124 MASTER SKYLARK

in the face; I am no such player as I was,—this reckless
life hath done the trick for me, Tom,—and here is ruin
staring Henslowe and Alleyn in the eye. They cannot
keep me master if their luck doth not change soon; and
Burbage would not have me as a gift. So, Tom, what is
there left todo? How canI shift without the boy? Nay,
Tom, it will not serve. There ’s Cicely—not one penny
laid by for her against a rainy day ; and I’ll be gone, Tom,
Ill be gone—it is not morning all day long—we cannot
last forever. Nay, I cannot leave him go!”

“But, sir,”"broke in Nick, wretchedly, holding fast to
Heywood’s arm, “ye said that I should go!”

“Said!” eried the master-player, with a bitter smile;
“why, Nick, I’d say ten times more in one little minute
just to hear thee sing than I would stand to in a month
of Easters afterward. Come, Nick, be fair. I'll feed thee
full and dress thee well and treat thee true—all for that
song of thine.”

“But, sir, my mother—”

“Why, Carew, hath the boy a mother, too?” eried the
writer of comedies.

“Now, Heywood, on thy soul, no more of this!” cried
the master-player, with quivering lips. “Ye will make
me out no man, or else a fiend. I cannot let the fellow
go—I will not let him go.” His hands were twitching,
and his face was pale, but his lips were set determinedly.
“ And, Tom, there’s that within me will not abide even thy
pestering. So come, no more of it! Upon my soul, I sour
over soon!”