"Though I've often thought the 'Greyhound' at Croydon would be a
comfortable house to own."
"Buy whichever you choose, father, it will be all one to me!"
"Good lad!" nodded John, "you can leave it all to Natty Bell an' me."
"Yes," said Barnabas, rising and fronting his father across the table,
"you see I intend to go away, sir."
"Eh?" exclaimed his father, staring--"go away--where to?"
"To London!"
"London? and what should you want in London--a slip of a lad like you?"
"I'm turned twenty-two, father!"
"And what should a slip of a lad of twenty-two want in London? You
leave London alone, Barnabas. London indeed! what should you want
wi' London?"
"Learn to be a gentleman."
"A--what?" As he spoke, John Barty rose up out of his chair, his
eyes wide, his mouth agape with utter astonishment. As he
encountered his son's look, however, his expression slowly changed
from amazement to contempt, from contempt to growing ridicule, and
from ridicule to black anger. John Barty was a very tall man, broad
and massive, but, even so, he had to look up to Barnabas as they
faced each other across the table. And as they stood thus eye to eye,
the resemblance between them was marked. Each possessed the same
indomitable jaw, the same square brow and compelling eyes, the same
grim prominence of chin; but there all likeness ended. In Barnabas
the high carriage of the head, the soft brilliancy of the full,
well-opened gray eye, the curve of the sensitive nostrils, the sweet
set of the firm, shapely mouth--all were the heritage of that mother
who was to him but a vague memory. But now while John Barty frowned
upon his son, Barnabas frowned back at his father, and the added
grimness of his chin offset the sweetness of the mouth above.
"Barnabas," said his father at last, "did you say a--gentleman,
Barnabas?"
"Yes."
"What--you?" Here John Barty's frown vanished suddenly and,
expanding his great chest, he threw back his head and roared with
laughter. Barnabas clenched his fists, and his mouth lost something
of its sweetness, and his eyes glinted through their curving lashes,
while his father laughed and laughed till the place rang again,
which of itself stung Barnabas sharper than any blow could have done.
But now having had his laugh out, John Barty frowned again blacker
than ever, and resting his two hands upon the table, leaned towards
Barnabas with his great, square chin jutted forward, and his
deep-set eyes narrowed to shining slits--the "fighting face" that had
daunted many a man ere now.
"So you want to be a gentleman--hey?"
"Yes."
"You aren't crazed in your 'ead, are ye, Barnabas?"
"Not that I know of, father."
"This here fortun' then--it's been an' turned your brain, that's
what it is."