"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 y' are."

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Natty Bell opened his mouth, shut it, thrust his hands down into his

pockets and brought out a short clay pipe.

"Man Jack," said he, beginning to fill the pipe, yet with gaze

abstracted, "did I hear you say aught about a--gentleman?"

"Natty Bell, you did; our lad's took the idee into his nob to be a

gentleman, an' I were trying to knock it out again, but as it is.

Natty Bell, I fear me," and John Barty shook his handsome head and

sighed ponderously.

"Why then, John, let's sit down, all three of us, and talk this

matter over."




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