“Hath stealed a fortune? Whoy, huttlety-tut!” roared the burly smith, turning ponderously upon Nick, who was dodging around him like a boy at tag around a tree. “Whoy, lad,” said he, scratching his puzzled head with his great, grimy fingers, “where hast putten it?”
All the rout and the riot now came plunging into the smithy, breathless with the chase. Master Carew himself, his ale-can still clutched in his hand, and bearing himself with a high air of dignity, followed after them, frowning.
“What?” said he, angrily, “have ye earthed the cub and cannot dig him out? Hast caught him there, fellow?”
“Ay, master, that I have!” shouted Will Hostler. “Shilling’s mine, sir.”
“Then fetch him out of this hole!” cried Carew, sniffing disdainfully at the low, smoky door.
“But he will na be fetched,” stammered the doughty Will, keeping a most respectful distance from the long black pincers and the sputtering shoe with which the farrier stolidly mowed the air round about Nick Attwood and himself.
At that the crowd set up a shout.
Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loafers giving way. “What, here! Nicholas Attwood,” said he, harshly, “come hither.”
“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick. “He is not my master; I am not bound out apprentice—they are stealing me away from my own home, and it will break my mother’s heart.”