26 MASTER SKYLARK

dered if his own mother’s back would be so bent when
she grew old.

“Whur be-est going, Nick?”

Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of
Master Geoffrey Thompson’s new house, watching Tom
Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis and curling traceries
upon the front wall beams. He was a tenant-farmer’s
son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.

“To Coventry,” said Nick, curtly

“Wilt take a fellow wi’ thee?”

Poor company might be better than none.

“Come on.”

Roger lumbered to his feet and trotted after.

“No school to-day?” he asked.

“Not for me,” answered Nick, shortly, for he did not
eare to talk about it.

“Faither wull na have I go to school, since us ha’ comed
to town, an’ plough-land sold for grazings,” drawled
Roger; “Muster Pine o’ Welford saith that I ha’ learned
as much as faither ever knowed, an’ ’t is enow for I.
Faither saith it maketh saucy rogues o’ sons to know
more than they’s own dads.”

Nick wondered if it did. His own father could neither
read nor write, while he could do both and had some Latin,
too. At the thought of the Latin he made a wry face.

“Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks,” said Roger, peering
through the jeering crowd about the pillory and post; “a
broke Tom Samson’s pate wi’ ’s ale-can yestreen.”

But Nick pushed on. A few ruddy-faced farmers and