122 MASTER SKYLARK

such a rout, Carew had hailed a wherry, and they were
half-way over to the Southwark side.

Landing amid a deafening din of watermen bawling
hoarsely for a place along the Paris Garden stairs, the
master-player hurried up the lane through the noisy
crowd. Some were faring afoot into Surrey, and some to
green St. George’s Fields to buy fresh fruit and milk from
the farm-houses and to picnic on the grass. Some turned
aside to the Falcon Inn for a bit of cheese and ale, and
others to the play-houses beyond the trees and fishing-
ponds. And coming down from the inn they met a crowd
of players, with Master Tom Heywood at their head, frol-
icking and cantering along like so many overgrown
school-boys.

“So we are to have thee with us awhile?” said Hey-
wood, and put his arm around Nick’s shoulders as they
trooped along.

“ Awhile, sir, yes,” replied Nick, nodding; “but I am
going home soon, Master Carew says.”

“Carew,” said Heywood, suddenly turning, “how can
ye have the heart?”

“Come, Heywood,” quoth the master-player, curtly,
though his whole face colored up, “I have heard enough
of this. Will ye please to mind your own affairs?”

The writer of comedies lifted his brows. “ Very well,”
he answered quietly; “but, lad, this much for thee,” said
he, turning to Nick, “if ever thou dost need a friend, Tom
Heywood ’s one will never speak thee false.”

“ Sir!” cried Carew, clapping his hand upon his poniard