“My dear Bounderby,” said James, dismounting, and giving his bridle to his servant, “I do see it; and am as overcome as you can possibly desire me to be, by the spectacle afforded to my mental view. Nevertheless, I may be allowed, I hope, to congratulate you—which I do with all my soul, I assure you—on your not having sustained a greater loss.”
“Thank'ee,” replied Bounderby, in a short, ungracious manner. “But I tell you what. It might have been twenty thousand pound.”
“I suppose it might.”
“Suppose it might! By the Lord, you may suppose so. By George!” said Mr. Bounderby, with sundry menacing nods and shakes of his head. “It might have been twice twenty. There's no knowing what it would have been, or wouldn't have been, as it was, but for the fellows” being disturbed.”
Louisa had come up now, and Mrs. Sparsit, and Bitzer.
“Here's Tom Gradgrind's daughter knows pretty well what it might have been, if you don't,” blustered Bounderby. “Dropped, sir, as if she was shot when I told her! Never knew her do such a thing before. Does her credit, under the circumstances, in my opinion!”
She still looked faint and pale. James Harthouse begged her to take his arm; and as they moved on very slowly, asked her how the robbery had been committed.
“Why, I am going to tell you,” said Bounderby, irritably giving his arm to Mrs. Sparsit. “If you hadn't been so mighty particular about the sum, I should have begun to tell you before. You know this lady (for she is a lady), Mrs. Sparsit?”
“I have already had the honour—”
“Very well. And this young man, Bitzer, you saw him too on the same occasion?” Mr. Harthouse inclined his head in assent, and Bitzer knuckled his forehead.
“Very well. They live at the Bank. You know they live at the Bank, perhaps? Very well. Yesterday afternoon, at the close of business hours, everything was put away as usual. In the iron room that this young fellow sleeps outside of, there was never mind how much. In the little safe in young Tom's closet, the safe used for petty purposes, there was a hundred and fifty odd pound.”
“A hundred and fifty-four, seven, one,” said Bitzer.
“Come!” retorted Bounderby, stopping to wheel round upon him, “let's have none of your interruptions. It's enough to be robbed while you're snoring because you're too comfortable, without being put right with your four seven ones. I didn't snore, myself, when I was your age, let me tell you. I hadn't victuals enough to snore. And I didn't four seven one. Not if I knew it.”
Bitzer knuckled his forehead again, in a sneaking manner, and seemed at once particularly impressed and depressed by the instance last given of Mr. Bounderby's moral abstinence.
“A hundred and fifty odd pound,” resumed Mr. Bounderby. “That sum of money, young Tom locked in his safe, not a very strong safe, but that's no matter now. Everything was left, all right. Some time in the night, while this young fellow snored—Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, you say you have heard him snore?”
“Sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “I cannot say that I have heard him precisely snore, and therefore must not make that statement. But on winter evenings, when he has fallen asleep at his table, I have heard him, what I should prefer to describe as partially choke. I have heard him on such occasions produce sounds of a nature similar to what may be sometimes heard in Dutch clocks. Not,” said Mrs. Sparsit, with a lofty sense of giving strict evidence, “that I would convey any imputation on his moral character. Far from it. I have always considered Bitzer a young man of the most upright principle; and to that I beg to bear my testimony.”
“Well!” said the exasperated Bounderby, “while he was snoring, or choking, or Dutch-clocking, or something or other—being asleep—some fellows, somehow, whether previously concealed in the house or not remains to be seen, got to young Tom's safe, forced it, and abstracted the contents. Being then disturbed, they made off; letting themselves out at the main door, and double-locking it again (it was double-locked, and the key under Mrs. Sparsit's pillow) with a false key, which was picked up in the street near the Bank, about twelve o'clock to-day. No alarm takes place, till this chap, Bitzer, turns out this morning, and begins to open and prepare the offices for business. Then, looking at Tom's safe, he sees the door ajar, and finds the lock forced, and the money gone.”
“Where is Tom, by the by?” asked Harthouse, glancing round.
