I played Scawsby like a trout, sitting open-mouthed before stories of his great medical triumphs. At last, when our cups were empty and our bellies full, I admired the bracelet on his wrist. I compared it to the one I wore, cursing how the clasp had broken and saying I wished a goldsmith would fit mine with a similar lock to his. Of course, Scawsby seized the bait. I placed ten pounds of silver on the table as guarantee while I borrowed his bracelet to take to a nearby goldsmith so he could copy from it when he mended mine. I also gave a ring as surety and, pleading I had no horse, asked if I could borrow his from the stable. The old fool promptly agreed and off I went, begging him to stay until I returned.

I mounted his horse and rode like the devil to Scawsby's great mansion on the road out of town. His hot-lipped, full-bosomed wife was at home and I explained my errand: her husband wished for three hundred pounds in silver to be given to me so I could take it back to him in town. Of course, the saucy wench demurred so I plucked out her husband's bracelet which I said was his guarantee of my good faith, as well as pointing out the horse which a groom was now taking round to the stable. After that it was as easy as kicking a pig's bladder. I was taken up to her privy chamber, and given the money in clinking sacks whilst all the time I flattered and teased her. To cut a long but merry story short, I soon had her in her shift and we indulged in the most riotous romp on the great four-poster bed. After that, a cup of claret and back to the Golden Turk where Doctor Scawsby was even deeper in his cups. I returned his bracelet, took back my pledge and walked out of the tavern a much richer and more contented man.

I had extracted my revenge and what could the old fool say? If he issued a bill of indictment against me he would become a laughing stock – which, of course, he did when I passed the story round the taverns and ale houses of Ipswich. I didn't give a damn. I still grieved for my mother and felt the anger boiling in my heart at Scawsby's ineptitude and my own neglect of her. I thought of my mother more often then; her brown, friendly face, her eyes soft as the breeze on the most beautiful summer day. Why is it, I wonder, that the women I have loved I always lose?