Excerpt
CHAPTER I IN WHICH BABNABAS KNOCKS DOWN HIS FATHER, THOUGH AS DUTIFULLY AS MAY BE
John Barty, ex-champion of England and landlord of the "Coursing Hound," sat screwed round in his chair with his eyes yet turned to the door that had closed after the departing lawyer fully five minutes ago, and his eyes were wide and blank, and his mouth (grim and close-lipped as a rule) gaped, becoming aware of which, he closed it with a snap, and passed a great knotted fist across his brow.
"Barnabas," said he slowly, "I beant asleep an' dreaming be I,Barnabas?"
"No, father!"
"But—seven—'undred—thousand—pound. It were seven—'undred thousand pound, weren't it, Barnabas?"
"Yes, father!"
"Seven—'undred—thou—! No! I can't believe it, Barnabas my bye."
"Neither can I, father," said Barnabas, still staring down at the papers which littered the table before him.
"Nor I aren't a-going to try to believe it, Barnabas."
"And yet—here it is, all written down in black and white, and you heard what Mr. Crabtree said?"
"Ah,—I heered, but arter all Crabtree's only a lawyer—though a good un as lawyers go, always been honest an' square wi' me—leastways I 've never caught him trying to bamboozle John Barty yet—an' what the eye don't ob-serve the heart don't grieve, Barnabas my bye, an' there y'are. But seven 'undred thousand pound is coming it a bit too strong—if he'd ha' knocked off a few 'undred thousand I could ha' took it easier Barnabas, but, as it is—no, Barnabas!"
"It's a great fortune!" said Barnabas in the same repressed tone and with his eyes still intent.
"Fortun'," repeated the father, "fortun'—it's fetched me one in the ribs—low, Barnabas, low!—it's took my wind an' I'm a-hanging on to the ropes, lad. Why, Lord love me! I never thought as your uncle Tom 'ad it in him to keep hisself from starving, let alone make a fortun'! My scapegrace brother Tom—poor Tom as sailed away in a emigrant ship (which is a un-common bad kind of a ship to sail in—so I've heered, Barnabas) an' now, to think as he went an' made all that fortun'—away off in Jamaiky—out o' vegetables."
"And lucky speculation, father—!"
"Now, Barnabas," exclaimed his father, beginning to rasp his fingers to and fro across his great, square, shaven chin, "why argufy? Your uncle Tom was a planter—very well! Why is a man a planter—because he plants things, an' 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....