The Amateur Gentleman | Page 6

as sure,
but if you think you can knock John Barty off his pins, do it, and there
y' are."
"I will," said Barnabas, "though as gently as possible."
And now they fell to it in silence, a grim silence broken only by the
quick tread and shuffle of feet and the muffled thud of blows. John
Barty, resolute of jaw, indomitable and calm of eye, as in the days

when champions had gone down before the might of his fist; Barnabas,
taller, slighter, but full of the supreme confidence of youth. Moreover,
he had not been the daily pupil of two such past masters in the art for
nothing; and now he brought to bear all his father's craft and cunning,
backed up by the lightning precision of Natty Bell. In all his many
hard-fought battles John Barty had ever been accounted most
dangerous when he smiled, and he was smiling now. Twice Barnabas
staggered back to the wall, and there was an ugly smear upon his cheek,
yet as they struck and parried, and feinted, Barnabas, this quick-eyed,
swift-footed Barnabas, was smiling also. Thus, while they smiled upon
and smote each other, the likeness between them was more apparent
than ever, only the smile of Barnabas was the smile of youth, joyous,
exuberant, unconquerable. Noting which Experienced Age laughed
short and fierce, and strode in to strike Youth down--then came a rush
of feet, the panting hiss of breath, the shock of vicious blows, and John
Barty, the unbeaten ex-champion of all England, threw up his arms,
staggered back the length of the room, and went down with a crash.
For a moment Barnabas stood wide-eyed, panting, then ran towards
him with hands outstretched, but in that moment the door was flung
open, and Natty Bell stood between them, one hand upon the laboring
breast of Barnabas, the other stretched down to the fallen ex-champion.
"Man Jack," he exclaimed, in his strangely melodious voice. "Oh,
John!--John Barty, you as ever was the king o' the milling coves, here's
my hand, shake it. Lord, John, what a master o' the Game we've made
of our lad. He's stronger than you and quicker than ever I was. Man
Jack, 'twas as sweet, as neat, as pretty a knockdown as ever we gave in
our best days, John. Man Jack, 'tis proud you should be to lie there and
know as you have a son as can stop even your rush wi' his left an' down
you wi' his right as neat and proper, John, as clean an' delicate as ever
man saw. Man Jack, God bless him, and here's my hand, John."
So, sitting there upon the floor, John Barty solemnly shook the hand
Natty Bell held out to him, which done, he turned and looked at his son
as though he had never seen him before.
"Why, Barnabas!" said he; then, for all his weight, sprang nimbly to his

feet and coming to the mantel took thence his pipe and began to fill it,
staring at Barnabas the while.
"Father," said Barnabas, advancing with hand outstretched, though
rather diffidently--"Father!"
John Barty pursed up his lips into a soundless whistle and went on
filling his pipe.
"Father," said Barnabas again, "I did it--as gently--as I could." The pipe
shivered to fragments on the hearth, and Barnabas felt his fingers
caught in his father's mighty grip.
"Why, Barnabas, lad, I be all mazed like; there aren't many men as
have knocked me off my pins, an' I aren't used to it, Barnabas, lad, but
't was a clean blow, as Natty Bell says, and why--I be proud of thee,
Barnabas, an'--there y' are."
"Spoke like true fighting men!" said Natty Bell, standing with a hand
on the shoulder of each, "and, John, we shall see this lad, this Barnabas
of ours, Champion of England yet." John frowned and shook his head.
"No," said he, "Barnabas'll never be Champion, Natty Bell--there aren't
a fighting man in the Ring to-day as could stand up to him, but he'll
never be Champion, an' you can lay to that, Natty Bell. And if you ask
me why," said he, turning to select another pipe from the sheaf in the
mantel-shelf, "I should tell you because he prefers to go to London an'
try to turn himself into a gentleman."
"London," exclaimed Natty Bell, "a gentleman--our Barnabas--what?"
"Bide an' listen, Natty Bell," said the ex-champion, beginning to fill his
new pipe.
"I'm listening, John."
"Well then, you must know, then, his uncle, my scapegrace brother
Tom--you'll mind Tom as sailed away in a emigrant ship--well, Natty

Bell, Tom has took an' died an' left a fortun' to our lad here."
"A fortun', John!--how much?"
"Seven--'undred--thousand--pound," said John, with a ponderous nod
after each word, "seven--'undred--thousand--pound, Natty Bell, and
there