56 MASTER SKYLARK

and the balconies were filled with gentlefolk in holiday
attire, eating cakes and chaffing gaily at the play. All
was one bewildered cloud of staring eyes to Nick, and the
only thing which he was sure he saw was the painted sign
that hung upon the curtain at the rear, which in the lack
of other scenery announced in large red print: “This is a
Room in Master Jonah Jackdawe’s House.”

And then he heard the last quick words, “I ’ll match
him for the ale!” and started on his lines.

It was not that he said so ill what little he had to say,
but that his voice was homelike and familiar in its sound,
one of their own, with no amazing London accent to the
words—just the speech of every-day, the sort that they all
knew.

First, some one in the yard laughed out—a shock-headed
ironmonger’s apprentice, ““ Whoy, bullies, there be hayseed
in his hair. ’T is took off pasture over-soon. I fecks!
they ’ve plucked him green!”

There was a hoarse, exasperating laugh. Nick hesitated
in his lines. The player at his back tried to prompt him,
but only made the matter worse, and behind the green cur-
tain at the door a hand went “clap” upon a dagger-hilt.
The play lagged, and the crowd began to jeer. Nick’s
heart was full of fear and of angry shame that he had
dared to try. Then all at once there came a brief pause,
in which he vaguely realized that no one spoke. The man
behind him thrust him forward, and whispering wrathfully,
“Quick, quick—sing up, thou little fool!” stepped back
and left him there alone.