe right time, Mr Wackford Squeers with his hands in hispockets.

　　Mr Squeers’s appearance was not prepossessing. He had butone eye, and the popular prejudice runs in favour of two. The eyehe had, was unquestionably useful, but decidedly not ornamental:

　　being of a greenish grey, and in shape resembling the fan-light of astreet door. The blank side of his face was much wrinkled andpuckered up, which gave him a very sinister appearance,especially when he smiled, at which times his expression borderedclosely on the villainous. His hair was very flat and shiny, save atthe ends, where it was brushed stiffly up from a low protrudingforehead, which assorted well with his harsh voice and coarsemanner. He was about two or three and fifty, and a trifle below themiddle size; he wore a white neckerchief with long ends, and a suitof scholastic black; but his coat sleeves being a great deal too long,and his trousers a great deal too short, he appeared ill at ease inhis clothes, and as if he were in a perpetual state of astonishment at finding himself so respectable.

　　Mr Squeers was standing in a box by one of the coffee-roomfire-places, fitted with one such table as is usually seen in coffee-rooms, and two of extraordinary shapes and dimensions made tosuit the angles of the partition. In a corner of the seat, was a verysmall deal trunk, tied round with a scanty piece of cord; and on thetrunk was perched—his lace-up half-boots and corduroy trousersdangling in the air—a diminutive boy, with his shoulders drawnup to his ears, and his hands planted on his knees, who glancedtimidly at the schoolmaster, from time to time, with evident dreadand apprehension.

　　‘Half-past three,’ muttered Mr Squeers, turning from thewindow, and looking sulkily at the coffee-room clock. ‘There willbe nobody here today.’

　　Much vexed by this reflection, Mr Squeers looked at the littleboy to see whether he was doing anything he could beat him for.

　　As he happened not to be doing anything at all, he merely boxedhis ears, and told him not to do it again.

　　‘At Midsummer,’ muttered Mr Squeers, resuming hiscomplaint, ‘I took down ten boys; ten twenties is two hundredpound. I go back at eight o’clock tomorrow morning, and have gotonly three—three oughts is an ought—three twos is six—sixtypound. What’s come of all the boys? what’s parents got in theirheads? what does it all mean?’

　　Here the little boy on the top of the trunk gave a violent sneeze.

　　‘Halloa, sir!’ growled the schoolmaster, turning round. ‘What’sthat, sir?’

　　‘Nothing, please sir,’ replied the little boy.

　　‘Nothing, sir!’ exclaimed Mr Squeers.

　　 ‘Please sir, I sneezed,’ rejoined the boy, trembling till the littletrunk shook under him.

　　‘Oh! sneezed, did you?’ retorted Mr Squeers. ‘Then what didyou say “nothing” for, sir?’

　　In default of a better answer to this question, the little boyscrewed a couple of knuckles into each of his eyes and began tocry, wherefore Mr Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blowon one side of the face, and knocked him on again with a blow onthe other.

　　‘Wait till I get you down into Yorkshire, my young gentleman,’

　　said Mr Squeers, ‘and then I’ll give you the rest. Will you hold thatnoise, sir?’

　　‘Ye—ye—yes,’ sobbed the little boy, rubbing his face very hardwith the Beggar’s Petition in printed calico.

　　‘Then do so at once, sir,’ said Squeers. ‘Do you hear?’

　　As this admonition was accompanied with a threateninggesture, and uttered with a savage aspect, the little boy rubbed hisface harder, as if to keep the tears back; and, beyond alternatelysniffing and choking, gave no further vent to his emotions.

　　‘Mr Squeers,’ said the waiter, looking in at this juncture; ‘here’sa gentleman asking for you at the bar.’

　　‘Show the gentleman in, Richard,’ replied Mr Squeers, in a softvoice. ‘Put your handkerchief in your pocket, you little scoundrel,or I’ll murder you when the gentleman goes.’

