“Then with Agrippa in thy arms thou might’st have passed for the jester.”
“Gramercy for thy fancy,” said Hugh offended.
“That would become thee better.”
“Ay, it would be rare,” answered Wat with a sigh. “I am such an oaf at this stone-cutting that sometimes I could wish myself at the bottom of the sea.”
“What made thee take to the craft?”
“To pleasure my old mother. She is a cousin of Franklyn’s, and thought I was a made man when she had stinted herself sufficiently to pay the premium. But I shall never be more than a mason,” added Wat dolefully. “Now thou hast it in thee.”
“I know not. Franklyn has never a good word for aught I do.”
“Never heed old Franklyn. He is as sour as a crab, because he wanted the master to take his little jackanapes of a nephew as prentice. He would like to keep thee back, but do thou hold on and all will come right. Why, even I can see what thy work is like, and so does he, and so does the master, only the master will do nothing to touch Franklyn’s authority, and so he holds his peace.”
“But you think he knows?” asked Hugh eagerly.
“Think? How should he not know? He can measure us all better than Franklyn, and he knows, too, that I am more fitted for a life in the greenwood than to be chopping away with mallet and chisel.”