Nicholas Nickleby
inquired for John Browdie’s house. John lived in the outskirts, now he
was a family man; and as everbody knew him, Nicholas had no difficulty
in finding a boy who undertook to guide him to his residence.
Dismissing his guide at the gate, and in his impatience not even
stopping to admire the thriving look of cottage or garden either,
Nicholas made his way to the kitchen door, and knocked lustily with his
stick.
‘Halloa!’ cried a voice inside. ‘Wa’et be the matther noo? Be the toon
a-fire? Ding, but thou mak’st noise eneaf!’
With these words, John Browdie opened the door himself, and opening his
eyes too to their utmost width, cried, as he clapped his hands together,
and burst into a hearty roar:
‘Ecod, it be the godfeyther, it be the godfeyther! Tilly, here be
Misther Nickleby. Gi’ us thee hond, mun. Coom awa’, coom awa’. In wi
‘un, doon beside the fire; tak’ a soop o’ thot. Dinnot say a word till
thou’st droonk it a’! Oop wi’ it, mun. Ding! but I’m reeght glod to see
thee.’
Adapting his action to his text, John dragged Nicholas into the kitchen,
forced him down upon a huge settle beside a blazing fire, poured out
from an enormous bottle about a quarter of a pint of spirits, thrust it
into his hand, opened his mouth and threw back his head as a sign to
him to drink it instantly, and stood with a broad grin of welcome
overspreading his great red face like a jolly giant.
‘I might ha’ knowa’d,’ said John, ‘that nobody but thou would ha’
coom wi’ sike a knock as you. Thot was the wa’ thou knocked at
schoolmeasther’s door, eh? Ha, ha, ha! But I say; wa’at be a’ this aboot
schoolmeasther?’
‘You know it then?’ said Nicholas.
‘They were talking aboot it, doon toon, last neeght,’ replied John, ‘but
neane on ‘em seemed quite to un’erstan’ it, loike.’
‘After various shiftings and delays,’ said Nicholas, ‘he has been
sentenced to be transported for seven years, for being in the unlawful
possession of a stolen will; and, after that, he has to suffer the
consequence of a conspiracy.’
‘Whew!’ cried John, ‘a conspiracy! Soom’at in the pooder-plot wa’? Eh?
Soom’at in the Guy Faux line?’
‘No, no, no, a conspiracy connected with his school; I’ll explain it
presently.’
‘Thot’s reeght!’ said John, ‘explain it arter breakfast, not noo, for
thou be’est hoongry, and so am I; and Tilly she mun’ be at the bottom o’
a’ explanations, for she says thot’s the mutual confidence. Ha, ha, ha!
Ecod, it’s a room start, is the mutual confidence!’
The entrance of Mrs. Browdie, with a smart cap on, and very many
apologies for their having been detected in the act of breakfasting in
the kitchen, stopped John in his discussion of this grave subject, and
hastened the breakfast: which, being composed of vast mounds of toast,
new-laid eggs, boiled ham, Yorkshire pie, and other cold substantials
(of which heavy relays were constantly appearing from another kitchen
under the direction of a very plump servant), was admirably adapted
to the cold bleak morning, and received the utmost justice from all
parties. At last, it came to a close; and the fire which had been
lighted in the best parlour having by this time burnt up, they adjourned
thither, to hear what Nicholas had to tell.
Nicholas told them all, and never was there a story which awakened so
many emotions in the breasts of two eager listeners. At one time, honest
John groaned in sympathy, and at another roared with joy; at one time
he vowed to go up to London on purpose to get a sight of the brothers
Cheeryble; and, at another, swore that Tim Linkinwater should receive
such a ham by coach, and carriage free, as mortal knife had never
carved. When Nicholas began to describe Madeline, he sat with his mouth
wide open, nudging Mrs. Browdie from time to time, and exclaiming under
his breath that she must be ‘raa’ther a tidy sart,’ and when he heard
at last that his young friend had come down purposely to communicate his
good fortune, and to convey to him all those assurances of friendship
which he could not state with sufficient warmth in writing--that the
only object of his journey was to share his happiness with them, and
to tell them that when he was married they must come up to see him,
and that Madeline insisted on it as well as he--John could hold out no
longer, but after looking indignantly at his wife, and demanding to
know what she was whimpering for, drew his coat sleeve over his eyes and
blubbered outright.
‘Tell’ee wa’at though,’ said John seriously, when a great deal had been
said on both sides, ‘to return to schoolmeasther. If this news aboot ‘un
has reached school today, the old ‘ooman wean’t have a whole boan in her
boddy, nor Fanny neither.’
‘Oh, John!’ cried Mrs. Browdie.
‘Ah! and Oh, John agean,’ replied the Yorkshireman. ‘I dinnot know what
they lads mightn’t do. When it first got aboot that schoolmeasther was
in trouble, some feythers and moothers sent and took their young chaps
awa’. If them as is left, should know waat’s coom tiv’un, there’ll be
sike a revolution and rebel!--Ding! But I think they’ll a’ gang daft,
and spill bluid like wather!’
In fact, John Browdie’s apprehensions were so strong that he determined
to ride over to the school without delay, and invited Nicholas to
accompany him, which, however, he declined, pleading that his presence
might perhaps aggravate the bitterness of their adversity.
‘Thot’s true!’ said John; ‘I should ne’er ha’ thought o’ thot.’
‘I must return tomorrow,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I mean to dine with you
today, and if Mrs. Browdie can give me a bed--’
‘Bed!’ cried John, ‘I wish thou couldst sleep in fower beds at once.
Ecod, thou shouldst have ‘em a’. Bide till I coom back; on’y bide till I
coom back, and ecod we’ll make a day of it.’
