Excuse this weak moisture of the eyes, boy.

The sight of my old friend's son brings up the happy companionship of the past.

Time flies fast, my brave lad.
Your father and I were hand and glove then.

Never separate.

We fought together, bled together, and ah! how fate is partial in the way she spreads her favours! Your father dresses his son in velvet; while I, poor soldier of fortune--I mean misfortune--am growing rusty; sword, morion, breast-plate, body battered, and face scarred by time." "Aren't we going to have something to eat and drink, captain ?" growled one of the men, with an ugly scowl.
"Ay, brave boys, and soon," cried the leader.
"Then, leave off preaching, captain, till we've got our legs under a table." "Ah, yes.