“Well said, my good lad!” cried Hal. “What sayest thou, Stevie?”
“I had liefer be a man-at-arms.”
“That thou couldst only be after being sorely knocked about as horseboy and as groom. I tried that once, but found it meant kicks, and oaths, and vile company—such as I would not have for thy mother’s son, Steve. Headley is a well-reported, God-fearing man, and will do well by thee. And thou wilt learn the use of arms as well as handle them.”
“I like Master Headley and Kit Smallbones well enough,” said Stephen, rather gloomily, “and if a gentleman must be a prentice, weapons are not so bad a craft for him.”
“Whittington was a gentleman,” said Ambrose.
“I am sick of Whittington,” muttered Stephen.
“Nor is he the only one,” said Randall; “there’s Middleton and Pole—ay, and many another who have risen from the flat cap to the open helm, if not to the coronet. Nay, these London companies have rules against taking any prentice not of gentle blood. Come in to supper with my good woman, and then I’ll go with thee and hold converse with good Master Headley, and if Master John doth not send the fee freely, why then I know of them who shall make him disgorge it. But mark,” he added, as he led the way out of the gardens, “not a breath of Quipsome Hal. Down here they know me as a clerk of my lord’s chamber, sad and sober, and high in his trust, and therein they are not far out.”
In truth, though Harry Randall had been a wild and frolicsome youth in his Hampshire home, the effect of being a professional buffoon had actually made it a relaxation of effort to him to be grave, quiet, and slow in movement; and this was perhaps a more effectual disguise than the dark garments, and the false brown hair, beard, and moustache, with which he concealed the shorn and shaven condition required of the domestic jester. Having been a player, he was well able to adapt himself to his part, and yet Ambrose had considerable doubts whether Tibble had not suspected his identity from the first, more especially as both the lads had inherited the same dark eyes from their mother, and Ambrose for the first time perceived a considerable resemblance between him and Stephen, not only in feature but in unconscious gesture.
Ambrose was considering whether he had better give his uncle a hint, lest concealment should excite suspicion; when, niched as it were against an abutment of the wall of the Temple courts, close to some steps going down to the Thames, they came upon a tiny house, at whose open door stood a young woman in the snowiest of caps and aprons over a short black gown, beneath which were a trim pair of blue hosen and stout shoes; a suspicion of yellow hair was allowed to appear framing the honest, fresh, Flemish face, which beamed a good-humoured welcome.
“Here they be! here be the poor lads, Pernel mine.” She held out her hand, and offered a round comfortable cheek to each, saying, “Welcome to London, young gentlemen.”