'Now I'll tell you what, Mrs Squeers.

In this matter of having a teacher, I'll take my own way, if you please.

A slave driver in the West Indies is allowed a man under him, to see that his blacks don't run away, or get up a rebellion; and I'll have a man under me to do the same with OUR blacks, till such time as little Wackford is able to take charge of the school.' 'Am I to take care of the school when I grow up a man, father ?' said Wackford junior, suspending, in the excess of his delight, a vicious kick which he was administering to his sister.
'You are, my son,' replied Mr Squeers, in a sentimental voice.
'Oh my eye, won't I give it to the boys!' exclaimed the interesting child, grasping his father's cane.

'Oh, father, won't I make 'em squeak again!' It was a proud moment in Mr Squeers's life, when he witnessed that burst of enthusiasm in his young child's mind, and saw in it a foreshadowing of his future eminence.

He pressed a penny into his hand, and gave vent to his feelings (as did his exemplary wife also), in a shout of approving laughter.