IN THE TWINKLING OF AN EYE 227

son; “we’ve sucked the sweet from Stratford town—be
off with his seedy dregs!”

“Go bring him in,” said the quiet man.

“Nay, Will, don’t have him in. This makes the third
within the month—wilt father all the strays from Strat-
ford town? Here, Ned, give him this shilling, and tell
him to be off to his cony-burrow as fast as his legs can
trot.”

“We ’ll see him first,” said the quiet man, stopping the
other’s shilling with his hand.

“Oh, Willy-nilly!” the big man cried; “wilt be a kite
to float all the draggle-tails that flutter down from War-
wickshire ?”

“Why, Ben,” replied the quiet man, “’t is not the kite
that floats the tail, but the wind which floats both kite
and tail. Thank God, we ’ve caught the rising wind; so,
hey for draggle-tails!—we ’ll take up all we can.”

The waiter was coming up the path, and by his side, a
little back, bareheaded and flushed with running, came
Nicholas Attwood. He had followed the big man through
the fields from the gates of the Falcon Inn.

He stopped at the edge of the lantern’s glow and looked
around uncertain, for the light was in his eyes.

“Come, boy, what is it?” asked Ben Jonson.

Nick peered through the brightness. “Master Will—
Master Will Shakspere!” he gasped.

“ Well, my lad,” said the quiet man; “what wilt thou have
of me?”

Nick Attwood had come to his fellow-townsman at last.