CHAPTER

I In which Barnabas Knocks Down his Father, though as Dutifully as may be.

II In which is Much Unpleasing Matter regarding Silk Purses, Sows' Ears, Men, and Gentlemen.

III How Barnabas Set Out for London Town.

IV How Barnabas Fell In with a Pedler of Books, and Purchased a "Priceless Wollum".

V In which the Historian Sees Fit to Introduce a Lady of Quality; and Further Narrates How Barnabas Tore a Wonderful Bottle-green Coat.

VI Of the Bewitchment of Black Eyelashes; and of a Fateful Lace Handkerchief

VII In which may be Found Divers Rules and Maxims for the Art of Bowing.

VIII Concerning the Captain's Arm, the Bo'sun's Leg, and the "Belisarius," Seventy-four.

IX Which Concerns Itself, among Other Matters, with the Virtues of a Pair of Stocks and the Perversity of Fathers.

X Which Describes a Peripatetic Conversation.

XI In which Fists are Clenched; and of a Selfish Man, who was an Apostle of Peace.

XII Of the Stranger's Tale, which, being Short, may perhaps Meet with the Reader's Kind Approbation.

XIII In which Barnabas Makes a Confession.

XIV Concerning the Buttons of One Milo of Crotona.

XV In which the Patient Reader may Learn Something of the Gentleman in the Jaunty Hat.

XVI In which Barnabas Engages One without a Character.

XVII In which Barnabas Parts Company with the Person of Quality.

XVIII How Barnabas Came to Oakshott's Barn.

XIX Which Tells How Barnabas Talks with my Lady Cleone for the Second Time.

XX Of the Prophecy of One Billy Button, a Madman.

XXI In which Barnabas Undertakes a Mission.

XXII In which the Reader is Introduced to an Ancient Finger-post.

XXIII How Barnabas Saved his Life—because he was Afraid.

XXIV Which Relates Something of the "White Lion" at Tenterden.

XXV Of the Coachman's Story.

XXVI Concerning the Duties of a Valet—and a Man.

XXVII How Barnabas Bought an Unridable Horse—and Rode it.

XXVIII Concerning, among Other Things, the Legs of a Gentleman-in-powder.

XXIX Which Describes Something of the Misfortunes of Ronald Barrymaine.

XXX In which Ronald Barrymaine Makes his Choice.

XXXI Which Describes some of the Evils of Vindictiveness.

XXXII Of Corporal Richard Roe, late of the Grenadiers; and Further Concerning Mr. Shrig's Little Reader.

XXXIII Concerning the Duty of Fathers; more Especially the Viscount's "Roman".

XXXIV Of the Luck of Captain Slingsby, of the Guards.

XXXV How Barnabas Met Jasper Gaunt, and what Came of It.

XXXVI Of an Ethical Discussion, which the Reader is Advised to Skip.

XXXVII In which the Bo'sun Discourses on Love and its Symptoms.

XXXVIII How Barnabas Climbed a Wall.

XXXIX In which the Patient Reader is Introduced to an Almost Human Duchess.

XL Which Relates Sundry Happenings at the Garden Fête.

XLI In which Barnabas Makes a Surprising Discovery, that may not Surprise the Reader in the Least.

XLII In which shall be Found Further Mention of a Finger-post.

XLIII In which Barnabas Makes a Bet, and Receives a Warning.

XLIV Of the Tribulations of the Legs of the Gentleman-in-powder.

XLV How Barnabas Sought Counsel of the Duchess.

XLVI Which Concerns Itself with Small Things in General, and a Pebble in Particular.

XLVII How Barnabas Found his Manhood.

XLVIII In which "The Terror," Hitherto Known as "Four-Legs," Justifies his New Name.

XLIX Which, being Somewhat Important, is Consequently Short.

L In which Ronald Barrymaine Speaks his Mind.

LI Which Tells How and Why Mr. Shrig's Case was Spoiled.

LII Of a Breakfast, a Roman Parent, and a Kiss.

LIII In which shall be Found some Account of the Gentleman's Steeplechase.

LIV Which Concerns itself Chiefly with a Letter.

LV Which Narrates Sundry Happenings at Oakshott's Barn.

LVI Of the Gathering of the Shadows.

LVII Being a Parenthetical Chapter on Doubt, which, though Uninteresting, is very Short.

LVIII How Viscount Devenham Found him a Viscountess.

LIX Which Relates, among other Things, How Barnabas Lost his Hat.

LX Which Tells of a Reconciliation.

LXI How Barnabas Went to his Triumph.

LXII Which Tells How Barnabas Triumphed in Spite of All.

LXIII Which Tells How Barnabas Heard the Ticking of a Clock.

LXIV Which Shows Something of the Horrors of Remorse.

LXV Which Tells How Barnabas Discharged his Valet.

LXVI Of Certain Con-clusions Drawn by Mr. Shrig.

LXVII Which Gives some Account of the Worst Place in the World.

LXVIII Concerning the Identity of Mr. Bimby's Guest.

LXIX How Barnabas Led a Hue and Cry.

LXX Which Tells How Barnabas Rode Another Race.

LXXI Which Tells How Barnabas, in his Folly, Chose the Harder Course.

LXXII How Ronald Barrymaine Squared his Account.

LXXIII Which Recounts Three Awakenings.

LXXIV How the Duchess Made up her Mind, and Barnabas Did the Like.

LXXV Which Tells Why Barnabas Forgot his Breakfast.

