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      "body": "Childers replied pointedly, that he was not at all astonished to hear it.<p class=\"indent\">‘Very well,’ said Bounderby. ‘I was born in a ditch, and my mother ran away from me. Do I excuse her for it? No. Have I ever excused her for it? Not I. What do I call her for it? I call her probably the very worst woman that ever lived in the world, except my drunken grandmother. There’s no family pride about me, there’s no imaginative sentimental humbug about me. I call a spade a spade; and I call the mother of Josiah Bounderby of Coketown, without any fear or any favour, what I should call her if she had been the mother of Dick Jones of Wapping. So, with this man. He is a runaway rogue and a vagabond, that’s what he is, in English.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘It’s all the same to me what he is or what he is not, whether in English or whether in French,’ retorted Mr E. W. B. Childers, facing about. ‘I am telling your friend what’s the fact; if you don’t like to hear it, you can avail yourself of the open air. You give it mouth enough, you do; but give it mouth in your own building at least,’ remonstrated E. W. B. with stern irony. ‘Don’t give it mouth in this building, till you’re called upon. You have got some building of your own, I dare say, now?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Perhaps so,’ replied Mr Bounderby, rattling his money and laughing.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Then give it mouth in your own building, will you, if you please?’ said Childers. ‘Because this isn’t a strong building, and too much of you might bring it down!’</p><p class=\"indent\">Eyeing Mr Bounderby from head to foot again, he turned from him, as from a man finally disposed of, to Mr Gradgrind.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Jupe sent his daughter out on an errand not an hour ago, and then was seen to slip out himself, with his hat over his eyes and a bundle tied up in a handkerchief under his arm. She will never believe it of him, but he has cut away and left her.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Pray,’ said Mr Gradgrind, ‘why will she never believe it of him?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Because those two were one. Because they were never asunder. Because, up to this time, he seemed to dote upon her,’ said Childers, taking a step or two to look into the empty trunk. Both Mr Childers and Master Kidderminster walked inacurious manner; with their legs wider apart than the general run of men, and with a very knowing assumption of being stiff in the knees. This walk was common to all the male members of Sleary’s company, and was understood to express, that they were always on horseback.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Poor Sissy! He had better have apprenticed her,’ said Childers, giving his hair another shake, as he looked up from the empty box. ‘Now, he leaves her without anything to take to.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘It is creditable to you who have never been apprenticed, to express that opinion,’ returned Mr Gradgrind, approvingly.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘<em>I</em>never apprenticed? I was apprenticed when I was seven year old.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Oh! Indeed?’ said Mr Gradgrind, rather resentfully, as having been defrauded of his good opinion. ‘I was not aware of its being the custom to apprentice young persons to –’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Idleness,’ Mr Bounderby put in with a loud laugh. ‘No, by the Lord Harry!<sup>14</sup>Nor I!’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Her father always had it in his head,’ resumed Childers, feigning unconsciousness of Mr Bounderby’s existence, ‘that she was to be taught the deuce-and-all of education. How it got into his head, I can’t say; I can only say that it never got out. He has been picking up a bit of reading for her, here – and a bit of writing for her, there – and a bit of cyphering for her, somewhere else – these seven years.’</p><p class=\"indent\">Mr E. W. B. Childers took one of his hands out of his pockets, stroked his face and chin, and looked, with a good deal of doubt and a little hope, at Mr Gradgrind. From the first he had sought to conciliate that gentleman, for the sake of the deserted girl.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘When Sissy got into the school here,’ he pursued, ‘her father was as pleased as Punch.<sup>15</sup>I couldn’t altogether make out why, myself, as we were not stationary here, being but comers and goers anywhere. I suppose, however, he had this move in his mind – he was always half-cracked – and then considered her provided for. </p>",
