The shop, as has been said, extended back to where a passage separated it from domestic regions of the house; but it was, itself, in two parts,—a front part, open to the street, and a more private part, where the master usually stayed, with his most valuable wares.
In entering the outer shop, Holyday had to pass the end of a case, at which a flat-capped, snub-nosed, solid-bodied apprentice was arranging gold cups, chains, and trinkets.
"What is't you lack?" demanded this youth, squaring up to the scholar.
"God knows," thought Holyday. "My wits, I think." And then he found voice to say that he desired speech of Master Etheridge.
The shopman pointed to the open door leading to the farther apartment, and thither Holyday went. The place was mainly lighted by a side window; the poet could not fail to distinguish the master, by his rich cloth doublet and air of authority, from the journeymen who sat working upon shining pieces of plate.
"What is it you lack, sir?" inquired Master Etheridge.
"Sir," replied Holyday, in a small, trembling voice, "I must pray you, bear with me if I speak wildly. I am sick from a sleeping-drug that a villain abused me with three days ago,—one Captain Ravenshaw—"
At this name the goldsmith, who had received elaborate accounts from Sir Peregrine of last night's incident in the garden, suddenly warmed out of his air of coldness and distrust, and began to show a sympathetic curiosity which made it easier for Holyday to proceed with his tale. When the scholar announced who he was, the goldsmith lapsed for a moment into a hard incredulity; but this passed away as Holyday, not daring to stop now that he had so good an impetus, deftly alluded to his father,—"whom, they say, I scarce resemble, being all my mother in face," quoth he parenthetically,—and hoped that Master Etheridge had forgiven him his water-spaniel's bite the last time the two had met.