Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey Thompson’s new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a tenant-farmer’s son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.
“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly.
“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?”
Poor company might be better than none.
“Come on.”
Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after.
“No school to-day?” he asked.
“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not care to talk about it.
“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed to town, an’ plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford saith that I ha’ learned as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’tis enow for I. Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know more than they’s own dads.”
Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither read nor write, while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the Latin he made a wry face.