The huckster’s knave came running down the landing. He pushed Nick aside, and scrambled into the wherry, puffing for breath. The boat fell off into the current. Nick, making a plunge for it into the water, just managed to catch the gunwale and get aboard, wet to the knees. But he did not care for that; for although there were people going up Paris Garden lane, and a crowd about the entrance of the Rose, he could not see Master Carew or the bandy-legged man anywhere. So he breathed a little freer, yet kept his eyes fast upon the play-house until the wherry bumped against Blackfriars stairs. Picking up the basket of truck, he sprang ashore, and, dropping it upon the landing, took to his heels up the bank, without stopping to thank either gardener or boatman. The gray walls of the old friary were just ahead, scarcely a stone’s throw from the river. With heart beating high, he ran along the close, looking eagerly for the entrance. He came to a wicket-gate that was standing half ajar, and went through it into the old cloisters. Everything there was still. He was glad of that, for the noise and the rush of the crowd outside confused him. The place had once been a well-kept garden-plot, but now was become a mere stack of odds and ends of boards and beams, shavings, mortar, and broken brick. A long-legged fellow with a green patch over one eye was building a pair of stairs to a door beside which a sign read: “Playeres Here: None Elles.” Nick doffed his cap. “Good-day,” said he; “is Master Will Shakspere in?” The man put down his saw and sat back upon one of the trestles, staring stupidly. “Didst za-ay zummat?” “I asked if Master Will Shakspere was in?” The fellow scratched his head with a bit of shaving. “Noa; Muster Wull Zhacksper beant in.” Nick’s heart stopped with a thump. “Where is he—do ye know?” “A’s gone awa-ay,” drawled the workman, vaguely. “Away? Whither!” “A’s gone to Ztratvoard to-own, whur’s woife do li-ive—went a-yesterday.” Nick sat blindly down upon the other trestle. He did not put his cap on again: he had quite forgotten it. Master Will Shakspere gone to Stratford—and only the day before! Too late—just one little day too late! It seemed like cruel mockery. Why, he might be almost home! The thought was more than he could bear: who could be brave in the face of such a blow? The bitter tears ran down his face again. “Here, here, odzookens, lad!” grinned the workman, stolidly, “thou’lt vetch t’ river up if weeps zo ha-ard. Ztop un, ztop un; do now.” Nick sat staring at the ground. A beetle was trying to crawl over a shaving. It was a curly shaving, and as fast as the beetle crept up to the top the shaving rolled over, and dropped the beetle upon its back in the dust; but it only got up and tried again. Nick looked up. “Is—is Master Richard Burbage here, then?” Perhaps Burbage, who had been a Stratford man, would help him.