"Ah!" nodded John. Whereupon Natty Bell crossed his legs and leaning
back in his chair fell a-singing to himself in his sweet voice, as
was his custom when at all inclined to deep thought:


"A true Briton from Bristol, a rum one to fib,
He's Champion of England, his name is Tom Cribb;"


"Ah! and you likewise tell me as our Barnabas has come into a fortun'."

"Seven--'undred--thousand--pound."

"Hum!" said Natty Bell,--"quite a tidy sum, John."

"Come list, all ye fighting gills
And coves of boxing note, sirs,
While I relate some bloody mills
In our time have been fought, sirs."

"Yes, a good deal can be done wi' such a sum as that, John."

"But it can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, Natty Bell,--nor
yet a gentlemen out o' you or me--or Barnabas here."

"For instance," continued Natty Bell, "for instance, John:

"Since boxing is a manly game,
And Britain's recreation,