“Done!” said the waterman.  “Pop her up!”

Up went the groat.

Nick held his breath.

“Pile it is,” said the gardener.  “One for thee—­and up she goes again!” The groat twirled in the air and came down clink upon the thwart.

“Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!”

“Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is!  Ka me, ka thee, my pretty groat—­I never lose with this groat.”

“Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.

“More haste, worse speed,” said the gardener; “only evil weeds grow fast!” and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin.  “Now, jack-sculler, hold thy breath; for up she goes again!”

A man came running over the rise.  Nick gave a little frightened cry.  It was only a huckster’s knave with a roll of fresh butter.  The groat came down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry.  The boatman picked it up out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve.  “Here, boy, get aboard,” said he, shoving off; “and be lively about it!”

The huckster’s knave came running down the landing.  He pushed Nick aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath.  The boat fell off into the current.  Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees.  But he did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere.  So he breathed a little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs.

Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank either gardener or boatman.

The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone’s throw from the river.  With heart beating high, he ran along the close, looking eagerly for the entrance.  He came to a wicket-gate that was standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters.

Everything there was still.  He was glad of that, for the noise and the rush of the crowd outside confused him.

The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and broken brick.  A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read:  “Playeres Here:  None Elles.”

Nick doffed his cap.  “Good-day,” said he; “is Master Will Shakspere in?”

The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring stupidly.  “Didst za-ay zummat?”

“I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?”

The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving.  “Noa; Muster Wull Zhacksper beant in.”