IN THE WARWICK ROAD 31

“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be call-
ing Master Will Shakspere goose. He married my own
mother’s cousin, and I will na have it.”

“Ta, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’t is nowt to me.
Thy Muster Wully Shaxper may be all the long-necked
fowls in Warrickshire for all I care. And, anyway, I’d
like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been ‘ Mus-
ter Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?”

“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last
summer he was bravely dressed, and had a heap of good
gold nobles in his purse. And he gave Rick Hawkins,
that ’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding his
horse.”

“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be
soon parted.”

“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly.
“He’s made a peck o’ money there in London town, and’s
going to buy the Great House in Chapel lane, and come
back here to live.”

“Then a’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a’s
so great a man amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na
come back to Stratford. An’ I say a’s a witless loon—
so there!”

Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge
Dawson,” he exclaimed with flashing eyes, “that ’t is a
shame for a lout like thee to so miscall thy thousand-time
betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay that, or I
will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”

“T 'd loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words