It was my book that he struck his desk with; and as I stood beside him, following his eye as it glanced round the room, I saw the boys all stop, some suddenly surprised, some half afraid, and some sorry perhaps.

Steerforth’s place was at the bottom of the school, at the opposite end of the long room. He was lounging with his back against the wall, and his hands in his pockets, and looked at Mr. Mell with his mouth shut up as if he were whistling, when Mr. Mell looked at him.

“Silence, Mr. Steerforth!” said Mr. Mell.

“Silence yourself,” said Steerforth, turning red. “Whom are you talking to?”

“Sit down,” said Mr. Mell.

“Sit down yourself,” said Steerforth, “and mind your business.”

There was a titter and some applause; but Mr. Mell was so white, that silence immediately succeeded; and one boy, who had darted out behind him to imitate his mother again, changed his mind and pretended to want a pen mended.

“If you think, Steerforth,” said Mr. Mell, “that I am not acquainted with the power you can establish over any mind here”—he laid his hand, without considering what he did (as I supposed) upon my head—“or that I have not observed you, within a few minutes, urging your juniors on to every sort of outrage against me, you are mistaken.”

“I don’t give myself the trouble of thinking at all about you,” said Steerforth, coolly, “so I am not mistaken, as it happens.”

“And when you make use of your position of favouritism here, Sir,” pursued Mr. Mell, with his lip trembling very much, “to insult a gentleman—”

“A what?—where is he?” said Steerforth.

Here somebody cried out, “Shame, J. Steerforth! Too bad!” It was Traddles, whom Mr. Mell instantly discomfited by bidding him hold his tongue.

“—To insult one who is not fortunate in life, Sir, and who never gave you the least offence, and the many reasons for not insulting whom you are old enough and wise enough to understand,” said Mr. Mell, with his lip trembling more and more, “you commit a mean and base action. You can sit down or stand up as you please, Sir. Copper-field, go on.”

“Young Copperfield,” said Steerforth, coming forward up the room, “stop a bit. I tell you what, Mr. Mell, once for all. When you take the liberty of calling me mean or base, or anything of that sort, you are an impudent beggar. You are always a beggar, you know; but when you do that, you are an impudent beggar.”

I am not clear whether he was going to strike Mr. Mell, or Mr. Mell was going to strike him, or there was any such intention on either side. I saw a rigidity come upon the whole school as if they had been turned into stone, and found Mr. Creakle in the midst of us, with Tungay at his side, and Mrs. and Miss Creakle looking in at the door as if they were frightened. Mr. Mell, with his elbows on his desk and his face in his hands, sat, for some moments, quite still.

“Mr. Mell,” said Mr. Creakle, shaking him by the arm; and his whisper was so audible now, that Tungay felt it unnecessary to repeat his words; “you have not forgotten yourself, I hope?”