The crowd fell back. “Ah, sirs,” whined Goole, scarce hiding the joy in his face, “she’ll thank ye with her dying breath. Get on, thou knave!” he muttered fiercely in Nick’s ear. But Nick stood fast, and caught Tom Webster by the arm. “The fellow lieth in his throat,” said he. “My mother is in Stratford town; and Cicely’s mother is dead.” “Thou whelp!” cried the bandy-legged man, and aimed a sudden blow at Nick, “I’ll teach thee to hold thy tongue.” “Oh, no, ye won’t,” quoth Thomas Webster, interposing his long oak staff, and thrusting the fellow away so hard that he thumped against the wall; “there is no school on holidays! Thou’lt teach nobody here to hold his tongue but thine own self—and start at that straightway. Dost take me?—say? Now, Jacky Sprat, what’s all the coil about? Hath this sweet fellow kidnapped thee?” “Nay, sir, not me, but Cicely; and do na leave him take her, sir, for he treats her very ill!” “The little rascal lies,” sneered Goole, though his lips were the color of lead; “I am her legal guardian!” “What! How? Thou wast her father but a moment since!” “Nay, nay,” Goole stammered, turning a sickly hue; “her father’s nearest friend, I said,—he gave her in my charge.” “My father’s friend!” cried Cicely. “Thou? Thou? His common groom! Why, he would not give my finger in thy charge.” “He is the wiser daddy, then!” laughed Jemmy Armstrong, “for the fellow hath a T for Tyburn writ upon his face.” The eyes of the bandy-legged man began to shift from side to side; but still he put a bold front on. “Stand off,” said he, and tried to thrust Tom Webster back. “Thou’lt pay the piper dear for this! The knave is a lying vagabond. He hath stolen this pack of goods.” “Why, fie for shame!” cried Cicely, and stamped her little foot. “Nick doth not steal, and thou knowest it, Gregory Goole! It is thou who hast stolen my pretty clothes, and the wine from my father’s house!” “Good, sweetheart!” quoth Tom Webster, eying the bandy-legged man with a curious snap in his honest eyes. “So the rascal hath stolen other things than thee? I thought that yellow bow of his was tied tremendous high! Why, mates, the dog is a branded rogue—that ribbon is tied through the hole in his ear!” Gregory Goole made a dash through the throng where the press was least.