Yet--being gone but a very little way--he halted suddenly and came
striding back again. And standing thus before the inn he let his
eyes wander over its massive crossbeams, its leaning gables, its
rows of gleaming lattices, and so up to the great sign swinging
above the door--an ancient sign whereon a weather-beaten hound,
dim-legged and faded of tail, pursued a misty blur that, by common
report, was held to be a hare. But it was to a certain casement that
his gaze oftenest reverted, behind whose open lattice he knew his
father lay asleep, and his eyes, all at once, grew suffused with a
glittering brightness that was not of the morning, and he took a
step forward, half minded to clasp his father's hand once more ere
he set out to meet those marvels and wonders that lay waiting for
him over the hills--London-wards. Now, as he stood hesitating, he
heard a voice that called his name softly, and, glancing round and up,
espied Natty Bell, bare of neck and touzled of head, who leaned far
out from the casement of his bedchamber above.

"Ah, Barnabas, lad!" said he with a nod--"So you're going to leave us,
then?"

"Yes!" said Barnabas.

"And all dressed in your new clothes as fine as ever was!--stand
back a bit and let me have a look at you."

"How are they, Natty Bell?" inquired Barnabas with a note of anxiety
in his voice--"the Tenderden tailor assured me they were of the very
latest cut and fashion--what do you think, Natty Bell?"

"Hum!" said the ex-pugilist, staring down at Barnabas, chin in hand.