We knew the captain well; he was, in a way, one of the notable persons of our town.  We boys looked on him with a vast admiration and reverence, not so much for his title—­for there are captains and captains, and I have known some who have done little in the matter of feats of arms—­as because he bore on his lean and rugged countenance marks which no one could mistake.  A deep scar seamed his right temple, and on one of his cheeks were several little black pits which we believed to be the marks of bullets.  He spoke but rarely of his own doings, and until he came to Shrewsbury a few years before this he had been a stranger to the town:  but it was commonly reported that he had been in the service of the Czar of Muscovy, and since that potentate was ever unwilling that any officer who had once served him should leave him (save by death or hanging), it was supposed that the captain had made his escape.  He lived alone in a little cottage on the Wem road, and, not being too plentifully endowed with this world’s goods, he eked out his competency by giving lessons in fencing, both with singlesticks and swords.

Well, in comes the captain, cocking a twinkling eye at me, lays on the table the cane without which he never went abroad, and, placing a chair for himself at the table, says: 

“‘Tis to be hoped we are not in for a ten years’ Trojan war, Master Humphrey.”

Though I understood nothing of his meaning, I knew he made reference to the recent escapade, and I felt mightily uncomfortable.  My father looked from one to the other, but did not break his silence.

“They haven’t put you to the Iliads yet, I suppose,” says the captain, helping himself to a mug of our home-brewed cider, “but you know, neighbor Ellery, ’twas an apple that set the Greeks and Trojans by the ears, and ’tis apples, or rather the want of ’em, that is like to put discord between some of our families hereabout.”

“You speak in riddles, Captain,” says my father at last; “and why are you eying Humphrey in that quizzical way?”

“Why, bless my soul, don’t you know?  I thought it had been half over the county by this.”

“I know that that ’prentice lad Punchard hath half-killed young Vetch, and richly deserves what he will no doubt get tomorrow.”

“And is that all?  Have you told only half your story, Humphrey?”

This direct question made me still more uncomfortable, especially as my father’s eyes were sternly bent upon me.  He hated lies, and half truths still more, and I could see that he was dimly suspecting me of a complicity in Joe Punchard’s action to which I had not confessed.  But Captain Galsworthy was a shrewd old man, and he saw at once how the matter stood.

“No peaching, eh, lad?” he said kindly.  “I’ve an inquisitive turn of mind, and after that performance with the barrel—­and it was a monstrous comical sight, Ellery, to see the little alderman skip out of the way when the barrel made straight for his shins, but not so funny when he pulls at the shock head sticking out and finds it belongs to his own son—­after that performance, I say, I caught young Dick Cludde by the ear, and made him tell me the story.  And it begins with apples—­like this excellent cider of yours, Ellery.”