The Nadir Bandar
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.
I explained, trying not to blubber.
"You'll know him again, won't you?" said Bruce.
I nodded.
"That's all right," he said cheerfully. "Then you can poison his food."