“Then hold thy tongue with both hands,” said Robin, sharply, “or it will crack thy pate for thee some of these fine days.”
“But come, Robin,” asked Nick, eagerly, “what became of the quarrel?”
“Well, when the master-player threw his glove into Master Stubbes’s face, the Chief Constable seized him for contempt of Stratford Council, and held him for trial. At that some cried ‘Shame!’ and some ‘Hurrah!’ but the rest of the players fled out of town in the night, lest their baggage be taken by the law and they be fined.”
“Whither did they go?” asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they were gone.
“To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol.”
“Why, they dare na use him so—the Lord Admiral’s own man!”
“Ay, that they don’t! Why, hark ’e, Nick! This morning, since Sir Thomas has gone home, and the burgesses’ heads have all cooled down from the sack and the clary they were in last night, la! but they are in a pretty stew, my father says, for fear that they have given offense to the Lord Admiral. So they have spoken the master-player softly, and given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about his cap, to mend the matter with, beside.”
“Whee-ew!” whistled Nick. “I wish I were a master-player!”
“Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to the Indies after it. And he has had his breakfast served in Master Geoffrey Inchbold’s own room at the Swan, and swears that he will walk the whole way to Coventry sooner than straddle the horse that the burgesses have sent him to ride.”
“What! Is he at the inn? Why, let’s go down and see him.”