88 MASTER SKYLARK

at his heels; apprentices let go the shutter-bars, and joined
in the chase; and near and nearer came the ery of “Stop,
thief, stop!” and the kloppety-klop of hob-nailed shoes in
wild pursuit.

The rabble filled the dark old street from wall to wall,
as if a cloud of good-for-naughts had burst above the town ;
and far in front sped one small, curly-headed lad, running
like a frightened fawn. He had lost his cap, and his
breath came short, half sobbing in his throat as the sound
of footfalls gained upon his ear; but even yet he might
have beaten them all and reached the open fields but
for the dirt and garbage in the street. Three times he
slipped upon a rancid bacon-rind and almost fell; and the
third time, as he plunged across the oozing drain, a dog
dashed right between his feet.

He staggered, nearly fell, threw out his hand against the
house and saved himself; but as he started on again he
saw the town-watch, wakened by the uproar, standing with
their long staves at the end of the street, barring the way.

The door of a smithy stood open just ahead, with forge-
fires glowing and the hammer ringing on the anvil. Nick
darted in, past the horses, hostlers, and blacksmith’s boys,
and caught at the leather apron of the sturdy smith himself.

“Hoo, man, what a dickens!” snorted he, dropping the
red-hot shoe on which he was at work, and staring like a
startled ox at the panting little fugitive.

“Do na leave them take me!” panted Nick. “They
ha’ stolen me away from Stratford town and will na leave
me go!”