He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the house and saved himself; but as he started on again he saw the town-watch, wakened by the uproar, standing with their long staves at the end of the street, barring the way.

The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-fires glowing and the hammer ringing on the anvil.  Nick darted in, past the horses, hostlers, and blacksmith’s boys, and caught at the leather apron of the sturdy smith himself.

“Hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the red-hot shoe on which he was at work, and staring like a startled ox at the panting little fugitive.

“Do na leave them take me!” panted Nick.  “They ha’ stolen me away from Stratford town and will na leave me go!”

At that Will Hostler bolted in, red-faced and scant of wind, “Thou young rascal,” quoth he, “I have thee now!  Come out o’ that!” and he tried to take Nick by the collar.

“So-oftly, so-oftly!” rumbled the smith, tweaking up the glowing shoe in his great pincers, and sweeping a sputtering half-circle in front of the cowering lad.  “Droive slow through the cro-owd!  What hath youngster here did no-ow?”

“He hath stolen a fortune from his master at the Three Lions—­and the shilling for him’s mine!”

“Hath stealed a fortune?  Whoy, huttlety-tut!” roared the burly smith, turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at tag around a tree.  “Whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?”

All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless with the chase.  Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after them, frowning.

“What?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him out?  Hast caught him there, fellow?”

“Ay, master, that I have!” shouted Will Hostler.  “Shilling’s mine, sir.”

“Then fetch him out of this hole!” cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at the low, smoky door.

“But he will na be fetched,” stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood and himself.

At that the crowd set up a shout.

Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way.  “What, here!  Nicholas Attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.”

“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick.  “He is not my master; I am not bound out apprentice—­they are stealing me away from my own home, and it will break my mother’s heart.”

“Nobody breaks nobody’s hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses sho-op,” drawled the smith, in his deep voice; “nor steals nobody, nother.  We be honest-dealing folk in Albans town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be forged in all England”—­and he went placidly on mowing the air with the glimmering shoe.