“Nicholas Attwood?  Why, it is a good name.  Nick Attwood,—­young Nick,—­I hope Old Nick will never catch thee—­upon my word I do, and on the remnant of mine honour!  Thou hast taken a player’s part like a man, and thou art a good fellow, Nicholas Attwood, and I love thee.  So thou art going to Coventry to see the players act?  Surely thine is a nimble wit to follow fancy nineteen miles.  Come; I am going to Coventry to join my fellows.  Wilt thou go with me, Nick, and dine with us this night at the best inn in all Coventry—­the Blue Boar?  Thou hast quite plucked up my downcast heart for me, lad, indeed thou hast; for I was sore of Stratford town—­and I shall not soon forget thy plucky fending for our own sweet Will.  Come, say thou wilt go with me.”

“Indeed, sir,” said Nick, bowing again, his head all in a whirl of excitement at this wonderful adventure, “indeed I will, and that right gladly, sir.”  And with heart beating like a trip-hammer he walked along, cap in hand, not knowing that his head was bare.

The master-player laughed a simple, hearty laugh.  “Why, Nick,” said he, laying his hand caressingly upon the boy’s shoulder, “I am no such great to-do as all that—­upon my word, I’m not!  A man of some few parts, perhaps, not common in the world; but quite a plain fellow, after all.  Come, put off this high humility and be just friendly withal.  Put on thy cap; we are but two good faring-fellows here.”

So Nick put on his cap, and they went on together, Nick in the seventh heaven of delight.

About a mile beyond Stratford, Welcombe wood creeps down along the left.  Just beyond, the Dingles wind irregularly up from the foot-path below to the crest of Welcombe hill, through straggling clumps and briery hollows, sweet with nodding bluebells, ash, and hawthorn.

Nick and the master-player paused a moment at the top to catch their breath and to look back.

Stratford and the valley of the Avon lay spread before them like a picture of peace, studded with blossoming orchards and girdled with spring.  Northward the forest of Arden clad the rolling hills.  Southward the fields of Feldon stretched away to the blue knolls beyond which lay Oxford and Northamptonshire.  The ragged stretches of Snitterfield downs scrambled away to the left; and on the right, beyond Bearley, were the wooded uplands where Guy of Warwick and Heraud of Arden slew the wild ox and the boar.  And down through the midst ran the Avon southward, like a silver ribbon slipped through Kendal green, to where the Stour comes down, past Luddington, to Bidford, and away to the misty hills.

“Why,” exclaimed the master-player—­“why, upon my word, it is a fair town—­as fair a town as the heart of man could wish.  Wish?  I wish ’t were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools!  Why,” said he, turning wrathfully upon Nick, “that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, and a common player of interludes!