In order that the
lower part of his legs might be in keeping with this singular dress, he
had a very large pair of boots, originally made for tops, but now too
patched and tattered for a beggar. He was lame, and as he feigned to be
busy arranging the table, glanced at the letters with a look so keen, and
yet so dispirited and hopeless that Nicholas could hardly bear to watch
him.
"What are you bothering about there, Smike?" cried Mrs. Squeers; "let the
things alone, can't you?"
"Eh," said Squeers, looking up. "Oh, it's you, is it?"
"Yes, sir," replied the youth, pressing his hands together, as though to
control, by force, the nervous wandering of his fingers. "Is there----"
"Well!" said Squeers.
"Have you--did anybody--has nothing been heard--about me?"
"Not a word," resumed Squeers, "and never will be. Now, this is a pretty
sort of thing, isn't it, that you should have been left here, all these
years, and no money paid after the first six--nor no notice taken, nor no
clue to be got who you belong to? It's a pretty sort of thing that I
should have to feed a great fellow like you, and never hope to get one
penny for it, isn't it?"
The boy put his hand to his head as if he were making an effort to
recollect something, and then, looking vacantly at his questioner,
gradually broke into a smile, and limped away.
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