"Why, Barnabas, lad, I be all mazed like; there aren't many men as have knocked me off my pins, an' I aren't used to it, Barnabas, lad, but 't was a clean blow, as Natty Bell says, and why—I be proud of thee, Barnabas, an'—there y' are."
"Spoke like true fighting men!" said Natty Bell, standing with a hand on the shoulder of each, "and, John, we shall see this lad, this Barnabas of ours, Champion of England yet." John frowned and shook his head.
"No," said he, "Barnabas'll never be Champion, Natty Bell—there aren't a fighting man in the Ring to-day as could stand up to him, but he'll never be Champion, an' you can lay to that, Natty Bell. And if you ask me why," said he, turning to select another pipe from the sheaf in the mantel-shelf, "I should tell you because he prefers to go to London an' try to turn himself into a gentleman."
"London," exclaimed Natty Bell, "a gentleman—our Barnabas—what?"
"Bide an' listen, Natty Bell," said the ex-champion, beginning to fill his new pipe.
"I'm listening, John."
"Well then, you must know, then, his uncle, my scapegrace brother
Tom—you'll mind Tom as sailed away in a emigrant ship—well, Natty
Bell, Tom has took an' died an' left a fortun' to our lad here."
"A fortun', John!—how much?"
"Seven—'undred—thousand—pound," said John, with a ponderous nod after each word, "seven—'undred—thousand—pound, Natty Bell, and there y' are."
Natty Bell opened his mouth, shut it, thrust his hands down into his pockets and brought out a short clay pipe.