NICHOLAS ATTWOOD’S HOME 11

an inky mountain; and the homely maxims on the next
breadth— “ Do no Wrong,” “ Beware of Sloth,” “ Overcome
Pride,” and “Keep an Eye on the Pence”—could scarcely
be read.

Nick jumped up on the three-legged stool and began to
take them down. The nails were crooked and jammed in
the wall, and the last came out with an unexpected jerk.
Losing his balance, Nick caught at the table-board which
leaned against the wall ; but the stool capsized, and he came
down on the floor with such a flap of tapestry that the
ashes flew out all over the room.

He sat up dazed, and rubbed his elbows, then looked
around and began to laugh.

He could hear heavy footsteps overhead. A door
opened, and his father’s voice called sternly from the head
of the stair: “What madcap folly art thou up to now?”

“TI be up to no folly at all,” said Nick, “but down, sir.
J fell from the stool. There ’s no harm done.”

“Then be about thy business,” said Attwood, coming
slowly down the stairs.

He was a gaunt man, smelling of leather and untanned
hides. His short iron-gray hair grew low down upon his
forehead, and his hooked nose, grim wide mouth, and
heavy under jaw gave him a look at once forbidding and
severe. His doublet of serge and his fustian hose were
stained with liquor from the vats, and his eyes were
heavy with sleep.

The smile faded from Nick’s face. “Shall I throw the
rushes into the street, sir?”