　　The schoolmaster had scarcely uttered these words in a fiercewhisper, when the stranger entered. Affecting not to see him, MrSqueers feigned to be intent upon mending a pen, and offeringbenevolent advice to his youthful pupil.

　　‘My dear child,’ said Mr Squeers, ‘all people have their trials.

　　 This early trial of yours that is fit to make your little heart burst,and your very eyes come out of your head with crying, what is it?

　　Nothing; less than nothing. You are leaving your friends, but youwill have a father in me, my dear, and a mother in Mrs Squeers. Atthe delightful village of Dotheboys, near Greta Bridge inYorkshire, where youth are boarded, clothed, booked, washed,furnished with pocket-money, provided with all necessaries—’

　　‘It is the gentleman,’ observed the stranger, stopping theschoolmaster in the rehearsal of his advertisement. ‘Mr Squeers, Ibelieve, sir?’

　　‘The same, sir,’ said Mr Squeers, with an assumption ofextreme surprise.

　　‘The gentleman,’ said the stranger, ‘that advertised in theTimes newspaper?’

　　‘—Morning Post, Chronicle, Herald, and Advertiser, regardingthe Academy called Dotheboys Hall at the delightful village ofDotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire,’ added Mr Squeers.

　　‘You come on business, sir. I see by my young friends. How do youdo, my little gentleman? and how do you do, sir?’ With thissalutation Mr Squeers patted the heads of two hollow-eyed, small-boned little boys, whom the applicant had brought with him, andwaited for further communications.

　　‘I am in the oil and colour way. My name is Snawley, sir,’ saidthe stranger.

　　Squeers inclined his head as much as to say, ‘And a remarkablypretty name, too.’

　　The stranger continued. ‘I have been thinking, Mr Squeers, ofplacing my two boys at your school.’

　　‘It is not for me to say so, sir,’ replied Mr Squeers, ‘but I don’t think you could possibly do a better thing.’

　　‘Hem!’ said the other. ‘Twenty pounds per annewum, I believe,Mr Squeers?’

　　‘Guineas,’ rejoined the schoolmaster, with a persuasive smile.

　　‘Pounds for two, I think, Mr Squeers,’ said Mr Snawley,solemnly.

　　‘I don’t think it could be done, sir,’ replied Squeers, as if he hadnever considered the proposition before. ‘Let me see; four fives istwenty, double that, and deduct the—well, a pound either wayshall not stand betwixt us. You must recommend me to yourconnection, sir, and make it up that way.’

　　‘They are not great eaters,’ said Mr Snawley.

　　‘Oh! that doesn’t matter at all,’ replied Squeers. ‘We don’tconsider the boys’ appetites at our establishment.’ This wasstrictly true; they did not.

　　‘Every wholesome luxury, sir, that Yorkshire can afford,’

　　continued Squeers; ‘every beautiful moral that Mrs Squeers caninstil; every—in short, every comfort of a home that a boy couldwish for, will be theirs, Mr Snawley.’

　　‘I should wish their morals to be particularly attended to,’ saidMr Snawley.

　　‘I am glad of that, sir,’ replied the schoolmaster, drawinghimself up. ‘They have come to the right shop for morals, sir.’

　　‘You are a moral man yourself,’ said Mr Snawley.

　　‘I rather believe I am, sir,’ replied Squeers.

　　‘I have the satisfaction to know you are, sir,’ said Mr Snawley. ‘Iasked one of your references, and he said you were pious.’

　　‘Well, sir, I hope I am a little in that line,’ replied Squeers.

　　‘I hope I am also,’ rejoined the other. ‘Could I say a few words with you in the next box?’

　　‘By all means,’ rejoined Squeers with a grin. ‘My dears, will youspeak to your new playfellow a minute or two? That is one of myboys, sir. Belling his name is,—a Taunton boy that, sir.’

　　‘Is he, indeed?’ rejoined Mr Snawley, looking at the poor littleurchin as if he were some extraordinary natural curiosity.