Giving his wife a hearty kiss, and Nicholas a no less hearty shake of
the hand, John mounted his horse and rode off: leaving Mrs. Browdie to
apply herself to hospitable preparations, and his young friend to stroll
about the neighbourhood, and revisit spots which were rendered familiar
to him by many a miserable association.
John cantered away, and arriving at Dotheboys Hall, tied his horse to a
gate and made his way to the schoolroom door, which he found locked on
the inside. A tremendous noise and riot arose from within, and, applying
his eye to a convenient crevice in the wall, he did not remain long in
ignorance of its meaning.
The news of Mr. Squeers’s downfall had reached Dotheboys; that was quite
clear. To all appearance, it had very recently become known to the young
gentlemen; for the rebellion had just broken out.
It was one of the brimstone-and-treacle mornings, and Mrs. Squeers
had entered school according to custom with the large bowl and spoon,
followed by Miss Squeers and the amiable Wackford: who, during his
father’s absence, had taken upon him such minor branches of the
executive as kicking the pupils with his nailed boots, pulling the hair
of some of the smaller boys, pinching the others in aggravating places,
and rendering himself, in various similar ways, a great comfort and
happiness to his mother. Their entrance, whether by premeditation or
a simultaneous impulse, was the signal of revolt. While one detachment
rushed to the door and locked it, and another mounted on the desks and
forms, the stoutest (and consequently the newest) boy seized the cane,
and confronting Mrs. Squeers with a stern countenance, snatched off her
cap and beaver bonnet, put them on his own head, armed himself with the
wooden spoon, and bade her, on pain of death, go down upon her knees and
take a dose directly. Before that estimable lady could recover herself,
or offer the slightest retaliation, she was forced into a kneeling
posture by a crowd of shouting tormentors, and compelled to swallow a
spoonful of the odious mixture, rendered more than usually savoury by
the immersion in the bowl of Master Wackford’s head, whose ducking
was intrusted to another rebel. The success of this first achievement
prompted the malicious crowd, whose faces were clustered together in
every variety of lank and half-starved ugliness, to further acts of
outrage. The leader was insisting upon Mrs. Squeers repeating her dose,
Master Squeers was undergoing another dip in the treacle, and a violent
assault had been commenced on Miss Squeers, when John Browdie, bursting
open the door with a vigorous kick, rushed to the rescue. The shouts,
screams, groans, hoots, and clapping of hands, suddenly ceased, and a
dead silence ensued.
‘Ye be noice chaps,’ said John, looking steadily round. ‘What’s to do
here, thou yoong dogs?’
‘Squeers is in prison, and we are going to run away!’ cried a score of
shrill voices. ‘We won’t stop, we won’t stop!’
‘Weel then, dinnot stop,’ replied John; ‘who waants thee to stop? Roon
awa’ loike men, but dinnot hurt the women.’
‘Hurrah!’ cried the shrill voices, more shrilly still.
‘Hurrah?’ repeated John. ‘Weel, hurrah loike men too. Noo then, look
out. Hip--hip,--hip--hurrah!’
‘Hurrah!’ cried the voices.
‘Hurrah! Agean;’ said John. ‘Looder still.’
The boys obeyed.
‘Anoother!’ said John. ‘Dinnot be afeared on it. Let’s have a good ‘un!’
‘Hurrah!’
‘Noo then,’ said John, ‘let’s have yan more to end wi’, and then
coot off as quick as you loike. Tak’a good breath noo--Squeers be in
jail--the school’s brokken oop--it’s a’ ower--past and gane--think o’
thot, and let it be a hearty ‘un! Hurrah!’
Such a cheer arose as the walls of Dotheboys Hall had never echoed
before, and were destined never to respond to again. When the sound had
died away, the school was empty; and of the busy noisy crowd which had
peopled it but five minutes before, not one remained.
‘Very well, Mr. Browdie!’ said Miss Squeers, hot and flushed from the
recent encounter, but vixenish to the last; ‘you’ve been and excited our
boys to run away. Now see if we don’t pay you out for that, sir! If
my pa IS unfortunate and trod down by henemies, we’re not going to be
basely crowed and conquered over by you and ‘Tilda.’
‘Noa!’ replied John bluntly, ‘thou bean’t. Tak’ thy oath o’ thot. Think
betther o’ us, Fanny. I tell ‘ee both, that I’m glod the auld man has
been caught out at last--dom’d glod--but ye’ll sooffer eneaf wi’out any
crowin’ fra’ me, and I be not the mun to crow, nor be Tilly the lass,
so I tell ‘ee flat. More than thot, I tell ‘ee noo, that if thou need’st
friends to help thee awa’ from this place--dinnot turn up thy nose,
Fanny, thou may’st--thou’lt foind Tilly and I wi’ a thout o’ old times
aboot us, ready to lend thee a hond. And when I say thot, dinnot think
I be asheamed of waa’t I’ve deane, for I say again, Hurrah! and dom the
schoolmeasther. There!’
His parting words concluded, John Browdie strode heavily out, remounted
his nag, put him once more into a smart canter, and, carolling lustily
forth some fragments of an old song, to which the horse’s hoofs rang a
merry accompaniment, sped back to his pretty wife and to Nicholas.
For some days afterwards, the neighbouring country was overrun with
boys, who, the report went, had been secretly furnished by Mr. and Mrs
Browdie, not only with a hearty meal of bread and meat, but with sundry
shillings and sixpences to help them on their way. To this rumour John
always returned a stout denial, which he accompanied, however, with a
lurking grin, that rendered the suspicious doubtful, and fully confirmed
all previous believers.
There were a few timid young children, who, miserable as they had been,
and many as were the tears they had shed in the wretched school, still
knew no other home, and had formed for it a sort of attachment, which
made them weep when the bolder spirits fled, and cling to it as a
refuge. Of these, some were found crying under hedges and in such