"That's the spirit, young sir—aim 'igh. Jest look at me—born in the gutter, but I wasn't content wi' the gutter so I taught myself to read and write. But I wasn't content to read and write, so I took to the book trade, and 'ere I am to-day travelling the roads and wi' a fairish connection, but I ain't content—Lord, no! I'd like to be a dook a-rolling in a chariot, or a prince o' the blood, or the Prime Minister a-laying down the law. That's the sperrit—shoot 'igh, ah! shoot at the sun and you're bound to 'it summat if it's only a tree or a 'ay-stack. So, if you can't be a dook or a prince, you can allus be—a man—if you try 'ard enough. What—are ye going, young sir?"
"Yes," answered Barnabas, leaning down from the saddle, "good-by, and thank you for your advice," and he stretched out his hand.
Hereupon the pedler of books rose to his feet and rather diffidently clasped the proffered hand. So Barnabas smiled down at him, nodded and rode upon his way, but as for the Pedler, he stood there, staring after him open-mouthed, and with the yellow coins shining upon his palm.
CHAPTER LXXVIII
WHICH TELLS HOW BARNABAS CAME HOME AGAIN, AND HOW HE AWOKE FOR THE FOURTH TIME
Evening was falling as Barnabas came to the top of the hill and, drawing rein, paused there to look down at a certain inn. It was a somewhat small and solitary inn, an ancient inn with many lattices, and with pointed gables whose plaster and cross-beams were just now mellowed by the rosy glow of sunset.
Surely, surely, nowhere in all broad England could there be found just such another inn as this, or one more full of that reposeful dignity which only age can bestow. And in all its length of days never had "The Coursing Hound" looked more restful, more comfortable and home-like than upon this early Autumn evening. And remembering those two gray-headed men, who waited within its hospitable walls, eager to give him welcome, who might, perchance, even now be talking of him one to another, what wonder if, as our Barnabas gazed down at it from worn steps to crooked chimney, from the faded sign before the door of it to the fragrant rick-yard that lay behind it, what wonder (I say) if it grew blurred all at once, and misty, or that Barnabas should sigh so deeply and sit with drooping head, while the old inn blinked its casements innocently in the level rays of the setting sun, like the simple, guileless old inn that it was!
But lo! all at once forth from its weather-beaten porch issued two figures, clean-limbed, athletic figures these—men who strode strong and free, with shoulders squared and upright of back, though the head of each was grizzled with years. On they came, shoulder to shoulder, the one a tall man with a mighty girth of chest, the other slighter, shorter, but quick and active as a cat, and who already had gained a good yard upon his companion; whereupon the big man lengthened his stride; whereupon the slighter man broke into a trot; whereupon the big man fell into a run; whereupon the slighter man followed suit and thus, neck and neck, they raced together up the hill and so, presently reaching the summit, very little breathed considering, pulled up on either side of Barnabas.
"Father!" he cried, "Natty Bell! Oh, it's good to be home again!"
"Man Jack, it's all right!" said Natty Bell, nodding to John, but shaking away at the hand Barnabas had reached down to him, "our lad's come back to us, yes, Barnabas has come home, John, and—it is our Barnabas—London and Fashion aren't spiled him, John, thank God!"