Chapter 57

CHAPTER 57

How Ralph Nickleby's Auxiliary went about his Work, and how he
prospered with it

It was a dark, wet, gloomy night in autumn, when in an upper room of
a mean house situated in an obscure street, or rather court, near
Lambeth, there sat, all alone, a one-eyed man grotesquely habited,
either for lack of better garments or for purposes of disguise, in a
loose greatcoat, with arms half as long again as his own, and a
capacity of breadth and length which would have admitted of his
winding himself in it, head and all, with the utmost ease, and
without any risk of straining the old and greasy material of which
it was composed.

So attired, and in a place so far removed from his usual haunts and
occupations, and so very poor and wretched in its character, perhaps
Mrs Squeers herself would have had some difficulty in recognising
her lord: quickened though her natural sagacity doubtless would have
been by the affectionate yearnings and impulses of a tender wife.
But Mrs Squeers's lord it was; and in a tolerably disconsolate mood
Mrs Squeers's lord appeared to be, as, helping himself from a black
bottle which stood on the table beside him, he cast round the
chamber a look, in which very slight regard for the objects within
view was plainly mingled with some regretful and impatient
recollection of distant scenes and persons.

There were, certainly, no particular attractions, either in the room
over which the glance of Mr Squeers so discontentedly wandered, or
in the narrow street into which it might have penetrated, if he had
thought fit to approach the window. The attic chamber in which he
sat was bare and mean; the bedstead, and such few other articles of
necessary furniture as it contained, were of the commonest
description, in a most crazy state, and of a most uninviting
appearance. The street was muddy, dirty, and deserted. Having but
one outlet, it was traversed by few but the inhabitants at any time;
and the night being one of those on which most people are glad to be
within doors, it now presented no other signs of life than the dull
glimmering of poor candles from the dirty windows, and few sounds
but the pattering of the rain, and occasionally the heavy closing of
some creaking door.

Mr Squeers continued to look disconsolately about him, and to listen
to these noises in profound silence, broken only by the rustling of
his large coat, as he now and then moved his arm to raise his glass
to his lips. Mr Squeers continued to do this for some time, until
the increasing gloom warned him to snuff the candle. Seeming to be
slightly roused by this exertion, he raised his eye to the ceiling,
and fixing it upon some uncouth and fantastic figures, traced upon
it by