“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been ‘Muster Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?”
“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding his horse.”
“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.”
“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’ money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in Chapel lane, and come back here to live.”
“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say a ’s a witless loon—so there!”
Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”
“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick Attwood bending over him.
“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will surely box thine ears for thee.”
Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I take it back.”
Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’ thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.”