“Why, to be sure,” said Carew, and tossed a silver penny for a scramble to the crowd; “thou shalt have the finest supper in the town.”
Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and being bowed to most politely in return, they came to the Three Tuns.
Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for everywhere, and followed by wondering exclamations of envy, it was little wonder that Nick, a simple country lad, at last began to think that there was not in all the world another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was no bad fellow himself.
The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing obsequiously about, with his freshest towel on his arm, and took the master-player’s order as a dog would take a bone.
“Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some repast, I care not what, so it be wholesome food—a green Banbury cheese, some simnel bread and oat-cakes; a pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey and a pasty—a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and toothsome eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down—none of thy penny ale, mind ye, too weak to run out of the spigot, but snapping good brew—dost take me?—with beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon broiled to a turn!”
The innkeeper gaped like a fish.
“How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy score?” quoth Carew, sharply.
“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—where will ye put it all without bursting into bits?”
“Be off with thee!” cried Carew, sharply. “That is my affair. Nay, Nick,” said he, laughing at the boy’s, astonished look; “we shall not burst. What we do not have to-night we’ll have in the morning. ’Tis the way with these inns,—to feed the early birds with scraps,—so the more we leave from supper the more we’ll have for breakfast. And thou wilt need a good breakfast to ride on all day long.”
“Ride?” exclaimed Nick. “Why, sir, I was minded to walk back to Stratford, and keep my gold rose-noble whole.”