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 church.  To avoid them, I went on till I came to the corner of Dogpole and Pride Hill, hoping thereby to escape.  But Cyrus Vetch’s keen eyes had seen me, and when I came to the turning by Colam’s, the vintner’s, there were my two tormentors, posted right in my path.

“Aha, young Bold!” says Cyrus, clutching me roughly by the arm, “so you thought to give us the slip, did you?”

I could not deny it, and said nothing.

“Hark ’ee, young Bold,” Cyrus went on, “you’re to bring us tomorrow morning a good dozen of old Ellery’s apples, d’you hear?”

“A good dozen, young Bold,” says Cludde, with the precision of an echo.

“Let me go, please, Vetch,” I said, endeavoring to wrench my arm away.

“Not so fast, bun face,” says he, giving my arm a twist.  “You’d best promise, or it will be the worse for you.  Now say after me, ’I, Humphrey Bold, adopted brat of John Ellery’—­Speak up now!” “Please let me go, Vetch,” said I, wriggling in his grasp.

“You won’t, eh?  You’re an obstinate pig, eh?  You defy us, eh?” and with every question the bully twisted my arm till I almost screamed with the pain.

“Don’t be a ninny,” says Cludde.  “What’s a few apples!  Why, old Ellery’s trees are loaded with ’em.”

Vetch’s grip somewhat relaxed while Cludde was speaking, and, seizing the opportunity, I wrenched my arm away with a sudden movement and took to my heels.  Being thin and light of foot, I was a fleet runner, and though they immediately set off in pursuit, I gained on them for a few yards, and had some hope of distancing them altogether.  But just as I came to where Dogpole runs into Wyle Cop, a stitch in the side, which often seized me at inconvenient times, forced me to slacken speed.  Seeing this, they quickened their pace, and in a few moments they would have had me at their mercy.