turned printer. He looked about to
see if he might chance upon Diccon Field; but Carew came so quickly
through the crowd that Nick had not time to recognize Diccon if he had
been there. Diccon had often made Nick whistles from the pollard willows
along the Avon below the tannery when Nick was a toddler in smocks, and
the lad thought he would like to see him before going back to Stratford.
Then, too, his mother had always liked Diccon Field, and would be glad
to hear from him. At thought of his mother he gave a happy little skip;
and as they turned into Paternoster Bow, "Master Carew," said he, "how
soon shall I go home?"

Carew walked a little faster.

There had arisen a sound of shouting and a trampling of feet. The
constables had taken a purse-cutting thief, and were coming up to the
Newgate prison with a great rabble behind them. The fellow's head was
broken, and his haggard face was all screwed up with pain; but that
did not stop the boys from hooting at him, and asking in mockery how he
thought he would like to be hanged and to dance on nothing at
Tyburn Hill.

[Illustration: "DICCON HAD OFTEN MADE NICK WHISTLES FROM THE WILLOWS
ALONG THE AVON WHEN NICK WAS A TODDLER."]

"Did ye hear me, Master Carew?" asked Nick.

The master-player stepped aside a moment into a doorway to let the mob
go by, and then strode on.

Nick tried again: "I pray thee, sir--"

"Do not pray me," said Carew, sharply; "I am no Indian idol."

"But, good Master Carew--"

"Nor call me good--I am not good."

"But, Master Carew," faltered Nick, with a sinking sensation around his
heart, "when will ye leave me go home?"

The master-player did not reply, but strode on rapidly, gnawing his
mustache.

CHAPTER XVIII

MASTER HEYWOOD PROTESTS

It was a cold, raw day. All morning long the sun had shone through the
choking fog as the candle-flame through the dingy yellow horn of an old
stable-lantern. But at noon a wind sprang up that drove the mist through
London streets in streaks and strings mixed with smoke and the reek of
steaming roofs. Now and then the blue gleamed through in ragged patches
overhead; so that all the town turned out on pleasure bent, not minding
if it rained stewed turnips, so they saw the sky.

But the fog still sifted through the streets, and all was damp and
sticky to the touch, so Cicely was left behind to loneliness and
disappointment.

Nick and the master-player came down Ludgate Hill to Blackfriars