Carew had done of old; a London apprentice was
harder nuts than his cowardly heart could crack.

"Stand back, ye rogues!" he cried again.

"Rogues? Rogues? Who calls us rogues? Hi, Martin Allston, crack me his
crown!"

"Good masters," faltered Gregory, seeing that bluster would not serve,
"I meant ye no offense. I pr'ythee, do not keep a father and his
children from their dying mother's bed!"

"Nay--is that so?" asked Webster, sobering instantly "Here, lads, give
way--their mother be a-dying."

The crowd fell back. "Ah, sirs," whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in
his face, "she'll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!"
he muttered fiercely in Nick's ear.

But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. "The fellow
lieth in his throat," said he. "My mother is in Stratford town; and
Cicely's mother is dead."

"Thou whelp!" cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at
Nick, "I'll teach thee to hold thy tongue."

"Oh, no, ye won't," quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak
staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the
wall; "there is no school on holidays! Thou'lt teach nobody here to hold
his tongue but thine own self--and start at that straightway. Dost take
me?--say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what's all the coil about? Hath this sweet
fellow kidnapped thee?"

"Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he
treats her very ill!"

"The little rascal lies," sneered Goole, though his lips were the color
of lead; "I am her legal guardian!"

"What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!"

"Nay, nay," Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; "her father's nearest
friend, I said,--he gave her in my charge."

"My father's friend!" cried Cicely. "Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why,
he would not give my finger in thy charge."

"He is the wiser daddy, then!" laughed Jemmy Armstrong, "for the fellow
hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face."

The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but
still he put a bold front on. "Stand off," said he, and tried to thrust
Tom Webster back. "Thou'lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a
lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods."

"Why, fie for shame!" cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. "Nick
doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast
stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father's house!"

"Good, sweetheart!