“Your thervant, Thquire,” was his cautious salutation as they passed in. “If you want me you’ll find me here. You musthn’t mind your thon having a comic livery on.”
They all three went in; and Mr. Gradgrind sat down forlorn, on the Clown’s performing chair in the middle of the ring. On one of the back benches, remote in the subdued light and the strangeness of the place, sat the villainous whelp, sulky to the last, whom he had the misery to call his son.
In a preposterous coat, like a beadle’s, with cuffs and flaps exaggerated to an unspeakable extent; in an immense waistcoat, knee-breeches, buckled shoes, and a mad cocked hat; with nothing fitting him, and everything of coarse material, moth-eaten, and full of holes; with seams in his black face, where fear and heat had started through the greasy composition daubed all over it; anything so grimly, detestably, ridiculously shameful as the whelp in his comic livery, Mr. Gradgrind never could by any other means have believed in, weighable and measurable fact though it was. And one of his model children had come to this!
At first the whelp would not draw any nearer, but persisted in remaining up there by himself. Yielding at length, if any concession so sullenly made can be called yielding, to the entreaties of Sissy – for Louisa he disowned altogether – he came down, bench by bench, until he stood in the sawdust, on the verge of the circle, as far as possible, within its limits, from where his father sat.
“How was this done?” asked the father.
“How was what done?” moodily answered the son.
“This robbery,” said the father, raising his voice upon the word.
“I forced the safe myself over night, and shut it up ajar before I went away. I had had the key that was found, made long before. I dropped it that morning, that it might be supposed to have been used. I didn’t take the money all at once. I pretended to put my balance away every night, but I didn’t. Now you know all about it.”
“If a thunderbolt had fallen on me,” said the father, “it would have shocked me less than this!”
“I don’t see why,” grumbled the son. “So many people are employed in situations of trust; so many people, out of so many, will be dishonest. I have heard you talk, a hundred times, of its being a law. How can I help laws? You have comforted others with such things, father. Comfort yourself!”
The father buried his face in his hands, and the son stood in his disgraceful grotesqueness; biting straw: his hands, with the black party worn away inside, looking like the hands of a monkey. The evening was fast closing in; and from time to time, he turned the whites of his eyes restlessly and impatiently towards his father. They were the only parts of his face that showed any life or expression, the pigment upon it was so thick.
“You must be got to Liverpool, and sent abroad.”
“I suppose I must. I can’t be more miserable anywhere,” whimpered the whelp, “than I have been here, ever since I can remember. That’s one thing.”
Mr. Gradgrind went to the door, and returned with Sleary, to whom he submitted the question, How to get this deplorable object away?
“Why, I’ve been thinking of it, Thquire. There’th not muth time to lothe, tho you muth thay yeth or no. Ith over twenty mileth to the rail. Thereth a coath in in half an hour, that goeth to the rail, ‘purpothe to cath the mail train. That train will take him right to Liverpool.”
“But look at him,” groaned Mr. Gradgrind. “Will any coach – ”
“I don’t mean that he thould go in the comic livery,” said Sleary. “Thay the word, and I’ll make a Jothkin of him, out of the wardrobe, in five minutes.”
“I don’t understand,” said Mr. Gradgrind.
“A Jothkin – a Carter. Make up your mind quick, Thquire, There’ll be beer to feth. I’ve never met with nothing but beer ath’ll ever clean a comic blackamoor.”
Mr. Gradgrind rapidly assented; Mr. Sleary rapidly turned out from a box, a smock frock, a felt hat, and other essentials; the whelp rapidly changed clothes behind a screen of baize; Mr. Sleary rapidly brought beer, and washed him white again.