"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."
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."