Chapter: Arthur continuing to lie very ill in the Marshalsea, and Mr Rugg
descrying no break in the legal sky affording a hope of his enlargement,
          Mr Pancks suffered desperately from self-reproaches. If it had not been
          for those infallible figures which proved that Arthur, instead of pining
          in imprisonment, ought to be promenading in a carriage and pair, and
          that Mr Pancks, instead of being restricted to his clerkly wages, ought
          to have from three to five thousand pounds of his own at his immediate
          disposal, that unhappy arithmetician would probably have taken to his
          bed, and there have made one of the many obscure persons who turned
          their faces to the wall and died, as a last sacrifice to the late Mr
          Merdle's greatness. Solely supported by his unimpugnable calculations,
          Mr Pancks led an unhappy and restless life; constantly carrying his
          figures about with him in his hat, and not only going over them himself
          on every possible occasion, but entreating every human being he could
          lay hold of to go over them with him, and observe what a clear case it
          was. Down in Bleeding Heart Yard there was scarcely an inhabitant of
          note to whom Mr Pancks had not imparted his demonstration, and, as
          figures are catching, a kind of cyphering measles broke out in that
          locality, under the influence of which the whole Yard was light-headed.

          The more restless Mr Pancks grew in his mind, the more impatient he
          became of the Patriarch. In their later conferences his snorting assumed
          an irritable sound which boded the Patriarch no good; likewise, Mr
          Pancks had on several occasions looked harder at the Patriarchal bumps
          than was quite reconcilable with the fact of his not being a painter, or
          a peruke-maker in search of the living model.

          However, he steamed in and out of his little back Dock according as he
          was wanted or not wanted in the Patriarchal presence, and business had
          gone on in its customary course. Bleeding Heart Yard had been harrowed
          by Mr Pancks, and cropped by Mr Casby, at the regular seasons; Mr Pancks
          had taken all the drudgery and all the dirt of the business as _his_
          share; Mr Casby had taken all the profits, all the ethereal vapour, and
          all the moonshine, as his share; and, in the form of words which that
          benevolent beamer generally employed on Saturday evenings, when he
          twirled his fat thumbs after striking the week's balance, 'everything
          had been satisfactory to all parties--all parties--satisfactory, sir, to
          all parties.'

          The Dock of the Steam-Tug, Pancks, had a leaden roof, which, frying in
          the very hot sunshine, may have heated the vessel. Be that as it
          may, one glowing Saturday evening, on being hailed by the lumbering
          bottle-green ship, the Tug instantly came working out of the Dock in a
          highly heated condition.

          'Mr Pancks,' was the Patriarchal remark, 'you have been remiss, you have
          been remiss, sir.'

          'What do you mean by that?' was the short rejoinder.

          The Patriarchal state, always a state of calmness and composure, was
          so particularly serene that evening as to be provoking. Everybody else
          within the bills of mortality was hot; but the Patriarch was perfectly
          cool. Everybody was thirsty, and the Patriarch was drinking. There was
          a fragrance of limes or lemons about him; and he made a drink of golden
          sherry, which shone in a large tumbler as if he were drinking the
          evening sunshine. This was bad, but not the worst. The worst was, that
          with his big blue eyes, and his polished head, and his long white hair,
          and his bottle-green legs stretched out before him, terminating in his
          easy shoes easily crossed at the instep, he had a radiant appearance
          of having in his extensive benevolence made the drink for the human
          species, while he himself wanted nothing but his own milk of human
          kindness.

          Wherefore, Mr Pancks said, 'What do you mean by that?' and put his hair
          up with both hands, in a highly portentous manner.

          'I mean, Mr Pancks, that you must be sharper with the people, sharper
          with the people, much sharper with the people, sir. You don't squeeze
          them. You don't squeeze them. Your receipts are not up to the mark. You
          must squeeze them, sir, or our connection will not continue to be as
          satisfactory as I could wish it to be to all parties. All parties.'

          '_Don't_ I squeeze 'em?' retorted Mr Pancks. 'What else am I made for?'

          'You are made for nothing else, Mr Pancks. You are made to do your
          duty, but you don't do your duty. You are paid to squeeze, and you
          must squeeze to pay.' The Patriarch so much surprised himself by this
          brilliant turn, after Dr Johnson, which he had not in the least
          expected or intended, that he laughed aloud; and repeated with great
          satisfaction, as he twirled his thumbs and nodded at his youthful
          portrait, 'Paid to squeeze, sir, and must squeeze to pay.'

          'Oh,' said Pancks. 'Anything more?'

