I had known Bruce for about fifteen years before this amazing thing
happened.
He was a nephew of Mervyn Bruce, the famous traveller, and we had
turned up the same day at Haileybury--two forlorn new boys. I can
see him now with his shock of red hair, his friendly grin, and that
funny little habit of scratching the back of his right ear which has
never left him.
He came up and spoke to me in the quad. Some big fellow had just
asked me my name, and when in all innocence I had said,
"Bridges--what's yours?" I had been answered with a clip over the
head that had sent me sprawling on the asphalt.
"Why did he hit you?" asked Bruce.