The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player’s order as a dog would take a bone.

“Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some repast, I care not what, so it be wholesome food—­a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey and a pasty—­a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—­none of thy penny ale, mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew—­dost take me?—­with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon broiled to a turn!”

The innkeeper gaped like a fish.

“How now, sirrah?  Dost think I cannot pay thy score?” quoth Carew, sharply.

“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—­where will ye put it all without bursting into bits?”

“Be off with thee!” cried Carew, sharply.  “That is my affair.  Nay, Nick,” said he, laughing at the boy’s, astonished look; “we shall not burst.  What we do not have to-night we’ll have in the morning.  ’Tis the way with these inns,—­to feed the early birds with scraps,—­so the more we leave from supper the more we’ll have for breakfast.  And thou wilt need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.”

“Ride?” exclaimed Nick.  “Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.”

“Walk?” cried the master-player, scornfully.  “Thou, with thy golden throat?  Nay, Nicholas, thou shalt ride to-morrow like a very king, if I have to pay for the horse myself, twelvepence the day!” and with that he began chuckling as if it were a joke.

But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had been nothing yet to drink.  And a queer sense of uneasiness came creeping over him as he watched the master-player’s eyes opening and shutting, opening and shutting, so that one moment he seemed to be staring and the next almost asleep; though all the while his keen, dark eyes peered out from between the lids like old dog-foxes from their holes, looking Nick over from head to foot, and from foot to head again, as if measuring him with an ellwand.

When the supper came, filling the whole table and the sideboard too, Nick arose to serve the meat as he was used at home; but, “Nay, Nicholas Skylark, my honey-throat,” cried Carew, “sit thee down!  Thou wait on me—­thou songster of the silver tongue?  Nay, nay, sweetheart; the knave shall wait on thee, or I’ll wait on thee myself—­I will, upon my word!  Why, Nick, I tell thee I love thee, and dost think I’d let thee wait or walk? nay, nay, thou’lt ride to-morrow like a king, and have all Stratford wait for thee!” At this he chuckled so that he almost choked upon a mouthful of bread and meat.