Hard Times

“Formed his daughter on his own model?” suggested Harthouse.

“His daughter? Ah! and everybody else. Why he formed Me that way,” said Tom.

“Impossible!”

“He did though,” said Tom, shaking his head. “I mean to say, Mr. Harthouse, that when I first left home and went to old Bounderby’s, I was as flat as a warming pan, and knew no more about life, than any oyster does.”

“Come, Tom! I can hardly believe that. A joke’s a joke.”

“Upon my soul!” said the whelp. “I am serious; I am indeed!” He smoked with great gravity and dignity for a little while, and then added, in a highly complacent tone. “Oh! I have picked up a little, since. I don’t deny that. But I have done it myself; no thanks to the governor.”

“And your intelligent sister?”

“My intelligent sister is about where she was. She used to complain to me that she had nothing to fall back upon, that girls usually fall back upon: and I don’t see how she is to have got over that since. But she don’t mind,” he sagaciously added, puffing at his cigar again. “Girls can always get on somehow.”

“Calling at the Bank yesterday evening, for Mr. Bounderby’s address, I found an ancient lady there, who seems to entertain great admiration for your sister,” observed Mr. James Harthouse, throwing away the last small remnant of the cigar he had now smoked out.

“Mother Sparsit?” said Tom. “What! you have seen her already, have you?”

His friend nodded. Tom took his cigar out of his mouth, to shut up his eye (which had grown rather unmanageable) with the greater expression, and to tap his nose several times with his finger.

“Mother Sparsit’s feeling for Loo is more than admiration, I should think,” said Tom. “Say affection and devotion. Mother Sparsit never set her cap at Bounderby when he was a bachelor. Oh no!”

These were the last words spoken by the whelp, before a giddy drowsiness came upon him, followed by complete oblivion. He was roused from the latter state by an uneasy dream of being stirred up with a boot, and also of a voice saying: “Come, it’s late. Be off!”

“Well!” he said, scrambling from the sofa. “I must take my leave of you though. I say. Yours is very good tobacco. But it’s too mild.”

“Yes, it’s too mild,” returned his entertainer.

“It’s – it’s ridiculously mild,” said Tom. “Where’s the door? Good night!”

He had another odd dream of being taken by a waiter through a mist, which after giving him some trouble and difficulty, resolved itself into the main street, in which he stood alone. He then walked home pretty easily, though not yet free from an impression of the presence and influence of his new friend – as if he were lounging somewhere in the air, in the same negligent attitude, regarding him with the same look.

The whelp went home, and went to bed. If he had any sense of what he had done that night, and had been less of a whelp and more of a brother, he might have turned short on the road, might have gone down to the ill-smelling river that was dyed black, might have gone to bed in it for good and all, and have curtained his head for ever with its filthy waters.

Chapter IV Men And Brothers

“Oh my friends, the down-trodden operatives of Coketown! Oh my friends and fellow-countrymen, the slaves of an iron-handed and grinding despotism! Oh my friends and fellow-sufferers, and fellow-workmen, and fellow-men! I tell you that the hour is come, when we must rally round one another as One united power, and crumble into the dust oppressors that too long have battened upon the plunder of our families, upon the sweat of our brows, upon the labour of our hands, upon the strength of our sinews, upon the God-created glorious rights of Humanity, and upon the holy and eternal privileges of Brotherhood!”

“Good!” “Hear, hear, hear!” “Hurrah!” and other cries, arose in many voices from various parts of the densely crowded and suffocatingly close Hall, in which the orator, perched on a stage, delivered himself of this, and what other froth and fume he had in him. He had declaimed himself into a violent heat, and was as hoarse as he was hot. By dint of roaring at the top of his voice under a flaring gas-light, clenching his fists, knitting his brows, setting his teeth, and pounding with his arms, he had taken so much out of himself by this time, that he was brought to a stop, and called for a glass of water.

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