          'Yes, sir, yes, sir. Something more. You will please, Mr Pancks, to
          squeeze the Yard again, the first thing on Monday morning.'

          'Oh!' said Pancks. 'Ain't that too soon? I squeezed it dry to-day.'

          'Nonsense, sir. Not near the mark, not near the mark.'

          'Oh!' said Pancks, watching him as he benevolently gulped down a good
          draught of his mixture. 'Anything more?'

          'Yes, sir, yes, sir, something more. I am not at all pleased, Mr Pancks,
          with my daughter; not at all pleased. Besides calling much too often
          to inquire for Mrs Clennam, Mrs Clennam, who is not just now in
          circumstances that are by any means calculated to--to be satisfactory to
          all parties, she goes, Mr Pancks, unless I am much deceived, to inquire
          for Mr Clennam in jail. In jail.'

          'He's laid up, you know,' said Pancks. 'Perhaps it's kind.'

          'Pooh, pooh, Mr Pancks. She has nothing to do with that, nothing to do
          with that. I can't allow it. Let him pay his debts and come out, come
          out; pay his debts, and come out.'

          Although Mr Pancks's hair was standing up like strong wire, he gave it
          another double-handed impulse in the perpendicular direction, and smiled
          at his proprietor in a most hideous manner.

          'You will please to mention to my daughter, Mr Pancks, that I can't
          allow it, can't allow it,' said the Patriarch blandly.

          'Oh!' said Pancks. 'You couldn't mention it yourself?'

          'No, sir, no; you are paid to mention it,' the blundering old booby
          could not resist the temptation of trying it again, 'and you must
          mention it to pay, mention it to pay.'

          'Oh!' said Pancks. 'Anything more?'

          'Yes, sir. It appears to me, Mr Pancks, that you yourself are too often
          and too much in that direction, that direction. I recommend you, Mr
          Pancks, to dismiss from your attention both your own losses and other
          people's losses, and to mind your business, mind your business.'

          Mr Pancks acknowledged this recommendation with such an extraordinarily
          abrupt, short, and loud utterance of the monosyllable 'Oh!' that even
          the unwieldy Patriarch moved his blue eyes in something of a hurry, to
          look at him. Mr Pancks, with a sniff of corresponding intensity, then
          added, 'Anything more?'

          'Not at present, sir, not at present. I am going,' said the Patriarch,
          finishing his mixture, and rising with an amiable air, 'to take a little
          stroll, a little stroll. Perhaps I shall find you here when I come back.
          If not, sir, duty, duty; squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, on Monday; squeeze
          on Monday!'

          Mr Pancks, after another stiffening of his hair, looked on at the
          Patriarchal assumption of the broad-brimmed hat, with a momentary
          appearance of indecision contending with a sense of injury. He was also
          hotter than at first, and breathed harder. But he suffered Mr Casby to
          go out, without offering any further remark, and then took a peep at
          him over the little green window-blinds. 'I thought so,' he observed. 'I
          knew where you were bound to. Good!' He then steamed back to his Dock,
          put it carefully in order, took down his hat, looked round the Dock,
          said 'Good-bye!' and puffed away on his own account. He steered straight
          for Mrs Plornish's end of Bleeding Heart Yard, and arrived there, at the
          top of the steps, hotter than ever.

          At the top of the steps, resisting Mrs Plornish's invitations to come
          and sit along with father in Happy Cottage--which to his relief were not
          so numerous as they would have been on any other night than Saturday,
          when the connection who so gallantly supported the business with
          everything but money gave their orders freely--at the top of the steps
          Mr Pancks remained until he beheld the Patriarch, who always entered
          the Yard at the other end, slowly advancing, beaming, and surrounded
          by suitors. Then Mr Pancks descended and bore down upon him, with his
          utmost pressure of steam on.

          The Patriarch, approaching with his usual benignity, was surprised to
          see Mr Pancks, but supposed him to have been stimulated to an immediate
          squeeze instead of postponing that operation until Monday. The
          population of the Yard were astonished at the meeting, for the two
          powers had never been seen there together, within the memory of the
          oldest Bleeding Heart. But they were overcome by unutterable amazement
          when Mr Pancks, going close up to the most venerable of men and halting
          in front of the bottle-green waistcoat, made a trigger of his right
          thumb and forefinger, applied the same to the brim of the broad-brimmed
          hat, and, with singular smartness and precision, shot it off the
          polished head as if it had been a large marble.

          Having taken this little liberty with the Patriarchal person, Mr Pancks
          further astounded and attracted the Bleeding Hearts by saying in an
          audible voice, 'Now, you sugary swindler, I mean to have it out with
          you!'

