IN THE WARWICK ROAD
The land was full of morning sounds as the lads trudged along the
Warwick road together. An ax rang somewhere deep in the woods of Arden;
cart-wheels ruttled on the stony road; a blackbird whistled shrilly in
the hedge, and they heard the deep-tongued belling of hounds far off in
Fulbroke park.
Now and then a heron, rising from the river, trailed its long legs
across the sky, or a kingfisher sparkled in his own splash. Once a
lonely fisherman down by the Avon started a wild duck from the sedge,
and away it went pattering up-stream with frightened wings and red feet
running along the water. And then a river-rat plumped into the stream
beneath the willows, and left a long string of bubbles behind him.
Nick’s ill humor soon wore off as he breathed the fresh air, moist from
lush meadows, and sweet from hedges pink and white with hawthorn bloom.
The thought of being pent up on such a day grew more and more
unbearable, and a blithe sense of freedom from all restraint blunted the
prick of conscience.
“Why art going to Coventry, Nick?” inquired Roger suddenly, startled by
a thought coming into his wits like a child by a bat in the room.
“To see the stage-play that the burgesses would na allow in Stratford.”
“Wull I see, too?”
“If thou hast eyes—the Mayor’s show is free.”
“Oh, feckins, wun’t it be fine?” gaped Hodge. “Be it a tailors’ show,
Nick, wi’ Herod the King, and a rope for to hang Judas? An’ wull they
set the world afire wi’ a torch, an’ make the earth quake fearful wi’ a
barrel full o’ stones? Or wull it be Sin in a motley gown a-thumping the
Black Man over the pate wi’ a bladder full o’ peasen—an’ angels wi’
silver wingses, an’ saints wi’ goolden hair? Or wull it be a giant nine
yards high, clad in the beards o’ murdered kings, like granny saith she
used to see?”
“Pshaw! no,” said Nick; “none of those old-fashioned things. These be
players from London town, and I hope they’ll play a right good English
history-play, like ‘The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,’ to turn a
fellow’s legs all goose-flesh!”
Hodge stopped short in the road. “La!” said he, “I’ll go no furder if
they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood—an’ a
plague on all witches, says I!”
“Oh, pshaw!” laughed Nick; “come on. No witch in the world could turn
thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi’ thee; there be no
witches there at all.”
“Art sure thou ’rt not bedaffing me?” hesitated Hodge. “Good, then; I
be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?”
“Why,” said Nick, “would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son
Will to do with witches?”
“I dunno,” faltered Hodge; “a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right
to drownd ’em in the river.”
Nick hesitated. “Maybe it kills the fish,” said he; “and Master Will
Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge,
and he has na put a stop to it—and he’s a great man in London town.”
Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a
corner. “Wully Shaxper a great man?” said he. “Why, a’s name be cut on
the old beech-tree up Snitterfield lane, where’s uncle Henry Shaxper
lives, an’ ’tis but poorly done. I could do better wi’ my own whittle.”
“Ay, Hodge,” cried Nick; “and that’s about all thou canst do. Dost think
that a man’s greatness hangs on so little a thing as his sleight of hand
at cutting his name on a tree?”
“Wull, maybe; maybe not; but if a be a great man, Nick Attwood, a might
do a little thing passing well—so there, now!”
Nick pondered for a moment. “I do na know,” said he, slowly; “heaps of
men can do the little things, but parlous few the big. So some one must
be bigging it, or folks would all sing very small. And he doeth the big
most beautiful, they say. They call him the Swan of Avon.”
“Avon swans be mostly geese,” said Hodge, vacantly.
“Now, look ’e here, Hodge Dawson, don’t thou be calling Master Will
Shakspere goose. He married my own mother’s cousin, and I will na
have it.”
“La, now,” drawled Hodge, staring, “’tis nowt to me. Thy Muster Wully
Shaxper may be all the long-necked fowls in Warrickshire for all I care.
And, anyway, I’d like to know, Nick Attwood, since when hath a been
‘_Muster_ Shaxper’—that ne’er-do-well, play-actoring fellow?”
“Ne’er-do-well? It is na so. When he was here last summer he was bravely
dressed, and had a heap of good gold nobles in his purse. And he gave
Rick Hawkins, that’s blind of an eye, a shilling for only holding
his horse.”
“Oh, ay,” drawled Hodge; “a fool and a’s money be soon parted.”
“Will Shakspere is no fool,” declared Nick, hotly. “He’s made a peck o’
money there in London town, and ’s going to buy the Great House in
Chapel lane, and come back here to live.”
“Then a ’s a witless azzy!” blurted Hodge. “If a ’s so great a man
amongst the lords and earlses, a ’d na come back to Stratford. An’ I say
a ’s a witless loon—so there!”
Nick whirled around in the road. “And I say, Hodge Dawson,” he exclaimed
with flashing eyes, “that ’tis a shame for a lout like thee to so
miscall thy thousand-time betters. And what’s more, thou shalt unsay
that, or I will make thee swallow thy words right here and now!”
“I’d loike to see thee try,” Hodge began; but the words were scarcely
out of his mouth when he found himself stretched on the grass, Nick
Attwood bending over him.
“There! thou hast seen it tried. Now come, take that back, or I will
surely box thine ears for thee.”
Hodge blinked and gaped, collecting his wits, which had scattered to the
four winds. “Whoy,” said he, vaguely, “if ’tis all o’ that to thee, I
take it back.”
Nick rose, and Hodge scrambled clumsily to his feet. “I’ll na go wi’
thee,” said he, sulkily; “I will na go whur I be whupped.”
Nick turned on his heel without a word, and started on.
“An’ what’s more,” bawled Hodge after him, “thy Muster Wully Shaxper
be-eth an old gray goose, an’ boo to he, says I!”
As he spoke he turned, dived through the thin hedge, and galloped across
the field as if an army were at his heels.
Nick started back, but quickly paused. “Thou needst na run,” he called;
“I’ve not the time to catch thee now. But mind ye this, Hodge Dawson:
when I do come back, I’ll teach thee who thy betters be—Will Shakspere
first of all!”
“Well crowed, well crowed, my jolly cockerel!” on a sudden called a
keen, high voice beyond the hedge behind him.
Nick, startled, whirled about just in time to see a stranger leap the
hedge and come striding up the road.