“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.”

“What?” cried Nick, in amazement.  “No stage-play?  And why not?”

“Why,” said Robin, “it was just this way—­my father told me of it.  Sir Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y’ know, rode in from Charlcote yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote.  So the burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn.  Sir Thomas fetched a fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon.  And when they were all met together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry—­what?  Why, in came my Lord Admiral’s players from London town, ruffling it like high dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas’s server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both meat and drink.”

“What?” cried Nick.

“As sure as shooting, they did!” said Robin; “and when Sir Thomas’s gentry yeomen would have seen to it—­what?  Why, my Lord Admiral’s master-player clapped his hand to his poniard-hilt, and dared them come and take it if they could.”

“To Sir Thomas Lucy’s men?” exclaimed Nick, aghast.

“Ay, to their teeth!  Sir Edward sprang up then, and said it was a shame for players to behave so outrageously in Will Shakspere’s own home town.  And at that Sir Thomas, who, y’ know, has always misliked Will, flared up like a bull at a red rag, and swore that all stage-players be runagate rogues, anyway, and Will Shakspere neither more nor less than a deer-stealing scape-gallows.”

“Surely he did na say that in Stratford Council?” protested Nick.

“Ay, but he did—­that very thing,” said Robin; “and when that was out, the master-player sprang upon the table, overturning half the ale, and cried out that Will Shakspere was his very own true friend, and the sweetest fellow in all England, and that whosoever gainsaid it was a hemp-cracking rascal, and that he would prove it upon his back with a quarter-staff whenever and wherever he chose, be he Sir Thomas Lucy, St. George and the Dragon, Guy of Warwick, and the great dun cow, all rolled up in one!”

“Robin Getley, is this the very truth, or art thou cozening me?”

“Upon my word, it is the truth,” said Robin.  “And that’s not all.  Sir Edward cried out ‘Fie!’ upon the player for a saucy varlet; but the fellow only laughed, and bowed quite low, and said that he took no offense from Sir Edward for saying that, since it could not honestly be denied, but that Sir Thomas did not know the truth from a truckle-bed in broad daylight, and was but the remnant of a gentleman to boot.”