eanwhile Will plucked Hamnet now blubbering on his stool, by the
doublet. But Hamnet, turned sullen, shook him off. Perhaps he did not
know that Will and Judith had not laughed. But since Hamnet saw fit to
shake him off, Will was glad that just then, with a rush of cold air and
a sprinkling of snow upon his short coat, Dad came in. His face was
ruddy, and as he glanced laughingly around upon them all, he drew deep
breath of the spicy evergreens, so that he filled his doublet and
close-throated jerkin to their full.

"Good-even to you, neighbors," says Dad. "An' is it great wonder the boy
will run away to hie him here? The rogue kens a good thing equal to his
elders. But come, boy; your mother is even now sure you have wandered to
the river."

And Dad, with a mighty swing, shoulders Will, steadying him with a palm
under both small feet; then pauses at Mistress Snelling's questioning.

"Is it true," she inquires, "that the players are coming?"

Sandy-hued Mistress Sadler stiffens and bridles at the question. The
Sadlers, whisper says, are Puritanical, whereas there are those who
hold that John Shakespeare and his household, for all they are observant
of church matters, have still a Catholic leaning. Fond of genial John
Shakespeare as the Sadler household are, they shake their heads over
some things, and the players are one of these.

"Is it true they are coming?" repeats Mistress Snelling.

"Ay," says Dad, "an' John Shakespeare the man to be thanked for it. Come
Twelfth Day sennight, at the Guild Hall, Mistress Snelling."

"Am I to see them, Dad?" whispers small Will, his head down and an arm
tight about his father's neck as they go out the door.

"Ay, you inch," promises Dad, stooping, too, as they go under the
lintel beneath the penthouse roof, out into the frosty night. The stars
are beginning to twinkle through the dusk, and the frozen path crunches
underfoot. On each side, as they go up the street, the yards about the
houses stand bare and gaunt with leafless stalks.

"Yes," says Dad. "Ay, boy, you shall see the players from between Dad's
knees."

[Illustration: "'Ay, boy, you shall see the players'"]

And like the old familiar stories we put on the shelf, gloating the
while over the unproven treasures between the lids of the new,
straightway Gammer's tales are forgot. And above the wind, as it whips
scurries of snow around the corners, pipes Will's voice as they trudge
home. But his pipings, his catechis