DISAPPOINTMENT 137

a stone’s throw from the river. With heart beating high,
he ran along the close, looking eagerly for the entrance.
He came to a wicket-gate that was standing half ajar, and
went through it into the old cloisters.

Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for
the noise and the rush of the crowd outside confused him.

The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but
now was become a mere stack of odds and ends of boards
and beams, shavings, mortar, and broken brick. A long-
legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was build-
ing a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read:
“Playeres Here: None Elles.”

Nick doffed his cap. “Good-day,” said he; “is Master
Will Shakspere in?”

The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of
the trestles, staring stupidly. “Didst za-ay zammat?”

“T asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?”

The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving.
“Noa; Muster Wull Zhacksper beant in.”

Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do
ye know?”

“A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely.

“ Away? Whither?”

“A ’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive
—went a-yesterday.”

Nick sat blindly down upon the other esti. He did
not put his cap on again: he had quite forgotten it.

Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the
day before!