"Oh,—so so. The trick served. Faith, I e'en began to think myself I was Master Holyday. But what's the matter?"
It was evident the captain did not wish to talk of his own affair. The scholar was not the man to poke his nose into other people's matters. But neither was he one to make any secret of his own concerns when questioned.
"Oh, 'tis not much. I have been commissioned to write a play."
"What?" cried the captain, eagerly. "For which playhouse?—the Globe?—the Blackfriars?—the Fortune?"
"Nay," said the scholar, sedately; "for Wat Stiles's puppet-show."
"Oh!—well, is not that good news? Is there not money in it? Why should it make you down i' the mouth?"
"Oh, 'tis not the writing of the play—but I have no money to buy paper and ink, and no place to write in."
"What, did the rascal showman give you no earnest money?"
"Yes; but I forgot, and spent it for supper. I knew you would make shift to sup at the goldsmith's."
"Ay, marry, 'twould have gone hard else. Well, I am glad thou hast eaten. It saves our shifting for thy supper. Troth, we shall come by ink and paper. The thing is now to find beds for the night. Would I had appointed to meet my gentleman this evening." But suddenly, at this, the captain's face lengthened.