The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. “Noa; Muster Wull Zhacksper beant in.”
Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do ye know?”
“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely.
“Away? Whither!”
“A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—went a-yesterday.”
Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on again: he had quite forgotten it.
Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the day before!
Too late—just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran down his face again.
“Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now.”
Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up.