d, was wont behind my back to vaunt
my growing manliness.

By the time I was fifteen I was as tall as the captain himself, and
then my share of bruises ceased to be so disproportionate. In
skill, whether with the fists or the foils, he was always vastly my
superior; indeed, to this day I have never met his equal. But I had
youth on my side, and sometimes the old man at the end of a
particularly arduous bout would sigh, and wish he were younger by a
score of years.

No one could have been more generous in encouragement and praise.
It would have amused an onlooker, I am sure, to see him, when I had
had the good fortune to tap claret, mopping the injured feature and
all the time maintaining a flow of complimentary remarks.

"Capital, my lad!"--after fifty years I can hear him still--"on my
life, a neat one, Humphrey; I shall make something of you yet, my
boy."

And then we fall to it again, and, being somewhat overconfident,
perhaps, after my success, I fail a little in my guard, and the
captain sees his opportunity and lands me such a series of
staggerers that I see a thousand stars, and there am I dabbing my
nose while he cries again: "Capital, my lad! A Roland for an
Oliver! And now we'll wash away the sanguinary traces of our combat
and allay our noble rage with a mug of cider."

And thus, giving and receiving hard knocks, we continued to be the
best of friends.

These years brought changes in their train. One day Joshua Vetch,
Cyrus' father, died suddenly of an apoplectic fit, brought on, folk
said, by disappointment at Mr. Adderton the draper being elected
mayor over his head. And then it was found that, so far from being
wealthy as was supposed, he had been for years living beyond his
means, being ably assisted in his expenditure by Cyrus. His affairs
were in great disorder; Cyrus himself was totally unprovided for,
and but for his uncle, John Vetch, a reputable attorney of our
town, who took pity on him, and gave him articles, God knows what
would have become of him.

At this change of fortune I could not but remember how, years
before, he had sneered at me as a "charity brat." I fancy he
remembered it too, for when I met him face to face one day, as I
returned from school, coming out of his uncle's office, he flushed
deeply and then gave me such a look of hatred that I felt uneasy
for days after.

Cyrus had never borne a good name in Shrewsbury, and after his
father's death he seemed to grow reckless.