“If you knew where they had disposed the beast,” he said, “and breaking of heads could do it, I’m your man. But as for finding where ’tis hid, my wife would tell you I was the veriest numskull!” The next moment he brightened. “I have it! There’s my cousin before us, carrying that fardel of hay. He’s the wisest head for miles round, and I’ll warrant he’ll clap some sense on the matter. Hi, Mat! Ancient Mat!”
Thus adjured, a small, dried-up, pippin-faced man paused on his way, and waited till his cousin overtook him and explained what was amiss. He listened testily, showing profound contempt for honest Dick’s straightforward, though somewhat heavy-handed, suggestions, but more deference towards Stephen Bassett.
“More likely that the knaves have sold than harmed the creature,” he pronounced at the end of the story.
“Find out where it is, and I’ll do what cracking of crowns is needed,” said Dick.
“Mend thine own, which is cracked past recovery,” growled the other. “Hearken, master,”—to Bassett—“who is likely to buy such a beast?”
“Some noble household.”
“Rather some puppet-show or party of mountebanks; those who have dancing dogs or a bear.”
“Right!” cried Stephen, joyfully. “What a fool was I not to think of it!”
“I said he had the best head in the shire,” said Dick, with triumph.
“And,” continued Matthew, unheeding, “thou wottest that the licence to all foreigners expires to-day, and that they must leave the fair? See there, those Flemish traders are putting their wares together, and the abbot has made a good bargain for his silken hangings. My counsel is to go to the watch, and, when the bear and his masters are on the march, search for the monkey. If I mistake not they will not be able to hide him.”