"That was why me an' Natty Bell took you in hand—learned you all we knowed o' the game—an' there aren't a fighting man in all England as knows so much about the Noble Art as me an' Natty Bell."

"But father—"

"If you 'd only followed your nat'ral gifts, Barnabas, I say you might ha' been Champion of England to-day, wi' Markisses an' Lords an' Earls proud to shake your hand—if you'd only been ruled by Natty Bell an' me, I'm disappointed in ye, Barnabas—an' so's Natty Bell."

"I'm sorry, father—but as I told you—"

"Still Barnabas, what ain't to be, ain't—an' what is, is. Some is born wi' a nat'ral love o' the 'Fancy' an' gift for the game, like me an' Natty Bell—an' some wi' a love for reading out o' books an' a-cyphering into books—like you: though a reader an' a writer generally has a hard time on it an' dies poor—which, arter all, is only nat'ral—an' there y' are!"

Here John Barty paused to take up the tankard of ale at his elbow, and pursed up his lips to blow off the foam, but in that moment, observing his son about to speak, he immediately set down the ale untasted and continued:

"Not as I quarrels wi' your reading and writing, Barnabas, no, and because why? Because reading and writing is apt to be useful now an' then, and because it were a promise—as I made—to—your mother. When—your mother were alive, Barnabas, she used to keep all my accounts for me. She likewise larned me to spell my own name wi' a capital G for John, an' a capital B for Barty, an' when she died, Barnabas (being a infant, you don't remember), but when she died, lad! I was that lost—that broke an' helpless, that all the fight were took out o' me, and it's a wonder I didn't throw up the sponge altogether. Ah! an' it's likely I should ha' done but for Natty Bell."

"Yes, father—"

"No man ever 'ad a better friend than Natty Bell—Ah! yes, though I did beat him out o' the Championship which come very nigh breaking his heart at the time, Barnabas; but—as I says to him that day as they carried him out of the ring—it was arter the ninety-seventh round, d' ye see, Barnabas—'what is to be, is, Natty Bell,' I says, 'an' what ain't, ain't. It were ordained,' I says, 'as I should be Champion o' England,' I says—'an' as you an' me should be friends—now an' hereafter,' I says—an' right good friends we have been, as you know, Barnabas."

"Indeed, yes, father," said Barnabas, with another vain attempt to stem his father's volubility.

"But your mother, Barnabas, your mother, God rest her sweet soul!—your mother weren't like me—no nor Natty Bell—she were away up over me an' the likes o' me—a wonderful scholard she were, an'—when she died, Barnabas—" here the ex-champion's voice grew uncertain and his steady gaze wavered—sought the sanded floor—the raftered ceiling—wandered down the wall and eventually fixed upon the bell-mouthed blunderbuss that hung above the mantel, "when she died," he continued, "she made me promise as you should be taught to read an' cypher—an' taught I've had you according—for a promise is a promise, Barnabas—an' there y' are."

"For which I can never be sufficiently grateful, both to her—and to you!" said Barnabas, who sat with his chin propped upon his hand, gazing through the open lattice to where the broad white road wound away betwixt blooming hedges, growing ever narrower till it vanished over the brow of a distant hill. "Not as I holds wi' eddication myself, Barnabas, as you know," pursued his father, "but that's why you was sent to school, that's why me an' Natty Bell sat by quiet an' watched ye at your books. Sometimes when I've seen you a-stooping your back over your reading, or cramping your fist round a pen, Barnabas, why—I've took it hard, Barnabas, hard, I'll not deny—But Natty Bell has minded me as it was her wish and so—why—there y' are."

It was seldom his father mentioned to Barnabas the mother whose face he had never seen, upon which rare occasions John Barty's deep voice was wont to take on a hoarser note, and his blue eyes, that were usually so steady, would go wandering off until they fixed themselves on some remote object. Thus he sat now, leaning back in his elbow chair, gazing in rapt attention at the bell-mouthed blunderbuss above the mantel, while his son, chin on fist, stared always and ever to where the road dipped, and vanished over the hill—leading on and on to London, and the great world beyond.

"She died, Barnabas—just twenty-one years ago—buried at Maidstone where you were born. Twenty-one years is a longish time, lad, but memory's longer, an' deeper,—an' stronger than time, arter all, an' I know that her memory will go wi' me—all along the way—d' ye see lad: and so Barnabas," said John Barty lowering his gaze to his son's face, "so Barnabas, there y' are."

