Carew listened intently, and sometimes with a fierce eagerness that almost frightened the boy; and sometimes he frowned, and said under his breath, “Tut, tut, that will not do!” but oftener he laughed without a sound, nodding his head in time to the lilting tune, and seeming vastly pleased with Nick, the singing, and last, but not least, with himself. And when Nick had ended the master-player had not a word to say, but for half a mile gnawed his mustache in nervous silence, and looked Nick all over with a long and earnest look. Then suddenly he slapped his thigh, and tossed his head back boldly. “I’ll do it,” he said; “I’ll do it if I dance on air for it! I’ll have it out of Master Stubbes and canting Stratford town, or may I never thrive! My soul! it is the very thing. His eyes are like twin holidays, and he breathes the breath of spring. Nicholas, Nicholas Skylark,—Master Skylark,—why, it is a good name, in sooth, a very good name! I’ll do it—I will, upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour!” “Did ye speak to me, sir?” asked Nick, timidly. “Nay, Nicholas; I was talking to the moon.” “Why, sir, the moon has not come yet,” said Nick, staring into the western sky. “To be sure,” replied Master Carew, with a queer laugh. “Well, the silvery jade has missed the first act.” “Oh,” cried Nick, reminded of the purpose of his long walk, “what will ye play for the Mayor’s play, sir?” “I don’t know,” replied Carew, carelessly; “it will all be done before I come. They will have had the free play this afternoon, so as to catch the pence of all the May-day crowd to-morrow.” Nick stopped in the road, and his eyes filled up with tears, so quick and bitter was the disappointment. “Why,” he cried, with a tremble in his tired voice, “I thought the free play would be on the morrow—and now I have not a farthing to go in!” “Tut, tut, thou silly lad!” laughed Carew, frankly; “am I thy friend for naught? What! let thee walk all the way to Coventry, and never see the play? Nay, on my soul! Why, Nick, I love thee, lad; and I’ll do for thee in the twinkling of an eye. Canst thou speak lines by heart? Well, then, say these few after me, and bear them in thy mind.” And thereupon he hastily repeated some half a dozen disconnected lines in a high, reciting tone. “Why, sir,” cried Nick, bewildered, “it is a part!” “To be sure,” said Carew, laughing, “it is a part—and a part of a very good whole, too—a comedy by young Tom Heywood, that would make a graven image split its sides with laughing; and do thou just learn that part, good Master Skylark, and thou shalt say it in to-morrow’s play.” “What, Master Carew!” gasped Nick. “I—truly? With the Lord Admiral’s players?”