All Stratford would go to the play. He could hear the murmur of voices
and music, the bursts of laughter and applause, the tramp of happy feet
going up the guildhall stairs to the Mayor's show. Everybody went in
free at the Mayor's show. The other boys could stand on stools and see
it all. They could hold horses at the gate of the inn at the September
fair, and so see all the farces. They could see the famous Norwich
puppet-play. But he--what pleasure did he ever have? A tawdry pageant by
a lot of clumsy country bumpkins at Whitsuntide or Pentecost, or a silly
school-boy masque at Christmas, with the master scolding like a heathen
Turk. It was not fair.

And now he'd have to work all May-day. May-day out of all the year! Why,
there was to be a May-pole and a morris-dance, and a roasted calf, too,
in Master Wainwright's field, since Margery was chosen Queen of the May.
And Peter Finch was to be Robin Hood, and Nan Rogers Maid Marian, and
wear a kirtle of Kendal green--and, oh, but the May-pole would be brave;
high as the ridge of the guildschool roof, and hung with ribbons like a
rainbow! Geoffrey Hall was to lead the dance, too, and the other boys
and girls would all be there. And where would he be? Sousing hides in
the tannery vats. Truly his father was a hard man!

He pushed the cheese away.

CHAPTER III

THE LAST STRAW

Little John Summer had a new horn-book that cost a silver penny. The
handle was carven and the horn was clear as honey. The other little boys
stood round about in speechless envy, or murmured their A B C's and "ba
be bi's" along the chapel steps. The lower-form boys were playing
leap-frog past the almshouse, and Geoffrey Gosse and the vicar's son
were in the public gravel-pit, throwing stones at the robins in the
Great House elms across the lane.

Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house,
anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable
Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging
second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder
than the other, until the noise was deafening.

"Oh, Nick, such goings on!" called Robin Getley, whose father was a
burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences
for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had
no time to learn them at home. "Stratford Council has had a quarrel,
and there's to be no stage-play after all."