On the contrary, every one of his friends–or, in other words, every man in the parish–was ready to support him. He was clapped on the back until his bones were nearly dislocated in his body, and his hand shaken until his arm lost its cunning at the needle for half a week afterward. This, to be sure, was a bitter business, a state of being past endurance. Every man was his friend–no man was his enemy. A desperate position for any person to find himself in, but doubly calamitous to a martial tailor.