90 MASTER SKYLARK

At that the crowd set up a shout.

Carew thrust fiercely into the press, the louts and loaf-
ers giving way. “What, here! Nicholas Attwood,” said
he, harshly, “come hither.”

“Do na leave him take me,” begged Nick. “He is not
my master; I am not bound out apprentice—they are
stealing me away from my own home, and it will break
my mother’s heart.”

“Nobody breaks nobody’s hearts in old Jo-ohn Smithses
sho-op,” drawled the smith, in his deep voice; “nor steals
nobody, nother. We be honest-dealing folk in Albans
town, an’ makes as good horse-shoes as be forged in all
England”—and he went placidly on mowing the air with
the glimmering shoe.

“Here, fellow, stand aside,” commanded Master Carew,
haughtily. “Stand aside and let me pass!” As he spoke
he clapped his hand upon his poniard with a fierce snarl,
showing his white teeth like a wolf-hound.

The men about him fell back with unanimous alacrity,
making out each to put himself behind the other. But
the huge smith only puffed out his sooty cheeks as if to
blow a fly off the next bite of cheese. “So-oftly, so-oftly,
muster,” drawled he; “do na go to ruffling it here. This
shop be mine, and I be free-born Englishman. Ill stand
aside for no swash-buckling rogue on my own ground.
Come, now, what wilt thou o’ the lad?—and speak thee
fair, good muster, or thou It get a dab o’ the red-hot shoe.”
As he spoke he gave the black tongs an extra whirl.