half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters.

Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the
rush of the crowd outside confused him.

The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a
mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and
broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was
building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: "Playeres
Here: None Elles."

Nick doffed his cap. "Good-day," said he; "is Master Will Shakspere in?"

The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring
stupidly. "Didst za-ay zummat?"

"I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?"

The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. "Noa; Muster Wull
Zhacksper beant in."

Nick's heart stopped with a thump. "Where is he--do ye know?"

"A's gone awa-ay," drawled the workman, vaguely.

"Away? Whither!"

"A's gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur's woife do li-ive--went
a-yesterday."

Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on
again: he had quite forgotten it.

Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford--and only the day before!

Too late--just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery.
Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear:
who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran
down his face again.

"Here, here, odzookens, lad!" grinned the workman, stolidly, "thou'lt
vetch t' river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now."

Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a
shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to
the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in
the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up.

"Is--is Master Richard Burbage here, then?"

Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.

"Noa," drawled the carpenter; "Muster Bubbage beant here; doan't want
un, nuther--nuvver do moind a's owen business--always jawin' volks. A
beant here, an' doan't want un, nuther."

Nick's heart went down. "And where is he?"

"Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin' at t'
theater."

"And where may Shoreditch be?"

"Whur be Zhoreditch?" gaped the workman, vacantly. "Whoy--whoy, zummers
over there a bit yon, zure"; and he waved his hand about in a way that
pointed to nowhere at all.

"