suppose now, to the right, or to the left," Anthony had got
into the habit of saying, while he made his course, and after he had
deposited his charge he would wipe his moist forehead, in a state of
wretched exultation over his renowned trustworthiness.

He had done the thing for years. And what did the people in the streets
know about him? Formerly, he had used to regard the people in the
streets, and their opinions, with a voluptuous contempt; but he was no
longer wrapped in sweet calculations of his savings, and his chances,
and his connection with a mighty Bank. The virtue had gone out of him.
Yet he had not the slightest appetite for other men's money; no hunger,
nor any definite notion of enjoyment to be derived from money not
his own. Imagination misled the old man. There have been spotless
reputations gained in the service of virtue before now; and chaste and
beautiful persons have walked the narrow plank, envied and admired; and
they have ultimately tottered and all but fallen; or they have quite
fallen, from no worse an incitement than curiosity. Cold curiosity,
as the directors of our human constitution tell us, is, in the colder
condition of our blood, a betraying vice, leading to sin at a period
when the fruits of sin afford the smallest satisfaction. It is, in fact,
our last probation, and one of our latest delusions. If that is passed
successfully, we may really be pronounced as of some worth. Anthony
wished to give a light indulgence to his curiosity; say, by running away
and over London Bridge on one side, and back on the other, hugging the
money. For two weeks, he thought of this absurd performance as a comical
and agreeable diversion. How would he feel when going in the direction
of the Surrey hills? And how, when returning, and when there was a
prospect of the Bank, where the money was to be paid in, being shut?
Supposing that he was a minute behind his time, would the Bank-doors
remain open, in expectation of him? And if the money was not paid in,
what would be thought? What would be thought at Boyne's, if, the next
day, he was late in making his appearance?

"Holloa! Hackbut, how's this?"--"I'm a bit late, sir, morning."--"Late!
you were late yesterday evening, weren't you?"--"Why, sir, the way the
clerks at that Bank of Mortimer and Pennycuick's rush away from business
and close the doors after 'em, as if their day began at four p.m., and
business was botheration: it's a disgrace to the City o' Lon