AFTER THE PLAY 61

Whereupon, bowing to all the great folk they met, and
being bowed to most politely in return, they came to the
Three Tuns.

Stared at by a hundred curious eyes, made way for
everywhere, and followed by wondering exclamations of
envy, it was little wonder that Nick, a simple country lad,
at last began to think that there was not in all the world
another gentleman so grand as Master Gaston Carew, and
also to have a pleasant notion that Nicholas Attwood was
no bad fellow himself.

The lordly innkeeper came smirking and bobbing
obsequiously about, with his freshest towel on his arm,
and took the master-player’s order as a dog would take a
bone.

“ Here, sirrah,” said Carew, haughtily; “fetch us some
repast, I care not what, so it be wholesome food—a green
Banbury cheese, some simnel bread and oat-cakes; a
pudding, hark ’e, sweet and full of plums, with honey and
a pasty—a meat pasty, marry, a pasty made of fat and
toothsome eels; and moreover, fellow, ale to wash it down
—none of thy penny ale, mind ye, too weak to run out of
the spigot, but snapping good brew—dost take me ?—with
beef and mustard, tripe, herring, and a good fat capon
broiled to a turn!”

The innkeeper gaped like a fish.

“How now, sirrah? Dost think I cannot pay thy
score?” quoth Carew, sharply.

“Nay, nay,” stammered the host; “but, sir, where—
where will ye put it all without bursting into bits?”