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      "body": "‘It was you, I believe, that were wishing to see Jupe?’<p class=\"indent\">‘It was,’ said Mr Gradgrind. ‘His daughter has gone to fetch him, but I can’t wait; therefore, if you please, I will leave a message for him with you.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘You see, my friend,’ Mr Bounderby put in, ‘we are the kind of people who know the value of time, and you are the kind of people who don’t know the value of time.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘I have not,’ retorted Mr Childers, after surveying him from head to foot, ‘the honour of knowing <em>you</em>; – but if you mean that you can make more money of your time than I can of mine, I should judge from your appearance, that you are about right.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘And when you have made it, you can keep it too, I should think,’ said Cupid.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Kidderminster, stow that!’<sup>7</sup>said Mr Childers. 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Was short in his leaps and bad in his tumbling,’ Mr Childers interpreted.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Oh!’ said Mr Gradgrind, ‘that is tip, is it?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘In a general way that’s missing his tip,’ Mr E. W. B. Childers answered.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Nine-oils, Merrylegs, missing tips, garters, banners, and Ponging, eh!’ ejaculated Bounderby, with his laugh of laughs. ‘Queer sort of company, too, for a man who has raised himself.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Lower yourself, then,’ retorted Cupid. ‘Oh Lord! if you’ve raised yourself so high as all that comes to, let yourself down a bit.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘This is a very obtrusive lad!’ said Mr Gradgrind, turning, and knitting his brows on him.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘We’d have had a young gentleman to meet you, if we had known you were coming,’ retorted Master Kidderminster, nothing abashed. ‘It’s a pity you don’t have a bespeak,<sup>11</sup>being so particular. You’re on the Tight-Jeff, ain’t you?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘What does this unmannerly boy mean,’ asked Mr Gradgrind, eyeing him in a sort of desperation, ‘by Tight-Jeff?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘There! Get out, get out!’ said Mr Childers, thrusting his young friend from the room, rather in the prairie manner. ‘Tight-Jeff or Slack-Jeff, it don’t much signify: it’s only tightrope and slack-rope. You were going to give me a message for Jupe?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Yes, I was.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Then,’ continued Mr Childers, quickly, ‘my opinion is, he will never receive it. Do you know much of him?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘I never saw the man in my life.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘I doubt if you ever <em>will</em>see him now. It’s pretty plain to me, he’s off.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Do you mean that he has deserted his daughter?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Ay! 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      "body": "<h3 class=\"h3\">CHAPTER 6<br/><em>Sleary’s Horsemanship</em></h3><p class=\"noindent\">T<small>HE</small>name of the public house was the Pegasus’s Arms.<sup>1</sup>The Pegasus’s legs might have been more to the purpose; but, underneath the winged horse upon the sign-board, the Pegasus’s Arms was inscribed in Roman letters. Beneath that inscription again, in a flowing scroll, the painter had touched off the lines:</p><p class=\"poemline\">Good malt makes good beer,<br/>Walk in, and they’ll draw it here;<br/>Good wine makes good brandy,<br/>Give us a call, and you’ll find it handy.</p><p class=\"indent\">Framed and glazed upon the wall behind the dingy little bar, was another Pegasus – a theatrical one – with real gauze let in for his wings, golden stars stuck on all over him, and his ethereal harness made of red silk.</p><p class=\"indent\">As it had grown too dusky without, to see the sign, and as it had not grown light enough within to see the picture, Mr Gradgrind and Mr Bounderby received no offence from these idealities. They followed the girl up some steep corner-stairs without meeting any one, and stopped in the dark while she went on for a candle. They expected every moment to hear Merrylegs give tongue, but the highly-trained performing dog had not barked when the girl and the candle appeared together.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Father is not in our room, sir,’ she said, with a face of great surprise. ‘If you wouldn’t mind walking in, I’ll find him directly.’</p><p class=\"indent\">They walked in; and Sissy, having set two chairs for them, sped away with a quick light step. It was a mean, shabbily-furnished room, with a bed in it. The white night-cap, embellished with two peacock’s feathers and a pigtail bolt upright, in which Signor Jupe had that very afternoon enlivened the varied performances with his chaste Shaksperean quips and retorts, hung upon a nail; but no other portion of his wardrobe, or other token of himself or his pursuits, was to be seen anywhere. As to Merrylegs, that respectable ancestor of the highlytrained animal who went aboard the ark, might have been accidentally shut out of it, for any sign of a dog that was manifest to eye or ear in the Pegasus’s Arms.</p><p class=\"indent\">They heard the doors of rooms above, opening and shutting as Sissy went from one to another in quest of her father; and presently they heard voices expressing surprise. She came bounding down again in a great hurry, opened a battered and mangey old hair trunk, found it empty, and looked round with her hands clasped and her face full of terror.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Father must have gone down to the Booth,<sup>2</sup>sir. I don’t know why he should go there, but he must be there; I’ll bring him in a minute!’ She was gone directly, without her bonnet; with her long, dark, childish hair streaming behind her.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘What does she mean!’ said Mr Gradgrind. ‘Back in a minute? It’s more than a mile off.’</p><p class=\"indent\">Before Mr Bounderby could reply, a young man appeared at the door, and introducing himself with the words, ‘By your leaves, gentlemen!’ walked in with his hands in his pockets. His face, close-shaven, thin, and sallow, was shaded by a great quantity of dark hair brushed into a roll all round his head, and parted up the centre. His legs were very robust, but shorter than legs of good proportions should have been. His chest and back were as much too broad, as his legs were too short. He was dressed in a Newmarket coat<sup>3</sup>and tight-fitting trousers; wore a shawl round his neck; smelt of lamp-oil, straw, orange-peel, horses’ provender, and sawdust; and looked a most remarkable sort of Centaur,<sup>4</sup>compounded of the stable and the play-house. Where the one began, and the other ended, nobody could have told with any precision. This gentleman was mentioned in the bills of the day as Mr E. W. B. Childers,<sup>5</sup>so justly celebrated for his daring vaulting act as the Wild Huntsman of the North American Prairies; in which popular performance, a diminutive boy with an old face, who now accompanied him, assisted as his infant son: being carried upside down over his father’s shoulder, by one foot, and held by the crown of his head, heels upwards, in the palm of his father’s hand, according to the violent paternal manner in which wild huntsmen may be observed to fondle their offspring. Made up with curls, wreaths, wings, white bismuth,<sup>6</sup>and carmine, this hopeful young person soared into so pleasing a Cupid as to constitute the chief delight of the maternal part of the spectators; but, in private, where his characteristics were a precocious cutaway coat and an extremely gruff voice, he became of the Turf, turfy.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘By your leaves, gentlemen,’ said Mr E. W. B. Childers, glancing round the room. </p>",
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      "body": "I asked her if she would know how to define a horse tomorrow, and offered to tell her again, and she ran away, and I ran after her, sir, that she might know how to answer when she was asked. You wouldn’t have thought of saying such mischief if you hadn’t been a horse-rider!’<p class=\"indent\">‘Her calling seems to be pretty well known among ’em,’ observed Mr Bounderby. ‘You’d have had the whole school peeping in a row, in a week.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Truly, I think so,’ returned his friend. ‘Bitzer, turn you about and take yourself home. Jupe, stay here a moment. Let me hear of your running in this manner any more, boy, and you will hear of me through the master of the school. You understand what I mean. Go along.’</p><p class=\"indent\">The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Now, girl,’ said Mr Gradgrind, ‘take this gentleman and me to your father’s; we are going there. What have you got in that bottle you are carrying?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Gin,’ said Mr Bounderby.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Dear, no sir! It’s the nine oils.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘The what?’ cried Mr Bounderby.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘The nine oils, sir. To rub father with.’ Then, said Mr Bounderby, with a loud, short laugh, ‘What the devil do you rub your father with nine oils for?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘It’s what our people always use, sir, when they get any hurts in the ring,’ replied the girl, looking over her shoulder, to assure herself that her pursuer was gone. ‘They bruise themselves very bad sometimes.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Serve ’em right,’ said Mr Bounderby, ‘for being idle.’ She glanced up at his face, with mingled astonishment and dread.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘By George!’ said Mr Bounderby, ‘when I was four or five years younger than you, I had worse bruises upon me than ten oils, twenty oils, forty oils, would have rubbed off. I didn’t get ’em by posture-making, but by being banged about. There was no rope-dancing for me; I danced on the bare ground and was larruped<sup>9</sup>with the rope.’</p><p class=\"indent\">Mr Gradgrind, though hard enough, was by no means so rough a man as Mr Bounderby. His character was not unkind, all things considered; it might have been a very kind one indeed, if he had only made some round mistake in the arithmetic that balanced it, years ago. He said, in what he meant for a reassuring tone, as they turned down a narrow road, ‘And this is Pod’s End; is it, Jupe?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘This is it, sir, and – if you wouldn’t mind, sir – this is the house.’</p><p class=\"indent\">She stopped, at twilight, at the door of a mean little public house, with dim red lights in it. As haggard and as shabby, as if, for want of custom, it had itself taken to drinking, and had gone the way all drunkards go, and was very near the end of it.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘It’s only crossing the bar, sir, and up the stairs, if you wouldn’t mind, and waiting there for a moment till I get a candle. If you should hear a dog, sir, it’s only Merrylegs, and he only barks.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Merrylegs and nine oils, eh!’ said Mr Bounderby, entering last with his metallic laugh. ‘Pretty well this, for a self-made man!’</p>",
