Nick listened a moment, but heard only the clamor of voices inside, and the zoon, zoon, zoon of the viol. He was trembling all over, and his heart was beating like a trip-hammer. He wanted to run, but was fearful of exciting suspicion. Heading straight for the river, he walked as fast as he could through the gardens and the trees, brushing the dirt from his hose as he went. There was a wherry just pushing out from Old Marigold stairs with a single passenger, a gardener with a basket of truck. “Holloa!” cried Nick, hurrying down; “will ye take me across?” “For thrippence,” said the boatman, hauling the wherry alongside again with his hook. Thrippence? Nick stopped, dismayed. Master Carew had his gold rose-noble, and he had not thought of the fare. They would soon find that he was gone. “Oh, I must be across, sir!” he cried. “Can ye na take me free? I be little and not heavy; and I will help the gentleman with his basket.” The boatman’s only reply was to drop his hook and push off with the oar. But the gardener, touched by the boy’s pitiful expression, to say nothing of being tickled by Nick’s calling him gentleman, spoke up: “Here, jack-sculler,” said he; “I’ll toss up wi’ thee for it.” He pulled a groat from his pocket and began spinning it in the air. “Come, thou lookest a gamesome fellow—cross he goes, pile he stays; best two in three flips—what sayst?” “Done!” said the waterman. “Pop her up!” Up went the groat. Nick held his breath. “Pile it is,” said the gardener. “One for thee—and up she goes again!” The groat twirled in the air and came down _clink_ upon the thwart. “Aha!” cried the boatman, “’tis mine, or I’m a horse!” “Nay, jack-sculler,” laughed the gardener; “cross it is! Ka me, ka thee, my pretty groat—I never lose with this groat.” “Oh, sir, do be brisk!” begged Nick, fearing every instant to see the master-player and the bandy-legged man come running down the bank. “More haste, worse speed,” said the gardener; “only evil weeds grow fast!” and he rubbed the groat on his jerkin. “Now, jack-sculler, hold thy breath; for up she goes again!” A man came running over the rise. Nick gave a little frightened cry. It was only a huckster’s knave with a roll of fresh butter. The groat came down with a splash in the bottom of the wherry. The boatman picked it up out of the water and wiped it with his sleeve. “Here, boy, get aboard,” said he, shoving off; “and be lively about it!”