“He has been helping the police,” said Bounderby, “and stays behind at the Bank. I wish these fellows had tried to rob me when I was at his time of life. They would have been out of pocket if they had invested eighteenpence in the job; I can tell “em that.”
“Is anybody suspected?”
“Suspected? I should think there was somebody suspected. Egod!” said Bounderby, relinquishing Mrs. Sparsit's arm to wipe his heated head. “Josiah Bounderby of Coketown is not to be plundered and nobody suspected. No, thank you!”
Might Mr. Harthouse inquire Who was suspected?
“Well,” said Bounderby, stopping and facing about to confront them all, “I'll tell you. It's not to be mentioned everywhere; it's not to be mentioned anywhere: in order that the scoundrels concerned (there's a gang of “em) may be thrown off their guard. So take this in confidence. Now wait a bit.” Mr. Bounderby wiped his head again. “What should you say to;” here he violently exploded: “to a Hand being in it?”
“I hope,” said Harthouse, lazily, “not our friend Blackpot?”
“Say Pool instead of Pot, sir,” returned Bounderby, “and that's the man.”
Louisa faintly uttered some word of incredulity and surprise.
“O yes! I know!” said Bounderby, immediately catching at the sound. “I know! I am used to that. I know all about it. They are the finest people in the world, these fellows are. They have got the gift of the gab, they have. They only want to have their rights explained to them, they do. But I tell you what. Show me a dissatisfied Hand, and I'll show you a man that's fit for anything bad, I don't care what it is.”
Another of the popular fictions of Coketown, which some pains had been taken to disseminate—and which some people really believed.
“But I am acquainted with these chaps,” said Bounderby. “I can read “em off, like books. Mrs. Sparsit, ma'am, I appeal to you. What warning did I give that fellow, the first time he set foot in the house, when the express object of his visit was to know how he could knock Religion over, and floor the Established Church? Mrs. Sparsit, in point of high connexions, you are on a level with the aristocracy,—did I say, or did I not say, to that fellow, “you can't hide the truth from me: you are not the kind of fellow I like; you'll come to no good”?”
“Assuredly, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, “you did, in a highly impressive manner, give him such an admonition.”
“When he shocked you, ma'am,” said Bounderby; “when he shocked your feelings?”
“Yes, sir,” returned Mrs. Sparsit, with a meek shake of her head, “he certainly did so. Though I do not mean to say but that my feelings may be weaker on such points—more foolish if the term is preferred—than they might have been, if I had always occupied my present position.”
Mr. Bounderby stared with a bursting pride at Mr. Harthouse, as much as to say, “I am the proprietor of this female, and she's worth your attention, I think.” Then, resumed his discourse.
“You can recall for yourself, Harthouse, what I said to him when you saw him. I didn't mince the matter with him. I am never mealy with “em. I KNOW “em. Very well, sir. Three days after that, he bolted. Went off, nobody knows where: as my mother did in my infancy—only with this difference, that he is a worse subject than my mother, if possible. What did he do before he went? What do you say;” Mr. Bounderby, with his hat in his hand, gave a beat upon the crown at every little division of his sentences, as if it were a tambourine; “to his being seen —night after night—watching the Bank?—to his lurking about there—after dark?—To its striking Mrs. Sparsit—that he could be lurking for no good—To her calling Bitzer's attention to him, and their both taking notice of him—And to its appearing on inquiry to-day—that he was also noticed by the neighbours?” Having come to the climax, Mr. Bounderby, like an oriental dancer, put his tambourine on his head.
“Suspicious,” said James Harthouse, “certainly.”
“I think so, sir,” said Bounderby, with a defiant nod. “I think so. But there are more of “em in it. There's an old woman. One never hears of these things till the mischief's done; all sorts of defects are found out in the stable door after the horse is stolen; there's an old woman turns up now. An old woman who seems to have been flying into town on a broomstick, every now and then. She watches the place a whole day before this fellow begins, and on the night when you saw him, she steals away with him and holds a council with him—I suppose, to make her
