llow of his inches now, with yellow hair?"

"Nay," said Ambrose, "I mind that his hair was black, and his eyes as
black as sloes--or as thine own, Master Jester."

The jester tumbled over into a more extraordinary attitude than before,
while Stephen said--

"John was wont to twit us with being akin to Gipsy Hal."

"I mean a man sad and grave as the monks of Beaulieu," said the jester.

"He!" they both cried. "No, indeed! He was foremost in all sports."

"Ah!" cried Stephen, "mind you not, Ambrose, his teaching us leap-frog,
and aye leaping over one of us himself, with the other in his arms."

"Ah! sadly changed, sadly changed," said the jester, standing upright,
with a most mournful countenance. "Maybe you'd not thank me if I showed
him to you, young sirs, that is, if he be the man."

"Nay! is he in need, or distress?" cried the brothers.

"Poor Hal!" returned the fool, shaking his head with mournfulness in his
voice.

"Oh, take us to him, good--good jester," cried Ambrose. "We are young
and strong. We will work for him."

"What, a couple of lads like you, that have come to London seeking for
him to befriend you--deserving well cap for that matter. Will ye be
guided to him, my broken and soured--no more gamesome, but a sickly old
runagate?"

"Of course," cried Ambrose. "He is our mother's brother. We must care
for him."

"Master Headley will give us work, mayhap," said Stephen, turning to
Tibble. "I could clean the furnaces."

"Ah, ha! I see fools' caps must hang thick as beech masts in the
Forest," cried the fool, but his voice was husky, and he turned suddenly
round with his back to them, then cut three or four extraordinary
capers, after which he observed--

"Well, young gentlemen, I will see the man I mean, and if he be the
same, and be willing to own you for his nephews, he will meet you in the
Temple Gardens at six of the clock this evening, close to the rose-bush
with the flowers in my livery--motley red and white."

"But how shall we know him?"

"D'ye think a pair of green caterpillars like you can't be marked--
unless indeed the gardener crushes you for blighting his roses."
Wherewith the jester quitted the scene, walking on his hands, with his
legs in the air.

"Is he to be trusted?" asked Tibble of the comptroller.

"Assuredly," was the answer; "none hath better wit than Quipsome Hal,
when he chooseth to be in earnest. In very deed, as I have heard Sir
Thomas More say, it ne