LXXVI How the Viscount Proposed a Toast.

LXXVII How Barnabas Rode Homewards, and Took Counsel of a Pedler of Books.

LXXVIII Which Tells How Barnabas Came Home Again, and How he Awoke for the Fourth Time.

ILLUSTRATIONS

Barnabas frowned, tore the letter across in sudden fury, and looked up to find Cleone frowning also.

"Man Jack, 't is proud you should be to lie there."

"Oh, sir, I grieve to disappoint you," said she, and rose.

"Let me pass, I warn you!" For a minute they fronted each other, eye to eye.

"But this is murder—positive murder!" cried Mr. Dalton.

Sir Mortimer paused, and with a sudden gesture tore the rose from his coat and tossed it away.

"So you meant to buy me, sir, as you would a horse or dog?"

All at once, Sir Mortimer was on his feet and had caught up a heavy riding-whip.

Barnabas espied a face amid the hurrying throng

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH BABNABAS KNOCKS DOWN HIS FATHER, THOUGH AS DUTIFULLY AS MAY BE

John Barty, ex-champion of England and landlord of the "Coursing Hound," sat screwed round in his chair with his eyes yet turned to the door that had closed after the departing lawyer fully five minutes ago, and his eyes were wide and blank, and his mouth (grim and close-lipped as a rule) gaped, becoming aware of which, he closed it with a snap, and passed a great knotted fist across his brow.

"Barnabas," said he slowly, "I beant asleep an' dreaming be I, Barnabas?"

"No, father!"

"But—seven—'undred—thousand—pound. It were seven—'undred thousand pound, weren't it, Barnabas?"

"Yes, father!"

"Seven—'undred—thou—! No! I can't believe it, Barnabas my bye."

"Neither can I, father," said Barnabas, still staring down at the papers which littered the table before him.

"Nor I aren't a-going to try to believe it, Barnabas."

"And yet—here it is, all written down in black and white, and you heard what Mr. Crabtree said?"

"Ah,—I heered, but arter all Crabtree's only a lawyer—though a good un as lawyers go, always been honest an' square wi' me—leastways I 've never caught him trying to bamboozle John Barty yet—an' what the eye don't ob-serve the heart don't grieve, Barnabas my bye, an' there y'are. But seven 'undred thousand pound is coming it a bit too strong—if he'd ha' knocked off a few 'undred thousand I could ha' took it easier Barnabas, but, as it is—no, Barnabas!"

"It's a great fortune!" said Barnabas in the same repressed tone and with his eyes still intent.

"Fortun'," repeated the father, "fortun'—it's fetched me one in the ribs—low, Barnabas, low!—it's took my wind an' I'm a-hanging on to the ropes, lad. Why, Lord love me! I never thought as your uncle Tom 'ad it in him to keep hisself from starving, let alone make a fortun'! My scapegrace brother Tom—poor Tom as sailed away in a emigrant ship (which is a un-common bad kind of a ship to sail in—so I've heered, Barnabas) an' now, to think as he went an' made all that fortun'—away off in Jamaiky—out o' vegetables."

"And lucky speculation, father—!"

"Now, Barnabas," exclaimed his father, beginning to rasp his fingers to and fro across his great, square, shaven chin, "why argufy? Your uncle Tom was a planter—very well! Why is a man a planter—because he plants things, an' what should a man plant but vegetables? So Barnabas, vegetables I says, an' vegetables I abide by, now an' hereafter. Seven 'undred thousand pound all made in Jamaiky—out o' vegetables—an' there y' are!"

Here John Barty paused and sat with his chin 'twixt finger and thumb in expectation of his son's rejoinder, but finding him silent, he presently continued:

"Now what astonishes an' fetches me a leveller as fair doubles me up is—why should my brother Tom leave all this money to a young hop o' me thumb like you, Barnabas? you, as he never see but once and you then a infant (and large for your age) in your blessed mother's arms, Barnabas, a-kicking an' a-squaring away wi' your little pink fists as proper as ever I seen inside the Ring or out. Ah, Barnabas!" sighed his father shaking his head at him, "you was a promising infant, likewise a promising bye; me an' Natty Bell had great hopes of ye, Barnabas; if you'd been governed by me and Natty Bell you might ha' done us all proud in the Prize Ring. You was cut out for the 'Fancy.' Why, Lord! you might even ha' come to be Champion o' England in time—you 're the very spit o' what I was when I beat the Fighting Quaker at Dartford thirty years ago."

"But you see, father—"

"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.

"A father's duty be a very solemn thing, Barnabas," he continued slowly, "an' your 'ead being (as I say) full o' wild idees, I'm going to try to punch 'em out again as a well-meaning father should, so help me back wi' the table out o' the road, an' off wi' your coat and neckercher."

Well knowing the utter futility of argument with his father at such a time, Barnabas obediently helped to set back the table, thus leaving the floor clear, which done, he, in turn, stripped off coat and neckcloth, and rolled up his sleeves, while his father watched him with sharply appraising eye.

"You peel well, Barnabas," he nodded. "You peel like a fighting man, you've a tidy arm an' a goodish spread o' shoulder, likewise your legs is clean an' straight, but your skin's womanish, Barnabas, womanish, an' your muscles soft wi' books. So, lad!—are ye ready? Then come on."

Thus, without more ado they faced each other foot to foot, bare-armed and alert of eye. For a moment they sparred watchfully, then John Barty feinted Barnabas into an opening, in that same moment his fist shot out and Barnabas measured his length on the floor.