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      "body": "<sup>6</sup>Then, came the experienced chaplain of the jail,<sup>7</sup>with more tabular statements, outdoing all the previous tabular statements, and showing that the same people <em>would</em>resort to low haunts, hidden from the public eye, where they heard low singing and saw low dancing, and mayhap joined in it; and where A.B., aged twenty-four next birthday, and committed for eighteen months’ solitary, had himself said (not that he had ever shown himself particularly worthy of belief) his ruin began, as he was perfectly sure and confident that otherwise he would have been a tip-top moral specimen. Then, came Mr Gradgrind and Mr Bounderby, the two gentlemen at this present moment walking through Coketown, and both eminently practical, who could, on occasion, furnish more tabular statements derived from their own personal experience, and illustrated by cases they had known and seen, from which it clearly appeared – in short it was the only clear thing in the case – that these same people were a bad lot altogether, gentlemen; that do what you would for them they were never thankful for it, gentlemen; that they were restless, gentlemen; that they never knew what they wanted; that they lived upon the best, and bought fresh butter, and insisted on Mocha coffee,<sup>8</sup>and rejected all but prime parts of meat, and yet were eternally dissatisfied and unmanageable. In short it was the moral of the old nursery fable:<p class=\"poemline\">There was an old woman, and what do you think?<br/>She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink;<br/>Victuals and drink were the whole of her diet,<br/>And yet this old woman would <small>NEVER</small>be quiet.</p><p class=\"indent\">Is it possible, I wonder, that there was any analogy between the case of the Coketown population and the case of the little Gradgrinds? Surely, none of us in our sober senses and acquainted with figures, are to be told at this time of day, that one of the foremost elements in the existence of the Coketown working people had been for scores of years, deliberately set at nought? That there was any Fancy in them demanding to be brought into healthy existence instead of struggling on in convulsions? That exactly in the ratio as they worked long and monotonously, the craving grew within them for some physical relief – some relaxation, encouraging good humour and good spirits, and giving them a vent – some recognized holiday, though it were but for an honest dance to a stirring band of music – some occasional light pie in which even M’Choakumchild had no finger – which craving must and would be satisfied aright, or must and would inevitably go wrong, until the laws of the Creation were repealed?</p><p class=\"indent\">‘This man lives at Pod’s End, and I don’t quite know Pod’s End,’ said Mr Gradgrind. ‘Which is it, Bounderby?’</p><p class=\"indent\">Mr Bounderby knew it was somewhere down town, but knew no more respecting it. So they stopped for a moment, looking about.</p><p class=\"indent\">Almost as they did so, there came running round the corner of the street at a quick pace and with a frightened look, a girl whom Mr Gradgrind recognized. ‘Halloa!’ said he. ‘Stop! Where are you going? Stop!’ Girl number twenty stopped then, palpitating, and made him a curtsey.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Why are you tearing about the streets,’ said Mr Gradgrind, ‘in this improper manner?’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘I was – I was run after, sir,’ the girl panted, ‘and I wanted to get away.’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Run after?’ repeated Mr Gradgrind. ‘Who would run after <em>you</em>?’</p><p class=\"indent\">The question was unexpectedly and suddenly answered for her, by the colourless boy, Bitzer, who came round the corner with such blind speed and so little anticipating a stoppage on the pavement, that he brought himself up against Mr Gradgrind’s waistcoat, and rebounded into the road.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘What do you mean, boy?’ said Mr Gradgrind. ‘What are you doing? How dare you dash against – everybody – in this manner?’</p><p class=\"indent\">Bitzer picked up his cap, which the concussion had knocked off; and backing, and knuckling his forehead, pleaded that it was an accident.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Was this boy running after you, Jupe?’ asked Mr Gradgrind.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Yes, sir,’ said the girl reluctantly.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘No, I wasn’t, sir!’ cried Bitzer. ‘Not till she run away from me. But the horse-riders never mind what they say, sir; they’re famous for it. You know the horse-riders are famous for never minding what they say,’ addressing Sissy. ‘It’s as well known in the town as – please, sir, as the multiplication table isn’t known to the horse-riders.’ Bitzer tried Mr Bounderby with this.</p><p class=\"indent\">‘He frightened me so,’ said the girl, ‘with his cruel faces!’</p><p class=\"indent\">‘Oh!’ cried Bitzer. ‘Oh! An’t you one of the rest! An’t you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. </p>",
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