　　‘He goes down with me tomorrow, sir,’ said Squeers. ‘That’s hisluggage that he is a sitting upon now. Each boy is required tobring, sir, two suits of clothes, six shirts, six pair of stockings, twonightcaps, two pocket-handkerchiefs, two pair of shoes, two hats,and a razor.’

　　‘A razor!’ exclaimed Mr Snawley, as they walked into the nextbox. ‘What for?’

　　‘To shave with,’ replied Squeers, in a slow and measured tone.

　　There was not much in these three words, but there must havebeen something in the manner in which they were said, to attractattention; for the schoolmaster and his companion looked steadilyat each other for a few seconds, and then exchanged a verymeaning smile. Snawley was a sleek, flat-nosed man, clad insombre garments, and long black gaiters, and bearing in hiscountenance an expression of much mortification and sanctity; so,his smiling without any obvious reason was the more remarkable.

　　‘Up to what age do you keep boys at your school then?’ heasked at length.

　　‘Just as long as their friends make the quarterly payments tomy agent in town, or until such time as they run away,’ repliedSqueers. ‘Let us understand each other; I see we may safely do so.

　　What are these boys;—natural children?’

　　‘No,’ rejoined Snawley, meeting the gaze of the schoolmaster’s one eye. ‘They ain’t.’

　　‘I thought they might be,’ said Squeers, coolly. ‘We have a goodmany of them; that boy’s one.’

　　‘Him in the next box?’ said Snawley.

　　Squeers nodded in the affirmative; his companion took anotherpeep at the little boy on the trunk, and, turning round again,looked as if he were quite disappointed to see him so much likeother boys, and said he should hardly have thought it.

　　‘He is,’ cried Squeers. ‘But about these boys of yours; youwanted to speak to me?’

　　‘Yes,’ replied Snawley. ‘The fact is, I am not their father, MrSqueers. I’m only their father-in-law.’

　　‘Oh! Is that it?’ said the schoolmaster. ‘That explains it at once.

　　I was wondering what the devil you were going to send them toYorkshire for. Ha! ha! Oh, I understand now.’

　　‘You see I have married the mother,’ pursued Snawley; ‘it’sexpensive keeping boys at home, and as she has a little money inher own right, I am afraid (women are so very foolish, Mr Squeers)that she might be led to squander it on them, which would be theirruin, you know.’

　　‘I see,’ returned Squeers, throwing himself back in his chair,and waving his hand.

　　‘And this,’ resumed Snawley, ‘has made me anxious to put themto some school a good distance off, where there are no holidays—none of those ill-judged coming home twice a year that unsettlechildren’s minds so—and where they may rough it a little—youcomprehend?’

　　‘The payments regular, and no questions asked,’ said Squeers,nodding his head.

　　 ‘That’s it, exactly,’ rejoined the other. ‘Morals strictly attendedto, though.’

　　‘Strictly,’ said Squeers.

　　‘Not too much writing home allowed, I suppose?’ said thefather-in-law, hesitating.

　　‘None, except a circular at Christmas, to say they never were sohappy, and hope they may never be sent for,’ rejoined Squeers.

　　‘Nothing could be better,’ said the father-in-law, rubbing hishands.

　　‘Then, as we understand each other,’ said Squeers, ‘will youallow me to ask you whether you consider me a highly virtuous,exemplary, and well-conducted man in private life; and whether,as a person whose business it is to take charge of youth, you placethe strongest confidence in my unimpeachable integrity, liberality,religious principles, and ability?’

　　‘Certainly I do,’ replied the father-in-law, reciprocating theschoolmaster’s grin.

　　‘Perhaps you won’t object to say that, if I make you areference?’

　　‘Not the least in the world.’

　　‘That’s your sort!’ said Squeers, taking up a pen; ‘this is doingbusiness, and that’s what I like.’

