Creakle and his cruelty, and about the other masters, and that the
only boy on whom Mr. Creakle never dared to lay a hand was Steerforth. All
this and much more I heard before we at last betook ourselves to bed.
The next day school began in earnest, and so far as the boys were
concerned, Steerforth continued his protection of me, and was always a
very firm and useful friend, as no one dared annoy any one whom he liked.
One night he discovered that my head was filled with stories of my
favourite heroes, which I could relate with some measure of graphic
talent, and after that I was obliged to reel off stories by the yard,
making myself into a regular Sultana Scheherezade for his benefit. I was
much flattered by his interest in my tales, and the only drawback to
telling them was that I was often very sleepy at night, and it was
sometimes very hard work to be roused and forced into a long recital
before the rising bell rang, but Steerforth was resolute, and as in return
he explained sums and exercises to me, I was no loser by the transaction.
Also, I honestly admired and loved the handsome fellow, and desired to
please him.
And so from week to week the story-telling in the dark went on, and
whatever I had within me that was romantic or dreamy was encouraged by it.
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