"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."




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