ook and push off with the oar.

But the gardener, touched by the boy's pitiful expression, to say
nothing of being tickled by Nick's calling him gentleman, spoke up:
"Here, jack-sculler," said he; "I'll toss up wi' thee for it." He pulled
a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. "Come, thou
lookest a gamesome fellow--cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in
three flips--what sayst?"

"Done!" said the waterman. "Pop her up!"

Up went the groat.

Nick held his breath.

"Pile it is," said the gardener. "One for thee--and up she goes again!"
The groat twirled in the air and came down _clink_ upon the thwart.

"Aha!" cried the boatman, "'tis mine, or I'm a horse!"

"Nay, jack-sculler," laughed the gardener; "cross it is! Ka me, ka thee,
my pretty groat--I never lose with this groat."

"Oh, sir, do be brisk!" begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the
master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank.

"More haste, worse speed," said the gardener; "only evil weeds grow
fast!" and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. "Now, jack-sculler, hold
thy breath; for up she goes again!"

A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It
was only a huckster's knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came
down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up
out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. "Here, boy, get aboard,"
said he, shoving off; "and be lively about it!"

The huckster's knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick
aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell
off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just
managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he
did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris
Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not
see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a
little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the
wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs.

Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon
the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank
either gardener or boatman.

The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone's
throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close,
looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was
standing