The party soon broke up, to carry the news far and wide through Shrewsbury.  And I, after an affecting five minutes with the lawyer, suddenly stuffed the paper in my pocket, flung on my hat, and ran out with furious haste to saddle my horse.  Mistress Vetch came to the door as I mounted.

“Mind you speak the villain plain,” she cried.

I laughed joyfully and galloped away up Pride Hill.  The tale of my discovery had already got abroad; the people came to their doors and cheered me, and some little fellows of the school stood in the middle of the road and waved their caps and shouted “Huzzay for Captain Bold!”

But I did not ride straight on towards the Wem Road and Cludde Court, as Becky had supposed I intended.  I turned into Dogpole, rode helter skelter down Wyle Cop in the very course where Joe’s barrel had rolled, and never drew rein until I came to the door of the Hall.  ’Twas opened to me by Roger, home from following the campaign in Flanders—­a strapping fine fellow, near as tall as myself.

“Gad, but your horse is in a sweat!” he said by way of greeting.  (We laughed at it afterwards.).

“Where is Lucy?” I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then burst into a hearty roar.

“Up you go,” says he, clapping me on the back.  “Egad, and I’ll go and find the squire.”

That is more than forty years ago.  My hand is weary with writing:  why should I tell you more?  There is indeed little more to tell, for from that time, thank God, there have been no mischances in my life.  Yet maybe those who have read my story patiently hereto (if any there be) may like to have it rounded off—­totus, teres, et rotundus.

A few weeks after I regained possession of my little property Sir Richard Cludde died—­of gout and other diseases, said Mr. Pinhorn; Mistress Vetch said of rage.  His estate had been much impoverished, and his widow was now left almost penniless.  She was my father’s sister, and, my own lot being happy, I could not endure to think of her in penury and distress.  So I made her a small allowance through Mr. Vetch (and I can vouch for it this was a secret his wife never knew)—­sufficient to keep her from want.  She never saw me, made me no acknowledgment, and to the day of her death maintained, in the little house she took next St. Michael’s Church, the haughty bearing which had always won her such dislike.

Lucy and I were married on St. Valentine’s day in the year 1703.  Less than three months afterwards I was appointed to command the Pegasus, a third-rate of forty-eight guns, and ordered to the Mediterranean with Admiral Sir Cloudesly Shovel.  From that time until I retired in the year 1713 I was almost continuously on service, having but brief intervals to spend with my wife.  I was at the taking of Gibraltar by Sir George Rooke (which we have yet in possession, and may we ever keep it), and in the famous sea fight off Velez Malaga in 1704; next year I entered Barcelona with Sir Stafford Fairborn; in brief, I had a share (though humble) in many of our notable transactions at sea during those memorable years when we fought King Lewis.