"Dear old Natty—I can't take this!"
"Ah, but you can—it was presented to me twenty and one years ago,
Barnabas, the time I beat the Ruffian on Bexley Heath."
"But I can't—I couldn't take it," said Barnabas again, looking down at the broad-faced, ponderous timepiece in his hand, which he knew had long been Natty Bell's most cherished possession.
"Ay, but you can, lad—you must—'t is all I have to offer, and it may serve to mind you of me, now and then, so take it! take it! And, Barnabas, when you're tired o' being a fine gentleman up there in London, why—come back to us here at the old 'Hound' and be content to be just—a man. Good-by, lad; good-by!" saying which, Natty Bell nodded, drew in his head and vanished, leaving Barnabas to stare up at the closed lattice, with the ponderous timepiece ticking in his hand.
So, in a while, Barnabas slipped it into his pocket and, turning his back upon the "Coursing Hound," began to climb that hill beyond which lay the London of his dreams. Therefore as he went he kept his eyes lifted up to the summit of the hill, and his step grew light, his eye brightened, for Adventure lay in wait for him; Life beckoned to him from the distance; there was magic in the air. Thus Barnabas strode on up the hill full of expectancy and the blind confidence in destiny which is the glory of youth.
Oh, Spirit of Youth, to whose fearless eyes all things are matters to wonder at; oh, brave, strong Spirit of Youth, to whom dangers are but trifles to smile at, and death itself but an adventure; to thee, since failure is unknown, all things are possible, and thou mayest, peradventure, make the world thy football, juggle with the stars, and even become a Fine Gentleman despite thy country homespun—and yet—
But as for young Barnabas, striding blithely upon his way, he might verily have been the Spirit of Youth itself—head high, eyes a-dance, his heart light as his step, his gaze ever upon the distance ahead, for he was upon the road at last, and every step carried him nearer the fulfilment of his dream.
"At Tonbridge he would take the coach," he thought, or perhaps hire a chaise and ride to London like a gentleman. A gentleman! and here he was whistling away like any ploughboy. Happily the road was deserted at this early hour, but Barnabas shook his head at himself reproachfully, and whistled no more—for a time.
But now, having reached the summit of the hill, he paused and turned to look back. Below him lay the old inn, blinking in its many casements in the level rays of the newly risen sun; and now, all at once, as he gazed down at it from this eminence, it seemed, somehow, to have shrunk, to have grown more weather-beaten and worn—truly never had it looked so small and mean as it did at this moment. Indeed, he had been wont to regard the "Coursing Hound" as the very embodiment of what an English inn should be—but now! Barnabas sighed—which was a new thing for him. "Was the change really in the old inn, or in himself?" he wondered. Hereupon he sighed again, and turning, went on down the hill. But now, as he went, his step lagged and his head drooped. "Was the change in the inn, or could it be that money can so quickly alter one?" he wondered. And straightway the coins in his pocket chinked and jingled "yes, yes!" wherefore Barnabas sighed for the third time, and his head drooped lower yet.
Well then, since he was rich, he would buy his father a better
inn—the best in all England. A better inn! and the "Coursing Hound"
had been his home as long as he could remember. A better inn! Here
Barnabas sighed for the fourth time, and his step was heavier than
ever as he went on down the hill.
CHAPTER IV
HOW BARNABAS FELL IN WITH A PEDLER OF BOOKS, AND PURCHASED A "PRICELESS WOLLUM"
"Heads up, young master, never say die! and wi' the larks and the throstles a-singing away so inspiring too—Lord love me!"
Barnabas started guiltily, and turning with upflung head, perceived a very small man perched on an adjacent milestone, with a very large pack at his feet, a very large hunk of bread and cheese in his hand, and with a book open upon his knee.
"Listen to that theer lark," said the man, pointing upwards with the knife he held.
"Well?" said Barnabas, a trifle haughtily perhaps.
"There's music for ye; there's j'y. I never hear a lark but it takes me back to London—to Lime'us, to Giles's Rents, down by the River."
"Pray, why?" inquired Barnabas, still a trifle haughtily.
"Because it's so different; there ain't much j'y, no, nor yet music in Giles's Rents, down by the River."
"Rather an unpleasant place!" said Barnabas.
"Unpleasant, young sir. I should say so—the worst place in the world—but listen to that theer blessed lark; there's a woice for ye; there's music with a capital M.; an' I've read as they cooks and eats 'em."
"Who do?"
"Nobs do—swells—gentlemen—ah, an' ladies, too!"
"More shame to them, then."
"Why, so says I, young master, but, ye see, beef an' mutton, ducks an' chicken, an' sich, ain't good enough for your Nobs nowadays, oh no! They must dewour larks wi' gusto, and French hortolons wi' avidity, and wi' a occasional leg of a frog throw'd in for a relish—though, to be sure, a frog's leg ain't over meaty at the best o' times. Oh, it's all true, young sir; it's all wrote down here in this priceless wollum." Here he tapped the book upon his knee. "Ye see, with the Quality it is quality as counts—not quantity. It's flavor as is their constant want, or, as you might say, desire; flavor in their meat, in their drink, and above all, in their books; an' see you, I sell books, an' I know."
"What kind of flavor?" demanded Barnabas, coming a step nearer, though in a somewhat stately fashion.
"Why, a gamey flavor, to be sure, young sir; a 'igh flavor—ah! the 'igher the better. Specially in books. Now here," continued the Chapman, holding up the volume he had been reading. "'Ere's a book as ain't to be ekalled nowheers nor nohow—not in Latin nor Greek, nor Persian, no, nor yet 'Indoo. A book as is fuller o' information than a egg is o' meat. A book as was wrote by a person o' quality, therefore a elewating book; wi' nice bold type into it—ah! an' wood-cuts—picters an' engravin's, works o' art as is not to be beat nowheers nor nohow; not in China, Asia, nor Africa, a book therefore as is above an' beyond all price."
"What book is it?" inquired Barnabas, forgetting his haughtiness, and coming up beside the Chapman.
"It's a book," said the Chapman; "no, it's THE book as any young gentleman a-going out into the world ought to have wi' him, asleep or awake."
"But what is it all about?" inquired Barnabas a trifle impatiently.
"Why, everything," answered the Chapman; "an' I know because I 've read it—a thing I rarely do."
"What's the title?"
"The title, young sir; well theer! read for yourself."
And with the words the Chapman held up the book open at the
title-page, and Barnabas read:
HINTS ON ETIQUETTE,
OR
THE COMPLEAT ART OF A GENTLEMANLY DEPORTMENT BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.
"You'll note that theer Person o' Quality, will ye?" said the Chapman.
"Strange!" said Barnabas.
