"Nay, master, could na been," said Job, stolidly; "Nick be-eth in school
by now--the clock ha' struck. 'Twas Dawson's Hodge and some like
ne'er-do-well."

CHAPTER V

IN THE WARWICK ROAD

The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the
Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden;
cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in
the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in
Fulbroke park.

Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs
across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a
lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge,
and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet
running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream
beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him.

Nick's ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from
lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom.
The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more
unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the
prick of conscience.

"Why art going to Coventry, Nick?" inquired Roger suddenly, startled by
a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room.

"To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford."

"Wull I see, too?"

"If thou hast eyes--the Mayor's show is free."

"Oh, feckins, wun't it be fine?" gaped Hodge. "Be it a tailors' show,
Nick, wi' Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An' wull they
set the world afire wi' a torch, an' make the earth quake fearful wi' a
barrel full o' stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the
Black Man over the pate wi' a bladder full o' peasen--an' angels wi'
silver wingses, an' saints wi' goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine
yards high, clad in the beards o' murdered kings, like granny saith she
used to see?"

"Pshaw! no," said Nick; "none of those old-fashioned things. These be
players from London town, and I hope they'll play a right good English
history-play, like 'The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,' to turn a
fellow's legs all goose-flesh!"

Hodge stopped short in the road. "La!" said he, "I'll go no furder if
they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood--an' a
plague on all witches, says I!"

"Oh, pshaw!" laughed Nick; "co