Nick’s heart stopped with a thump.  “Where is he—­do ye know?”

“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely.

“Away?  Whither!”

“A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—­went a-yesterday.”

Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle.  He did not put his cap on again:  he had quite forgotten it.

Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—­and only the day before!

Too late—­just one little day too late!  It seemed like cruel mockery.  Why, he might be almost home!  The thought was more than he could bear:  who could be brave in the face of such a blow?  The bitter tears ran down his face again.

“Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard.  Ztop un, ztop un; do now.”

Nick sat staring at the ground.  A beetle was trying to crawl over a shaving.  It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in the dust; but it only got up and tried again.  Nick looked up.

“Is—­is Master Richard Burbage here, then?”

Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.

“Noa,” drawled the carpenter; “Muster Bubbage beant here; doan’t want un, nuther—­nuvver do moind a’s owen business—­always jawin’ volks.  A beant here, an’ doan’t want un, nuther.”

Nick’s heart went down.  “And where is he?”

“Who?  Muster Bubbage?  Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin’ at t’ theater.”

“And where may Shoreditch be?”

“Whur be Zhoreditch?” gaped the workman, vacantly.  “Whoy—­whoy, zummers over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that pointed to nowhere at all.

“When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately.

“Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; “back whur?—­here?  Whoy, a wun’t pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.”

Martinmas?  That was almost mid-November.  It was now but middle May.

Nick got up and went out at the wicket-gate.  He was beginning to feel sick and a little faint.  The rush in the street made him dizzy, and the sullen roar that came down on the wind from the town, mingled with the tramping of feet, the splash of oars, the bumping of boats along the wharves, and the shouts and cries of a thousand voices, stupefied him.

He was standing there motionless in the narrow way, as if dazed by a heavy fall, when Gaston Carew came running up from the river-front, with the bandy-legged man at his heels.

CHAPTER XXI

“THE CHILDREN OF PAUL’S”

An old gray rat came out of its hole, ran swiftly across the floor, and, sitting up, crouched there, peering at Nick.  He thought its bare, scaly tail was not a pleasant thing to see; yet he looked at it, with his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hands.