"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!"
"Then I'll buy it," said Barnabas, and forthwith handed over the
five shillings. Slipping the book into his pocket, he turned to go,
yet paused again and addressed the Chapman over his shoulder.
"Shouldn't you like to become a gentleman?" he inquired.
Again the Chapman regarded him from the corners of his eyes, and
again he coughed behind his hand.
"Well," he admitted, "I should an' I shouldn't. O' course it must be
a fine thing to bow to a duchess, or 'and a earl's daughter into a
chariot wi' four 'orses an' a couple o' footmen, or even to sit wi'
a markus an' eat a French hortolon (which never 'aving seen, I don't
know the taste on, but it sounds promising); oh yes, that part would
suit me to a T; but then theer's t'other part to it, y' see."
"What do you mean?"
"Why, a gentleman has a great deal to live up to--theer's his dignity,
y' see."
"Yes, I suppose so," Barnabas admitted.
"For instance, a gentleman couldn't very well be expected to sit in
a ditch and enj'y a crust o' bread an' cheese; 'is dignity wouldn't
allow of it, now would it?"
"Certainly not," said Barnabas.
"Nor yet drink 'ome-brewed out of a tin pot in a inn kitchen."
"Well, he might, if he were very thirsty," Barnabas ventured to think.
But the Chapman scouted the idea.
"For," said he, "a gentleman's dignity lifts him above inn kitchens
and raises him superior to tin pots. Now tin pots is a perticler
weakness o' mine, leastways when theer's good ale inside of 'em. And
then again an' lastly," said the Chapman, balancing a piece of
cheese on the flat of his knife-blade, "lastly theer's his clothes,
an', as I've read somewhere, 'clothes make the man'--werry
good--chuck in dignity an' theer's your gentleman!"
"Hum," said Barnabas, profoundly thoughtful.
"An' a gentleman's clothes is a world o' trouble and anxiety to him,
and takes up most o' his time, what wi' his walking breeches an'
riding breeches an' breeches for dancing; what wi' his coats cut
'igh an' his coats cut low; what wi' his flowered satin weskits;
what wi' his boots an' his gloves, an' his cravats an' his 'ats, why,
Lord love ye, he passes his days getting out o' one suit of clothes
an' into another. And it's just this clothes part as I can't nowise
put up wi', for I'm one as loves a easy life, I am."