At the same moment, a small boy clung tight round his leg, and a shrill cry of 'Here he is, father! Hooray!' vibrated in his ears.
Smike knew that voice too well.

He cast his despairing eyes downward towards the form from which it had proceeded, and, shuddering from head to foot, looked round.

Mr Squeers had hooked him in the coat collar with the handle of his umbrella, and was hanging on at the other end with all his might and main.

The cry of triumph proceeded from Master Wackford, who, regardless of all his kicks and struggles, clung to him with the tenacity of a bull-dog! One glance showed him this; and in that one glance the terrified creature became utterly powerless and unable to utter a sound.
'Here's a go!' cried Mr Squeers, gradually coming hand-over-hand down the umbrella, and only unhooking it when he had got tight hold of the victim's collar.

'Here's a delicious go! Wackford, my boy, call up one of them coaches.' 'A coach, father!' cried little Wackford.
'Yes, a coach, sir,' replied Squeers, feasting his eyes upon the countenance of Smike.