          Mr Pancks and the Patriarch were instantly the centre of a press, all
          eyes and ears; windows were thrown open, and door-steps were thronged.

          'What do you pretend to be?' said Mr Pancks. 'What's your moral game?
          What do you go in for? Benevolence, an't it? You benevolent!' Here Mr
          Pancks, apparently without the intention of hitting him, but merely to
          relieve his mind and expend his superfluous power in wholesome exercise,
          aimed a blow at the bumpy head, which the bumpy head ducked to
          avoid. This singular performance was repeated, to the ever-increasing
          admiration of the spectators, at the end of every succeeding article of
          Mr Pancks's oration.

          'I have discharged myself from your service,' said Pancks, 'that I may
          tell you what you are. You're one of a lot of impostors that are the
          worst lot of all the lots to be met with. Speaking as a sufferer by
          both, I don't know that I wouldn't as soon have the Merdle lot as your
          lot. You're a driver in disguise, a screwer by deputy, a wringer, and
          squeezer, and shaver by substitute. You're a philanthropic sneak. You're
          a shabby deceiver!'

          (The repetition of the performance at this point was received with a
           burst of laughter.)

          'Ask these good people who's the hard man here. They'll tell you Pancks,
          I believe.'

          This was confirmed with cries of 'Certainly,' and 'Hear!'

          'But I tell you, good people--Casby! This mound of meekness, this lump
          of love, this bottle-green smiler, this is your driver!' said Pancks.
          'If you want to see the man who would flay you alive--here he is! Don't
          look for him in me, at thirty shillings a week, but look for him in
          Casby, at I don't know how much a year!'

          'Good!' cried several voices. 'Hear Mr Pancks!'

          'Hear Mr Pancks?' cried that gentleman (after repeating the popular
                  performance). 'Yes, I should think so! It's almost time to hear Mr
          Pancks. Mr Pancks has come down into the Yard to-night on purpose that
          you should hear him. Pancks is only the Works; but here's the Winder!'

          The audience would have gone over to Mr Pancks, as one man, woman, and
          child, but for the long, grey, silken locks, and the broad-brimmed hat.

          'Here's the Stop,' said Pancks, 'that sets the tune to be ground. And
          there is but one tune, and its name is Grind, Grind, Grind! Here's the
          Proprietor, and here's his Grubber. Why, good people, when he comes
          smoothly spinning through the Yard to-night, like a slow-going
          benevolent Humming-Top, and when you come about him with your complaints
          of the Grubber, you don't know what a cheat the Proprietor is! What do
          you think of his showing himself to-night, that I may have all the blame
          on Monday? What do you think of his having had me over the coals this
          very evening, because I don't squeeze you enough? What do you think of
          my being, at the present moment, under special orders to squeeze you dry
          on Monday?'

          The reply was given in a murmur of 'Shame!' and 'Shabby!'

          'Shabby?' snorted Pancks. 'Yes, I should think so! The lot that your
          Casby belongs to, is the shabbiest of all the lots. Setting their
          Grubbers on, at a wretched pittance, to do what they're ashamed and
          afraid to do and pretend not to do, but what they will have done, or
          give a man no rest! Imposing on you to give their Grubbers nothing but
          blame, and to give them nothing but credit! Why, the worst-looking
          cheat in all this town who gets the value of eighteenpence under false
          pretences, an't half such a cheat as this sign-post of The Casby's Head
          here!'

          Cries of 'That's true!' and 'No more he an't!'

          'And see what you get of these fellows, besides,' said Pancks. 'See what
          more you get of these precious Humming-Tops, revolving among you with
          such smoothness that you've no idea of the pattern painted on 'em, or
          the little window in 'em. I wish to call your attention to myself for a
          moment. I an't an agreeable style of chap, I know that very well.'

          The auditory were divided on this point; its more uncompromising members
          crying, 'No, you are not,' and its politer materials, 'Yes, you are.'

          'I am, in general,' said Mr Pancks, 'a dry, uncomfortable, dreary
          Plodder and Grubber. That's your humble servant. There's his full-length
          portrait, painted by himself and presented to you, warranted a likeness!
          But what's a man to be, with such a man as this for his Proprietor?
          What can be expected of him? Did anybody ever find boiled mutton and
          caper-sauce growing in a cocoa-nut?'

          None of the Bleeding Hearts ever had, it was clear from the alacrity of
          their response.

