“Why, marry come up!  My faith!” quoth he, and suddenly blushed—­to his own surprise the most of all—­“why, what?  Who’d want a sweeter penny for his pains?” But “Here—­nay, nay!” the others cried; “ye’ve left us out.  Fair play, fair play!”

All Cicely could see was a forest of legs that filled the lane from wall to wall, and six great fellows towering over her.  “Why, sirs,” cried she, confusedly, while her face grew rosy red, “ye all shall kiss my hand—­if—­if—­”

“If what?” they roared.

“If ye will but wipe your faces clean.”

At the shout of laughter they sent up the constable of the cloth-men’s ward awoke from a sudden dream of war and bloody insurrection, and came down Cheapside bawling, “Peace, in the name of the Queen!” But when he found it was only the apprentices of Mincing Lane out Maying, he stole away around a shop, and made as if it were some other fellow.

They took the humor of it like a jolly lot of bears, and all came crowding round about, wiping their mouths on what came first, with a lick and a promise,—­kerchief, doublet, as it chanced,—­laughing, and shouldering each to be first.  “Up with the little maid there, Tom!” they roared lustily.

Cicely gave him both her hands, and—­“Upsydaisy!”—­she was on the top of the corner post, where she stood with one hand on his brawny shoulder to steady herself, like a flower growing by a wall, bowing gravely all about, and holding out her hand to be kissed with as graceful an air as a princess born, and withal a sweet, quaint dignity that abashed the wildest there.

Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were not enough; but Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye loons, her hand!” that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were out of his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish grin; for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have cracked a hazelnut.

Some came again a second time.  One came even a third.  But Cicely knew him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her hand behind her, saying, “Fie, sir, thou art greedy!” Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in the ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits!  We’ll all be late to the archery if we be not trotting on.”

Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “Finsbury, Finsbury, ho!” “I dare na try to take her home alone,” said he; “that rogue may lie in wait for us.”

“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and with that she threw her arms around Tom Webster’s neck.  “Oh, take us with thee, sir—­don’t leave us all alone!”

Webster pulled his yellow beard.  “Nay, lass, it would not do,” said he; “we’ll be mad larks by evening.  But there, sweetheart, don’t weep no more!  That rogue shall not catch thee again, I promise that.”

“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what’s the coil?  We’ll leave them at the Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence each until their friends can come for them.  Hey, mates, up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the Boar’s Head Inn.