A. T. Quiller-Couch

“ He had come to a halt, sucking in his lips and seeming to reflect—
“I know one man,” he began: “but no—'tis impossible.”
As I stood, waiting to hear more, he clapp'd his hand in mine, very quick and friendly: “Jack,” he cried;—“I'll call thee Jack—'twas an honest good turn thou hadst in thy heart to do me, and I a surly rogue to think of fighting—I that could make mince-meat of thee.” ”

“ So, as I put my hand in my pocket, and drew out the shillings, I said very slowly, looking him in the eyes (but softly, so that the lackey might not hear) —
“So thus you feed your expenses at the dice: and my shilling, no doubt, is for Luke Settle, as well as the rest.”
For the moment, under my look, he went white to the lips; then clapped his hand to his sword, withdrew it, and answered me, red as a turkey-cock—
“Shalt be a parson, yet, Master Scholar: but art in a damn'd hurry, it seems.” ”

“ He was the fiercer upon me as being older than the gross of my fellow-scholars, and (as he thought) the more restless under discipline. “A tutor'd adolescence,” he would say, “is a fair grace before meat,” and had his hour-glass enlarged to point the moral for us. ”