He makes dreadful mouths as he rules the ciphering-book; and now he throws his eye sideways down our lane, and we all droop over our books and tremble.

A moment afterwards we are again eyeing him.

An unhappy culprit, found guilty of imperfect exercise, approaches at his command.

The culprit falters excuses, and professes a determination to do better tomorrow.

Mr.Creakle cuts a joke before he beats him, and we laugh at it,--miserable little dogs, we laugh, with our visages as white as ashes, and our hearts sinking into our boots.
Here I sit at the desk again, on a drowsy summer afternoon.