“Is—is Master Richard Burbage here, then?”
Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.
“Noa,” drawled the carpenter; “Muster Bubbage beant here; doan’t want un, nuther—nuvver do moind a’s owen business—always jawin’ volks. A beant here, an’ doan’t want un, nuther.”
Nick’s heart went down. “And where is he?”
“Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin’ at t’ theater.”
“And where may Shoreditch be?”
“Whur be Zhoreditch?” gaped the workman, vacantly. “Whoy—whoy, zummers over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that pointed to nowhere at all.
“When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately.
“Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; “back whur?—here? Whoy, a wun’t pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.”
Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.