　　Having entered Mr Snawley’s address, the schoolmaster hadnext to perform the still more agreeable office of entering thereceipt of the first quarter’s payment in advance, which he hadscarcely completed, when another voice was heard inquiring forMr Squeers.

　　‘Here he is,’ replied the schoolmaster; ‘what is it?’

　　‘Only a matter of business, sir,’ said Ralph Nickleby, presenting himself, closely followed by Nicholas. ‘There was an advertisementof yours in the papers this morning?’

　　‘There was, sir. This way, if you please,’ said Squeers, who hadby this time got back to the box by the fire-place. ‘Won’t you beseated?’

　　‘Why, I think I will,’ replied Ralph, suiting the action to theword, and placing his hat on the table before him. ‘This is mynephew, sir, Mr Nicholas Nickleby.’

　　‘How do you do, sir?’ said Squeers.

　　Nicholas bowed, said he was very well, and seemed very muchastonished at the outward appearance of the proprietor ofDotheboys Hall: as indeed he was.

　　‘Perhaps you recollect me?’ said Ralph, looking narrowly at theschoolmaster.

　　‘You paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits totown, for some years, I think, sir,’ replied Squeers.

　　‘I did,’ rejoined Ralph.

　　‘For the parents of a boy named Dorker, who unfortunately—’

　　‘—unfortunately died at Dotheboys Hall,’ said Ralph, finishingthe sentence.

　　‘I remember very well, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘Ah! Mrs Squeers,sir, was as partial to that lad as if he had been her own; theattention, sir, that was bestowed upon that boy in his illness! Drytoast and warm tea offered him every night and morning when hecouldn’t swallow anything—a candle in his bedroom on the verynight he died—the best dictionary sent up for him to lay his headupon—I don’t regret it though. It is a pleasant thing to reflect thatone did one’s duty by him.’

　　Ralph smiled, as if he meant anything but smiling, and looked round at the strangers present.

　　‘These are only some pupils of mine,’ said Wackford Squeers,pointing to the little boy on the trunk and the two little boys on thefloor, who had been staring at each other without uttering a word,and writhing their bodies into most remarkable contortions,according to the custom of little boys when they first becomeacquainted. ‘This gentleman, sir, is a parent who is kind enough tocompliment me upon the course of education adopted atDotheboys Hall, which is situated, sir, at the delightful village ofDotheboys, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, where youth areboarded, clothed, booked, washed, furnished with pocket-money—’

　　‘Yes, we know all about that, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, testily. ‘It’sin the advertisement.’

　　‘You are very right, sir; it is in the advertisement,’ repliedSqueers.

　　‘And in the matter of fact besides,’ interrupted Mr Snawley. ‘Ifeel bound to assure you, sir, and I am proud to have thisopportunity of assuring you, that I consider Mr Squeers agentleman highly virtuous, exemplary, well conducted, and—’

　　‘I make no doubt of it, sir,’ interrupted Ralph, checking thetorrent of recommendation; ‘no doubt of it at all. Suppose we cometo business?’

　　‘With all my heart, sir,’ rejoined Squeers. ‘“Never postponebusiness,” is the very first lesson we instil into our commercialpupils. Master Belling, my dear, always remember that; do youhear?’

　　‘Yes, sir,’ repeated Master Belling.

　　‘He recollects what it is, does he?’ said Ralph.

　　 ‘Tell the gentleman,’ said Squeers.

　　‘“Never,”’ repeated Master Belling.

　　‘Very good,’ said Squeers; ‘go on.’

　　‘Never,’ repeated Master Belling again.

　　‘Very good indeed,’ said Squeers. ‘Yes.’

　　‘P,’ suggested Nicholas, good-naturedly.

　　‘Perform—business!’ said Master Belling. ‘Never—perform—business!’

　　‘Very well, sir,’ said Squeers, darting a withering look at theculprit. ‘You and I will perform a little business on our privateaccount by-and-by.’

　　‘And just now,’ said Ralph, ‘we had better transact our own,perhaps.’

