A Lad of Grit

The sun was slowly sinking behind the tree-clad Hampshire Downs.
Already the long shadows of Rake Hill lay athwart the misty coombe, and
the glimmer of the innumerable forges in the valley beneath began to
hold its own against the rapidly fading daylight. The cold east wind,
for it was but the beginning of March, in the year of grace 1660,
whistled through the clump of gaunt pine trees that marked the summit of
the hill, and, despite the fact that each of us wore a thick doublet,
the chilly blast cut us like a knife.

I remember that evening well; its stirring incidents are graven on my
memory as if they had happened but yesterday, though nigh on two score
and ten winters and summers have passed over my head since the eventful
year of which I write.

My father and I were returning homewards from the great fair at
Petersfield. For an old man, he being well over sixty years of age, my
father was the marvel of our village. Tall but sparely built, his frame
betokened a strength of body that harmonized with the determination of
character that made itself known by the glance of his steel-colored
eyes. Report says that when he came to Rake to settle down, some twelve
or thirteen years back--I being but an infant in arms,--he did gain a
lasting reputation by outmatching one Caleb James, a notorious bully, at
his own game, breaking his pate with his own staff on the roadside hard
by Milland Church.

Moreover, as proof of his hardiness, is there not the testimony of the
worthy Master Hugh Salesbury, the chirurgeon of Lyss--the same whose son
fell in Torrington’s action off Beachy Head,--to the effect that though
practice was slack around Lyss, yet he perforce would have to give up if
none were better patients than honest Owen Wentworth.