258 MASTER SKYLARK

Some one or two came blustering as if her hand were
not enough; but Jemmy Armstrong rapped them so
sharply over the pate, with “Soft, ye loons, her hand!”
that they dabbed at her little finger-tips, and were out of
his reach in a jiffy, rubbing their polls with a sheepish
grin; for Jemmy Armstrong’s love-pats would have
cracked a hazelnut.

Some came again a second time. One came even a third.
But Cicely knew him by his steeple-hat, and tucked her
hand behind her, saying, “Fie, sir, thou art greedy!”
Whereupon the others laughed and punched him in the
ribs with their clubs, until he bellowed, “Quits! We ‘ll
all be late to the archery if we be not trotting on.”

Nick’s face fell at the merry shout of “ Finsbury, Fins-
bury, ho!” “TJ dare na try to take her home alone,” said
he; “that rogue may lie in wait for us.”

“Oh, Nick, he is not coming back?” cried Cicely; and
with that she threw her arms around Tom Webster’s neck.
“Oh, take us with thee, sir—don’t leave us all alone!”

Webster pulled his yellow beard. “Nay, lass, it would
not do,” said he; “we ’ll be mad larks by evening. But
there, sweetheart, don’t weep no more! That rogue shall
not catch thee again, I promise that.”

“Why, Tom,” quoth Armstrong, “what ’s the coil?
We ‘ll leave them at the Boar’s Head Inn with sixpence
each until their friends can come for them. Hey, mates,
up Great East Cheap!” And off they marched to the
Boar’s Head Inn.