“He was a brute to you, Traddles,” said I, indignantly; for his good humour made me feel as if I had seen him beaten but yesterday.

“Do you think so?” returned Traddles. “Really? Perhaps he was rather. But it’s all over, a long while. Old Creakle!”

“You were brought up by an uncle, then?” said I.

“Of course I was!” said Traddles. “The one I was always going to write to. And always didn’t, eh! Ha, ha, ha! Yes, I had an uncle then. He died soon after I left school.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. He was a retired⁠—what do you call it!⁠—draper⁠—cloth-merchant⁠—and had made me his heir. But he didn’t like me when I grew up.”

“Do you really mean that?” said I. He was so composed, that I fancied he must have some other meaning.