The Indianapolis times. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1922-1965, 1934-05-09
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into books-like you: though a read
er an a writer generally has a hard
time on it an dies poOr-which,
arter ali, is only natral-an' there
y arei
No man ever 'ad a better friend
than Natty Bell Ali yes,
though 7 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 amt, amt.
It were ordained. says, as
should be champion O. England I
says-an' you an me should be
friends-now an hereafter says
an right good friends we have
been, as you know, Barnabas."
y
"TNDEED, yes. father" said Bar
i nabas, with another vain at
tempt to stem his fathers volubility.
But your mother, Barnabas, your
mother, God rest her sweet SOUL
your mother weren't like memo
nor Natty Bell-she were away up
over me an the likes o. me-a Won
derful scholard she were, an'-when
she died. Barnabas-"
Here the ex-champions voice grew
uncertain and his steady gaze
wavered-sought the sanded floor
the raftered ceiling 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 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
lattice to where the broad white
road wound away betwixt blooming
hedges. growing ever narrower till it
vanished over the brow of distant
hill.
1t was seldom his father men
toned to Barnabas the mother
whose face he had never seen, upon
which rare occasions John Barty's
deep voice was wont to take on a
hoarser note, and his blue eyes, that
were usually so steady, would go
wandering off until they fixed them
selves on some remote object.
she died, Barnabas-just twenty
one years ago-buried at Maidstone
where you were born. Twenty-one
years is a longish time, lad, but
memory's longer, an deeper,-an'
stronger than time, arter all, an 1
know that her memory will go wi
NEAL along the way-d' We see
lad: and so Barnabas," said John
Barty lowering his gaze to his SOL S
face, so Barnabas, there Y are"
Yes, father nodded BarnabaS,
still intent upon the road.
And now come to your uncle
Tom an speaking of him-Barna-
has my lad,-what are We going to
do WI all this money!"
Barnabas turned from the window
and met his fathers eye.
DO with it," he began, why first
of all"
Because" pursued his father, I'VE
might buy the White Hart other
side O. SevenoakS,-to be sure you're
over young to have any say in the
matter-still after all the moneys
yours. Barnabas-what d. We say to
the White Hart'?"
Buy whichever you choose,
father, it will be all one to mel"
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 intended to go away, sill"
'Eh?" exclaimed his father. star
ing-"go anywhere to?"
To Londonl"
London? and what should you
want in London-a slip of lad like
you?"
I'm turned twenty-five, father!"
And what should slip of lad
of twenty-five want in London in