"Yes, father!" nodded Barnabas, still intent upon the road.

"And now I come to your uncle Tom—an' speaking of him—Barnabas my lad,—what are ye going to do wi' all this money?"

Barnabas turned from the window and met his father's eye.

"Do with it," he began, "why first of all—"

"Because," pursued his father, "we might buy the 'White Hart'—t' other side o' Sevenoaks,—to be sure you're over young to have any say in the matter—still arter all the money's yours, Barnabas—what d' ye say to the 'White Hart'?"

"A very good house!" nodded Barnabas, stealing a glance at the road again—"but—"

"To be sure there's the 'Running Horse,'" said his father, "just beyond Purley on the Brighton Road—a coaching-house, wi' plenty o' custom, what d' ye think o' the 'Running Horse'?"

"Any one you choose, father, but—"

"Then there's the 'Sun in the Sands' on Shooter's Hill—a fine inn an' not to be sneezed at, Barnabas—we might take that."

"Just as you wish, father, only—"

"Though I've often thought the 'Greyhound' at Croydon would be a comfortable house to own."

"Buy whichever you choose, father, it will be all one to me!"

"Good lad!" nodded John, "you can leave it all to Natty Bell an' me."

"Yes," said Barnabas, rising and fronting his father across the table, "you see I intend to go away, sir."

"Eh?" exclaimed his father, staring—"go away—where to?"

"To London!"

"London? and what should you want in London—a slip of a lad like you?"

"I'm turned twenty-two, father!"

"And what should a slip of a lad of twenty-two want in London? You leave London alone, Barnabas. London indeed! what should you want wi' London?"

"Learn to be a gentleman."

"A—what?" As he spoke, John Barty rose up out of his chair, his eyes wide, his mouth agape with utter astonishment. As he encountered his son's look, however, his expression slowly changed from amazement to contempt, from contempt to growing ridicule, and from ridicule to black anger. John Barty was a very tall man, broad and massive, but, even so, he had to look up to Barnabas as they faced each other across the table. And as they stood thus eye to eye, the resemblance between them was marked. Each possessed the same indomitable jaw, the same square brow and compelling eyes, the same grim prominence of chin; but there all likeness ended. In Barnabas the high carriage of the head, the soft brilliancy of the full, well-opened gray eye, the curve of the sensitive nostrils, the sweet set of the firm, shapely mouth—all were the heritage of that mother who was to him but a vague memory. But now while John Barty frowned upon his son, Barnabas frowned back at his father, and the added grimness of his chin offset the sweetness of the mouth above.

"Barnabas," said his father at last, "did you say a—gentleman,

Barnabas?"

"Yes."

"What—you?" Here John Barty's frown vanished suddenly and, expanding his great chest, he threw back his head and roared with laughter. Barnabas clenched his fists, and his mouth lost something of its sweetness, and his eyes glinted through their curving lashes, while his father laughed and laughed till the place rang again, which of itself stung Barnabas sharper than any blow could have done.

But now having had his laugh out, John Barty frowned again blacker than ever, and resting his two hands upon the table, leaned towards Barnabas with his great, square chin jutted forward, and his deep-set eyes narrowed to shining slits—the "fighting face" that had daunted many a man ere now.

"So you want to be a gentleman—hey?"

"Yes."

"You aren't crazed in your 'ead, are ye, Barnabas?"

"Not that I know of, father."

"This here fortun' then—it's been an' turned your brain, that's what it is."

Barnabas smiled and shook his head.

"Listen, father," said he, "it has always been the dream and ambition of my life to better my condition, to strive for a higher place in the world—to be a gentleman. This was why I refused to become a pugilist, as you and Natty Bell desired, this was why I worked and studied—ah! a great deal harder than you ever guessed—though up till to-day I hardly dared hope my dream would ever be realized—but now—"

"Now you want to go to London and be a gentleman—hey?"

"Yes."

"Which all comes along o' your reading o' fool book! Why, Lord! you can no more become a gentleman than I can or the—blunderbuss yonder. And because why? Because a gentleman must be a gentleman born, and his father afore him, and his father afore him. You, Barnabas, you was born the son of a Champion of England, an' that should be enough for most lads; but your head's chock full o' fool's notions an' crazy fancies, an' as your lawful father it's my bounden duty to get 'em out again, Barnabas my lad." So saying, John Barty proceeded to take off his coat and belcher neckerchief, and rolled his shirt sleeves over his mighty forearms, motioning Barnabas to do the like.