　　‘If you please,’ said Squeers.

　　‘Well,’ resumed Ralph, ‘it’s brief enough; soon broached; and Ihope easily concluded. You have advertised for an able assistant,sir?’

　　‘Precisely so,’ said Squeers.

　　‘And you really want one?’

　　‘Certainly,’ answered Squeers.

　　‘Here he is!’ said Ralph. ‘My nephew Nicholas, hot from school,with everything he learnt there, fermenting in his head, andnothing fermenting in his pocket, is just the man you want.’

　　‘I am afraid,’ said Squeers, perplexed with such an applicationfrom a youth of Nicholas’s figure, ‘I am afraid the young manwon’t suit me.’

　　‘Yes, he will,’ said Ralph; ‘I know better. Don’t be cast down,sir; you will be teaching all the young noblemen in Dotheboys Hallin less than a week’s time, unless this gentleman is more obstinate than I take him to be.’

　　‘I fear, sir,’ said Nicholas, addressing Mr Squeers, ‘that youobject to my youth, and to my not being a Master of Arts?’

　　‘The absence of a college degree is an objection,’ repliedSqueers, looking as grave as he could, and considerably puzzled,no less by the contrast between the simplicity of the nephew andthe worldly manner of the uncle, than by the incomprehensibleallusion to the young noblemen under his tuition.

　　‘Look here, sir,’ said Ralph; ‘I’ll put this matter in its true lightin two seconds.’

　　‘If you’ll have the goodness,’ rejoined Squeers.

　　‘This is a boy, or a youth, or a lad, or a young man, or ahobbledehoy, or whatever you like to call him, of eighteen ornineteen, or thereabouts,’ said Ralph.

　　‘That I see,’ observed the schoolmaster.

　　‘So do I,’ said Mr Snawley, thinking it as well to back his newfriend occasionally.

　　‘His father is dead, he is wholly ignorant of the world, has noresources whatever, and wants something to do,’ said Ralph. ‘Irecommend him to this splendid establishment of yours, as anopening which will lead him to fortune if he turns it to properaccount. Do you see that?’

　　‘Everybody must see that,’ replied Squeers, half imitating thesneer with which the old gentleman was regarding hisunconscious relative.

　　‘I do, of course,’ said Nicholas, eagerly.

　　‘He does, of course, you observe,’ said Ralph, in the same dry,hard manner. ‘If any caprice of temper should induce him to castaside this golden opportunity before he has brought it to perfection, I consider myself absolved from extending anyassistance to his mother and sister. Look at him, and think of theuse he may be to you in half-a-dozen ways! Now, the question is,whether, for some time to come at all events, he won’t serve yourpurpose better than twenty of the kind of people you would getunder ordinary circumstances. Isn’t that a question forconsideration?’

　　‘Yes, it is,’ said Squeers, answering a nod of Ralph’s head with anod of his own.

　　‘Good,’ rejoined Ralph. ‘Let me have two words with you.’

　　The two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes MrWackford Squeers announced that Mr Nicholas Nickleby was,from that moment, thoroughly nominated to, and installed in, theoffice of first assistant master at Dotheboys Hall.

　　‘Your uncle’s recommendation has done it, Mr Nickleby,’ saidWackford Squeers.

　　Nicholas, overjoyed at his success, shook his uncle’s handwarmly, and could almost have worshipped Squeers upon thespot.

　　‘He is an odd-looking man,’ thought Nicholas. ‘What of that?

　　Porson was an odd-looking man, and so was Doctor Johnson; allthese bookworms are.’

　　‘At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, Mr Nickleby,’ saidSqueers, ‘the coach starts. You must be here at a quarter before,as we take these boys with us.’

　　‘Certainly, sir,’ said Nicholas.

　　‘And your fare down, I have paid,’ growled Ralph. ‘So, you’llhave nothing to do but keep yourself warm.’

