"Ah!" nodded John. Whereupon Natty Bell crossed his legs and leaning back in his chair fell a-singing to himself in his sweet voice, as was his custom when at all inclined to deep thought:
"A true Briton from Bristol, a rum one to fib, He's Champion of England, his name is Tom Cribb;"
"Ah! and you likewise tell me as our Barnabas has come into a fortun'."
"Seven--'undred--thousand--pound."
"Hum!" said Natty Bell,--"quite a tidy sum, John."
"Come list, all ye fighting gills And coves of boxing note, sirs, While I relate some bloody mills In our time have been fought, sirs."
"Yes, a good deal can be done wi' such a sum as that, John."
"But it can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, Natty Bell,--nor yet a gentlemen out o' you or me--or Barnabas here."
"For instance," continued Natty Bell, "for instance, John:
"Since boxing is a manly game, And Britain's recreation, By boxing we will raise our fame 'Bove every other nation."
"As I say, John, a young and promising life can be wrecked, and utterly blasted by a much less sum than seven hundred thousand pound."
"Ah!" nodded John, "but a sow's ear aren't a silk purse, Natty Bell, no, nor never can be."
"True, John; but, arter all, a silk purse ain't much good if 't is empty--it's the gold inside of it as counts."
"But a silk purse is ever and always a silk purse--empty or no, Natty Bell."
"An' a man is always a man, John, which a gentleman often ain't."
"But surely," said Barnabas, speaking for the first time, "a gentleman is both."
"No--not nohow, my lad!" exclaimed John, beginning to rasp at his chin again. "A man is ever and allus a man--like me and you, an' Natty Bell, an' a gentleman's a gentleman like--Sir George Annersley--up at the great house yonder."
"But--" began Barnabas.
"Now, Barnabas"--remonstrated his father, rasping his chin harder than ever--"wherefore argufy--if you do go for to argufy--"
"We come back to the silk purses and the sows' ears," added Natty Bell.
"And I believe," said Barnabas, frowning down at the empty hearth, "I'm sure, that gentility rests not so much on birth as upon hereditary instinct."
"Hey?" said his father, glancing at him from the corners of his eyes--"go easy, Barnabas, my lad--give it time--on what did 'ee say?"
"On instinct, father."
"Instinct!" repeated John Barty, puffing out a vast cloud of smoke-- "instinct does all right for 'osses, Barnabas, dogs likewise; but what's nat'ral to 'osses an' dogs aren't nowise nat'ral to us! No, you can't come instinct over human beings,--not nohowsoever, Barnabas, my lad. And, as I told you afore, a gentleman is nat'rally born a gentleman an' his feyther afore him an' his grand-feyther afore him, back an' back--"
"To Adam?" inquired Barnabas; "now, if so, the question is--was Adam a gentleman?"
"Lord, Barnabas!" exclaimed John Barty, with a reproachful look-- "why drag in Adam? You leave poor old Adam alone, my lad. Adam indeed! What's Adam got to do wi' it?"
"Everything, we being all his descendants,--at least the Bible says so.--Lords and Commons, Peers and Peasants--all are children of Adam; so come now, father, was Adam a gentleman, Yes or No?"
John Barty frowned up at the ceiling, frowned down at the floor, and finally spoke:
"What do you say to that, Natty Bell?"
"Why, I should say, John--hum!"
"Pray haven't you heard of a jolly young coal-heaver, Who down at Hungerford used for to ply, His daddles he used with such skill and dexterity Winning each mill, sir, and blacking each eye."
"Ha!--I should say, John, that Adam being in the habit o' going about--well, as you might put it--in a free and easy, airy manner, fig leaves an' suchlike, John,--I should say as he didn't have no call to be a gentleman, seeing as there weren't any tailors."
"Tailors!" exclaimed John, staring. "Lord! and what have tailors got to do wi' it, Natty Bell?"
"A great deal more than you 'd think, John; everything, John, seeing 't was tailors as invented gentlemen as a matter o' trade, John. So, if Barnabas wants to have a try at being one--he must first of all go dressed in the fashion."
"That is very true," said Barnabas, nodding.
"Though," pursued Natty Bell, "if you were the best dressed, the handsomest, the strongest, the bravest, the cleverest, the most honorable man in the world--that wouldn't make you a gentleman. I tell you, Barnabas, if you went among 'em and tried to be one of 'em,--they'd find you out some day an' turn their gentlemanly backs on you."
"Ah," nodded John, "and serve you right, lad,--because if you should try to turn yourself into a gentleman, why, Lord, Barnabas!--you'd only be a sort of a amitoor arter all, lad."
"Then," said Barnabas, rising up from his chair and crossing with resolute foot to the door, "then, just so soon as this law business is settled and the money mine, an Amateur Gentleman I'll be."
CHAPTER III
HOW BARNABAS SET OUT FOR LONDON TOWN
It was upon a certain glorious morning, some three weeks later, that Barnabas fared forth into the world; a morning full of the thousand scents of herb and flower and ripening fruits; a morning glad with the song of birds. And because it was still very early, the dew yet lay heavy, it twinkled in the grass, it sparkled in the hedges, and gemmed every leaf and twig with a flaming pendant. And amidst it all, fresh like the morning and young like the sun, came Barnabas, who, closing the door of the "Coursing Hound" behind him, leapt lightly down the stone steps and, turning his back upon the ancient inn, set off towards that hill, beyond which lay London and the Future. Yet--being gone but a very little way--he halted suddenly and came striding back again. And standing thus before the inn he let his eyes wander over its massive crossbeams, its leaning gables, its rows of gleaming lattices, and so up to the great sign swinging above the door--an ancient sign whereon a weather-beaten hound, dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that, by common report, was held to be a hare. But it was to a certain casement that his gaze oftenest reverted, behind whose open lattice he knew his father lay asleep, and his eyes, all at once, grew suffused with a glittering brightness that was not of the morning, and he took a step forward, half minded to clasp his father's hand once more ere he set out to meet those marvels and wonders that lay waiting for him over the hills--London-wards. Now, as he stood hesitating, he heard a voice that called his name softly, and, glancing round and up, espied Natty Bell, bare of neck and touzled of head, who leaned far out from the casement of his bedchamber above.
"Ah, Barnabas, lad!" said he with a nod--"So you're going to leave us, then?"
"Yes!" said Barnabas.
"And all dressed in your new clothes as fine as ever was!--stand back a bit and let me have a look at you."
"How are they, Natty Bell?" inquired Barnabas with a note of anxiety in his voice--"the Tenderden tailor assured me they were