The Amateur Gentleman | Page 3

what should a man plant but vegetables? So Barnabas,
vegetables I says, an' vegetables I abide by, now an' hereafter. Seven
'undred thousand pound all made in Jamaiky--out o' vegetables--an'
there y' are!"
Here John Barty paused and sat with his chin 'twixt finger and thumb in
expectation of his son's rejoinder, but finding him silent, he presently
continued:
"Now what astonishes an' fetches me a leveller as fair doubles me up

is--why should my brother Tom leave all this money to a young hop o'
me thumb like you, Barnabas? you, as he never see but once and you
then a infant (and large for your age) in your blessed mother's arms,
Barnabas, a-kicking an' a-squaring away wi' your little pink fists as
proper as ever I seen inside the Ring or out. Ah, Barnabas!" sighed his
father shaking his head at him, "you was a promising infant, likewise a
promising bye; me an' Natty Bell had great hopes of ye, Barnabas; if
you'd been governed by me and Natty Bell you might ha' done us all
proud in the Prize Ring. You was cut out for the 'Fancy.' Why, Lord!
you might even ha' come to be Champion o' England in time--you 're
the very spit o' what I was when I beat the Fighting Quaker at Dartford
thirty years ago."
"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."
"For which I can never be sufficiently grateful, both to her--and to
you!" said Barnabas, who sat with his chin propped upon his hand,

gazing through the open