'Damn the expense.

Let's have him in a coach.' 'What's he been a doing of ?' asked a labourer with a hod of bricks, against whom and a fellow-labourer Mr Squeers had backed, on the first jerk of the umbrella.
'Everything!' replied Mr Squeers, looking fixedly at his old pupil in a sort of rapturous trance.

'Everything--running away, sir--joining in bloodthirsty attacks upon his master--there's nothing that's bad that he hasn't done.

Oh, what a delicious go is this here, good Lord!' The man looked from Squeers to Smike; but such mental faculties as the poor fellow possessed, had utterly deserted him.

The coach came up; Master Wackford entered; Squeers pushed in his prize, and following close at his heels, pulled up the glasses.