‘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.