A native of Manchester, he was the son of Kenelm Kneebone, a staunch Catholic, and a sergeant of dragoons, who lost his legs and his life while fighting for James the Second at the battle of the Boyne, and who had little to bequeath his son except his laurels and his loyalty to the house of Stuart. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Loving was better than that. I shall always be kind to him; I sha'n't bait him. “Excellent fellow!” he answered a little irrelevantly. ‘Leave it, imbecile. ” The cab rumbled off.
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