“The bold-faced rogue!”

“Ay, that he is,” nodded Robin; “and for his boldness Sir Thomas straightway demanded that the High Bailiff refuse the company license to play in Stratford.”

“Refuse the Lord High Admiral’s players?”

“Marry, no one else.  And then Master John Shakspere, wroth at what Sir Thomas had said of his son Will, vowed that he would send a letter down to London town, and lay the whole coil before the Lord High Admiral himself.  For ever since that he was High Bailiff, the best companies of England had always been bidden to play in Stratford, and it would be an ill thing now to refuse the Lord Admiral’s company after granting licenses to both my Lord Pembroke’s and the High Chamberlain’s.”

“And so it would,” spoke up Walter Roche; “for there are our own townsmen, Richard and Cuthbert Burbage, who are cousins of mine, and John Hemynge and Thomas Greene, besides Will Shakspere and his brother Edmund, all playing in the Lord Chamberlain’s company in London before the Queen.  It would be a black score against them all with the Lord Admiral—­I doubt not he would pay them out.”

“That he would,” said Robin, “and so said my father and Alderman Henry Walker, who, y’ know, is Will Shakspere’s own friend.  And some of the burgesses who cared not a rap for that were afeard of offending the Lord Admiral.  But Sir Thomas vowed that my Lord Howard was at Cadiz with Walter Raleigh and the young Earl of Sussex, and would by no means hear of it.  So Master Bailiff Stubbes, who, ’tis said, doth owe Sir Thomas forty pound, and is therefore under his thumb, forthwith refused the company license to play in Stratford guildhall, inn-yard, or common.  And at that the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, and called Sir Thomas a stupid old bell-wether, and Stratford burgesses silly sheep for following wherever he chose to jump.”

“And so they be,” sneered Hal Saddler.

“How?” cried Robin, hotly.  “My father is a burgess.  Dost thou call him a sheep, Hal Saddler?”

“Nay, nay,” stammered Hal, hastily; “’twas not thy father I meant.”

“Then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said Robin, sharply, “or it will crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.”

“But come, Robin,” asked Nick, eagerly, “what became of the quarrel?”

“Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, and held him for trial.  At that some cried ‘Shame!’ and some ‘Hurrah!’ but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.”

“Whither did they go?” asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they were gone.

“To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.”

“Why, they dare na use him so—­the Lord Admiral’s own man!”