"Ah!" nodded the Chapman, "it's the most remarkablest book as ever was!—Lookee—heer's picters for ye—lookee!" and he began turning over the pages, calling out the subject of the pictures as he did so.
"Gentleman going a walk in a jerry 'at. Gentleman eating soup! Gentleman kissing lady's 'and. Gentleman dancing with lady—note them theer legs, will ye—theer's elegance for ye! Gentleman riding a 'oss in one o' these 'ere noo buckled 'ats. Gentleman shaking 'ands with ditto—observe the cock o' that little finger, will ye! Gentleman eating ruffles—no, truffles, which is a vegetable, as all pigs is uncommon partial to. Gentleman proposing lady's 'ealth in a frilled shirt an' a pair o' skin-tights. Gentleman making a bow."
"And remarkably stiff in the legs about it, too!" nodded Barnabas.
"Stiff in the legs!" cried the Chapman reproachfully. "Lord love you, young sir! I've seen many a leg stiffer than that."
"And how much is the book?"
The Chapman cast a shrewd glance up at the tall youthful figure, at the earnest young face, at the deep and solemn eyes, and coughed behind his hand.
"Well, young sir," said he, gazing thoughtfully up at the blue sky—"since you are you, an' nobody else—an' ax me on so fair a morning, wi' the song o' birds filling the air—we'll charge you only—well—say ten shillings: say eight, say seven-an'-six—say five—theer, make it five shillings, an' dirt-cheap at the price, too."
Barnabas hesitated, and the Chapman was about to come down a shilling or two more when Barnabas spoke.
"Then you're not thinking of learning to become a gentleman yourself?"
"O Lord love you—no!"