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, 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:

“This man lives at Pod’s End, and I don’t quite know Pod’s End,” said Mr. Gradgrind. “Which is it, Bounderby?”

“I was⁠—I was run after, sir,” the girl panted, “and I wanted to get away.”

“Was this boy running after you, Jupe?” asked Mr. Gradgrind.

“Yes, sir,” said the girl reluctantly.

“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.

“He frightened me so,” said the girl, “with his cruel faces!”

“Oh!” cried Bitzer. “Oh! An’t you one of the rest! An’t you a horse-rider! I never looked at her, sir. 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?”

“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.”

“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.”

The boy stopped in his rapid blinking, knuckled his forehead again, glanced at Sissy, turned about, and retreated.

“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?”

“Gin,” said Mr. Bounderby.

“Dear, no, sir! It’s the nine oils.”

“The what?” cried Mr. Bounderby.

“The nine oils, sir, to rub father with.”