ut Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the
master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so
oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had
been nothing yet to drink. And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping
over him as he watched the master-player's eyes opening and shutting,
opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the
next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out
from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick
over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him
with an ellwand.

When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too,
Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, "Nay, Nicholas
Skylark, my honey-throat," cried Carew, "sit thee down! Thou wait on
me--thou songster of the silver tongue? Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave
shall wait on thee, or I'll wait on thee myself--I will, upon my word!
Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I'd let thee wait or
walk? nay, nay, thou'lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all
Stratford wait for thee!" At this he chuckled so that he almost choked
upon a mouthful of bread and meat.

"Canst ride, Nicholas?"

"Fairly, sir."

"Fairly? Fie, modesty! I warrant thou canst ride like a very centaur.
What sayest--I'll ride a ten-mile race with thee to-morrow as we go?"

"Why," cried Nick, "are ye going back to Stratford to play, after all?"

"To Stratford? Nay; not for a bushel of good gold Harry shovel-boards!
Bah! That town is ratsbane and nightshade in my mouth! Nay, we'll not go
back to Stratford town; but we shall ride a piece with thee,
Nicholas,--we shall ride a piece with thee."

Chuckling again to himself, he fell to upon the pasty and said no more.

Nick held his peace, as he was taught to do unless first spoken to; but
he could not help thinking that stage-players, and master-players in
particular, were very queer folk.

CHAPTER XI

DISOWNED

Night came down on Stratford town that last sweet April day, and the
pastured kine came lowing home. Supper-time passed, and the cool stars
came twinkling out; but still Nick Attwood did not come.

"He hath stayed to sleep with Robin, Master Burgess Getley's son," said
Mistress Attwood, standing in the door, and staring out into the dusk;
"he is often lonely here."

"He should ha' telled thee on it, then