"Your Spring hath issued into a passing fruitful Summer," I said very low in his ear, "and I think you did well to leave your lyricks for this art, and the thankless Apollo for thieving Mercury." He leapt about with a white face, gasping. "I have stolen nothing in the world," said he. "No? Then come with me, Master Poet, for I must learn this way of getting stuff that is neither paid for nor yet stolen," and taking him under the arm I carried him with me at a great pace along the Bridge, pausing not till we were come near to the end of Thames Street, and in full view of the watch set about the battered door of Skene's house. "I go no further this way," cried Plat, struggling to get free. "We have nothing to fear, friend, being honest men." "Loose me, I say." "On conditions I will." "Ah--conditions?" "That you admit me to your house." "Never! Besides I have no house. I am homeless and destitute, master; indeed I am in bitter want." "I will mend that," said I, and drew forth a gold piece from the pouch at my belt. "But now, ponder the alternatives well, and as you choose, so shall it be yours to have. Either you grant me presently the liberty of that part of Petty Wales which you were used to inhabit, and take this noble for your pains, or else I will hale you to yonder watch, and denounce your theft of those silks you have about you." He shivered throughout at my proposals, and after hung as limp upon my arm as a drenched clout. "If I should do as you desire, good master," said he, in a voice I could scarce hear for its thinness, "our Captain would kill you out of hand." "Forewarned is forearmed," said I. "Your next reason?" "That the place is locked." "Otherwise I should have had no need of you. The next?" "Oh," he wailed pitifully, "do not drive me thus, master. I dare not obey you." "Forward then with a good heart," said I cheerfully, and bore him a further ten paces down the street. "Stay, stay," cried the poet, "I yield, I capitulate, I open the gates ... and now give me my gold."