. He had a little pointed beard, and the ends
of his mustache were twisted so that they stood up fiercely on either
side of his sharp nose. At his side was a long Italian poniard in a
sheath of russet leather and silver filigree, and he had a reckless,
high and mighty fling about his stride that strangely took the eye.

Nick stood, all taken by surprise, and stared.

The stranger seemed to like it, but scowled nevertheless. "What! How
now?" he cried sharply. "Dost like or like me not?"

"Why, sir," stammered Nick, utterly lost for anything to say--"why,
sir,--" and knowing nothing else to do, he took off his cap and bowed.

"Come, come," snapped the stranger, stamping his foot, "I am a swashing,
ruffling, desperate Dick, and not to be made a common jest for Stratford
dolts to giggle at What! These legs, that have put on the very gentleman
in proud Verona's streets, laid in Stratford's common stocks, like a
silly apprentice's slouching heels? Nay, nay; some one should taste old
Bless-his-heart here first!" and with that he clapped his hand upon the
hilt of his poniard, with a wonderful swaggering tilt of his shoulders.
"Dost take me, boy?"

"Why, sir," hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger's wild words
and imperious way, "ye surely are the master-player."

"There!" cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in
the hedge. "Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch!
Say, boy," he laughed, and turned to Nick, "thou art no fool. Why, boy,
I say I love thee now for this, since what hath passed in Stratford. A
murrain on the town! Dost hear me, boy?--a black murrain on the town!"
And all at once he made such a fierce stride toward Nick, gritting his
white teeth, and clapping his hand upon his poniard, that Nick drew back
afraid of him.

[Illustration: "'WHAT! HOW NOW?' CRIED THE STRANGER, SHARPLY. 'DOST LIKE
OR LIKE ME NOT?'"]

"But nay," hissed the stranger, and spat with scorn, "a town like
that is its own murrain--let it sicken on itself!"

He struck an attitude, and waved his hand as if he were talking quite as
much to the trees and sky as he was to Nick Attwood, and looked about
him as if waiting for applause. Then all at once he laughed,--a
rollicking, merry laugh,--and threw off his furious manner as one does
an old coat. "Well, boy," said he, with a quiet smile, looking kindly at
Nick, "thou art a right stanch little friend to all of us stage-players.
And I thank thee