　　Here was another instance of his uncle’s generosity! Nicholas felt his unexpected kindness so much, that he could scarcely findwords to thank him; indeed, he had not found half enough, whenthey took leave of the schoolmaster, and emerged from theSaracen’s Head gateway.

　　‘I shall be here in the morning to see you fairly off,’ said Ralph.

　　‘No skulking!’

　　‘Thank you, sir,’ replied Nicholas; ‘I never shall forget thiskindness.’

　　‘Take care you don’t,’ replied his uncle. ‘You had better gohome now, and pack up what you have got to pack. Do you thinkyou could find your way to Golden Square first?’

　　‘Certainly,’ said Nicholas. ‘I can easily inquire.’

　　‘Leave these papers with my clerk, then,’ said Ralph, producinga small parcel, ‘and tell him to wait till I come home.’

　　Nicholas cheerfully undertook the errand, and bidding hisworthy uncle an affectionate farewell, which that warm-heartedold gentleman acknowledged by a growl, hastened away toexecute his commission.

　　He found Golden Square in due course; Mr Noggs, who hadstepped out for a minute or so to the public-house, was openingthe door with a latch-key, as he reached the steps.

　　‘What’s that?’ inquired Noggs, pointing to the parcel.

　　‘Papers from my uncle,’ replied Nicholas; ‘and you’re to havethe goodness to wait till he comes home, if you please.’

　　‘Uncle!’ cried Noggs.

　　‘Mr Nickleby,’ said Nicholas in explanation.

　　‘Come in,’ said Newman.

　　Without another word he led Nicholas into the passage, andthence into the official pantry at the end of it, where he thrust him into a chair, and mounting upon his high stool, sat, with his armshanging, straight down by his sides, gazing fixedly upon him, asfrom a tower of observation.

　　‘There is no answer,’ said Nicholas, laying the parcel on a tablebeside him.

　　Newman said nothing, but folding his arms, and thrusting hishead forward so as to obtain a nearer view of Nicholas’s face,scanned his features closely.

　　‘No answer,’ said Nicholas, speaking very loud, under theimpression that Newman Noggs was deaf.

　　Newman placed his hands upon his knees, and, withoututtering a syllable, continued the same close scrutiny of hiscompanion’s face.

　　This was such a very singular proceeding on the part of an utterstranger, and his appearance was so extremely peculiar, thatNicholas, who had a sufficiently keen sense of the ridiculous, couldnot refrain from breaking into a smile as he inquired whether MrNoggs had any commands for him.

　　Noggs shook his head and sighed; upon which Nicholas rose,and remarking that he required no rest, bade him good-morning.

　　It was a great exertion for Newman Noggs, and nobody knowsto this day how he ever came to make it, the other party beingwholly unknown to him, but he drew a long breath and actuallysaid, out loud, without once stopping, that if the young gentlemandid not object to tell, he should like to know what his uncle wasgoing to do for him.

　　Nicholas had not the least objection in the world, but on thecontrary was rather pleased to have an opportunity of talking onthe subject which occupied his thoughts; so, he sat down again, and (his sanguine imagination warming as he spoke) entered intoa fervent and glowing description of all the honours andadvantages to be derived from his appointment at that seat oflearning, Dotheboys Hall.

　　‘But, what’s the matter—are you ill?’ said Nicholas, suddenlybreaking off, as his companion, after throwing himself into avariety of uncouth attitudes, thrust his hands under the stool, andcracked his finger-joints as if he were snapping all the bones in hishands.

　　Newman Noggs made no reply, but went on shrugging hisshoulders and cracking his finger-joints; smiling horribly all thetime, and looking steadfastly at nothing, out of the tops of his eyes,in a most ghastly manner.

　　At first, Nicholas thought the mysterious man was in a fit, but,on further consideration, decided that he was in liquor, underwhich circumstances he deemed it prudent to make off at once. Helooked back when he had got the street-door open. NewmanNoggs was still indulging in the same extraordinary gestures, andthe cracking of his fingers sounded louder that ever.