Domestic fiction; Education -- Fiction; England -- Fiction; Political fiction; Social problems -- Fiction; Utilitarianism -- Fiction
‘I don’t deny,’ added Bitzer, ‘that my schooling was cheap. But that
comes right, sir. I was made in the cheapest market, and have to dispose
of myself in the dearest.’
He was a little troubled here, by Louisa and Sissy crying.
‘Pray don’t do that,’ said he, ‘it’s of no use doing that: it only
worries. You seem to think that I have some animosity against young Mr.
Tom; whereas I have none at all. I am only going, on the reasonable
grounds I have mentioned, to take him back to Coketown. If he was to
resist, I should set up the cry of Stop thief! But, he won’t resist, you
may depend upon it.’
Mr. Sleary, who with his mouth open and his rolling eye as immovably
jammed in his head as his fixed one, had listened to these doctrines with
profound attention, here stepped forward.
‘Thquire, you know perfectly well, and your daughter knowth perfectly
well (better than you, becauthe I thed it to her), that I didn’t know
what your thon had done, and that I didn’t want to know—I thed it wath
better not, though I only thought, then, it wath thome thkylarking.
However, thith young man having made it known to be a robbery of a bank,
why, that’h a theriouth thing; muth too theriouth a thing for me to
compound, ath thith young man hath very properly called it.
Conthequently, Thquire, you muthn’t quarrel with me if I take thith young
man’th thide, and thay he’th right and there’th no help for it. But I
tell you what I’ll do, Thquire; I’ll drive your thon and thith young man
over to the rail, and prevent expothure here. I can’t conthent to do
more, but I’ll do that.’
Fresh lamentations from Louisa, and deeper affliction on Mr. Gradgrind’s
part, followed this desertion of them by their last friend. But, Sissy
glanced at him with great attention; nor did she in her own breast
misunderstand him. As they were all going out again, he favoured her
with one slight roll of his movable eye, desiring her to linger behind.
As he locked the door, he said excitedly:
‘The Thquire thtood by you, Thethilia, and I’ll thtand by the Thquire.
More than that: thith ith a prethiouth rathcal, and belongth to that
bluthtering Cove that my people nearly pitht out o’ winder. It’ll be a
dark night; I’ve got a horthe that’ll do anything but thpeak; I’ve got a
pony that’ll go fifteen mile an hour with Childerth driving of him; I’ve
got a dog that’ll keep a man to one plathe four-and-twenty hourth. Get a
word with the young Thquire. Tell him, when he theeth our horthe begin
to danthe, not to be afraid of being thpilt, but to look out for a
pony-gig coming up. Tell him, when he theeth that gig clothe by, to jump
down, and it’ll take him off at a rattling pathe. If my dog leth thith
young man thtir a peg on foot, I give him leave to go. And if my horthe
ever thtirth from that thpot where he beginth a danthing, till the
morning—I don’t know him?—Tharp’th the word!’
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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