          'Well,' said Mr Pancks, 'and neither will you find in Grubbers like
          myself, under Proprietors like this, pleasant qualities. I've been a
          Grubber from a boy. What has my life been? Fag and grind, fag and grind,
          turn the wheel, turn the wheel! I haven't been agreeable to myself,
          and I haven't been likely to be agreeable to anybody else. If I was a
          shilling a week less useful in ten years' time, this impostor would give
          me a shilling a week less; if as useful a man could be got at sixpence
          cheaper, he would be taken in my place at sixpence cheaper. Bargain and
          sale, bless you! Fixed principles! It's a mighty fine sign-post, is The
          Casby's Head,' said Mr Pancks, surveying it with anything rather than
          admiration; 'but the real name of the House is the Sham's Arms. Its
          motto is, Keep the Grubber always at it. Is any gentleman present,' said
          Mr Pancks, breaking off and looking round, 'acquainted with the English
          Grammar?'

          Bleeding Heart Yard was shy of claiming that acquaintance.

          'It's no matter,' said Mr Pancks, 'I merely wish to remark that the task
          this Proprietor has set me, has been never to leave off conjugating the
          Imperative Mood Present Tense of the verb To keep always at it. Keep
          thou always at it. Let him keep always at it. Keep we or do we keep
          always at it. Keep ye or do ye or you keep always at it. Let them keep
          always at it. Here is your benevolent Patriarch of a Casby, and there is
          his golden rule. He is uncommonly improving to look at, and I am not
          at all so. He is as sweet as honey, and I am as dull as ditch-water. He
          provides the pitch, and I handle it, and it sticks to me. Now,' said
          Mr Pancks, closing upon his late Proprietor again, from whom he had
          withdrawn a little for the better display of him to the Yard; 'as I am
          not accustomed to speak in public, and as I have made a rather lengthy
          speech, all circumstances considered, I shall bring my observations to a
          close by requesting you to get out of this.'

          The Last of the Patriarchs had been so seized by assault, and required
          so much room to catch an idea in, an so much more room to turn it in,
          that he had not a word to offer in reply. He appeared to be meditating
          some Patriarchal way out of his delicate position, when Mr Pancks, once
          more suddenly applying the trigger to his hat, shot it off again with
          his former dexterity. On the preceding occasion, one or two of the
          Bleeding Heart Yarders had obsequiously picked it up and handed it to
          its owner; but Mr Pancks had now so far impressed his audience, that the
          Patriarch had to turn and stoop for it himself.

          Quick as lightning, Mr Pancks, who, for some moments, had had his right
          hand in his coat pocket, whipped out a pair of shears, swooped upon the
          Patriarch behind, and snipped off short the sacred locks that flowed
          upon his shoulders. In a paroxysm of animosity and rapidity, Mr Pancks
          then caught the broad-brimmed hat out of the astounded Patriarch's hand,
          cut it down into a mere stewpan, and fixed it on the Patriarch's head.

          Before the frightful results of this desperate action, Mr Pancks himself
          recoiled in consternation. A bare-polled, goggle-eyed, big-headed
          lumbering personage stood staring at him, not in the least impressive,
          not in the least venerable, who seemed to have started out of the
          earth to ask what was become of Casby. After staring at this phantom in
          return, in silent awe, Mr Pancks threw down his shears, and fled for a
          place of hiding, where he might lie sheltered from the consequences of
          his crime. Mr Pancks deemed it prudent to use all possible despatch in
          making off, though he was pursued by nothing but the sound of laughter
          in Bleeding Heart Yard, rippling through the air and making it ring
          again.

 Pancks is going nuts with guilt over Arthur and the investments. He keeps going over and over the numbers in his head - and on paper they should both have been very rich by now. The more he stresses, the more Casby annoys him. But he is used to his job and has been harassing the Bleeding Heart Yard tenants like before. One day, though, Casby calls Pancks into a meeting. He has a bunch of annoying demands: 1) get even more money out of the Bleeding Heart Yard people - squeeze them for all they're worth; 2) tell Flora to stop going to see Arthur in prison; and 3) stop going to see Arthur yourself while we're at it. Man, that's some evil boss! Pancks kind of says "oh" to all of this, but lets it go. As soon as Casby leaves, Pancks follows him. They both end up in Bleeding Heart Yard. Pancks calls Casby out in front of all the people there. He tells everyone that it's actually Casby and not Pancks who is the greedy one. He has no sympathy for the people and just wants to squeeze them dry. Pancks then tells them the only reason Casby looks so nice is because he has all that beautiful hair, which makes him look like a Biblical patriarch. Casby is too dull-witted to be able to respond to this. Suddenly, Pancks knocks Casby's hat off his head, whips out a pair of scissors, and hacks off all of his hair. Casby stands there, now a laughingstock.

