make no doubt that she gave tongue to her feeling in the hearing of
her son Dick, for among the many taunts which he and his boon
fellow Cyrus Vetch cast at me was that I was what they pleased to
call a "charity child."

I have mentioned Cyrus Vetch. If I feared Dick Cludde, I both
feared and hated his companion. Cyrus was the son of a well-to-do
merchant of the town--a man little in stature, but stout, and
wondrous big in self esteem. He was the owner of much property,
already one of the twelve aldermen, and ambitious, folk said, to
arrive at the highest dignity a citizen of Shrewsbury could attain
and wear the chain of mayor about his bulldog neck. He doted on his
son, who certainly did not take after his father so far as looks
went, for he was a tall, lanky fellow with a sallow face, the
alderman's countenance being as red as raw beef.

Hating Cyrus as I did, and not without cause, as will be seen
hereafter, I may be a trifle unjust in my recollection of him; but
I seem to see again a weasel face, with a pair of little restless
cunning eyes, and lips that were shaped to a perpetual sneer. As to
the sharpness of his tongue I know my memory does not play me
false: Dick Cludde's taunts bruised, but Cyrus Vetch's stung.

I had been less than a year at the school when an event happened
which had a great bearing on my future life. It was in the autumn
of the year 1690. I left afternoon school, and walked up Castle
Street, intending to turn down by St. Mary's Church as I was wont
to do, and make my way by Dogpole and Wyle Cop to English Bridge
and so home. But just as I came to the corner I spied Cludde and
Vetch waiting for me, as they sometimes did, at the back end of the