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His own father could neither read nor write, while he could do both and had some Latin, too. At the thought of the Latin he made a wry face. "Joe Carter be-eth in the stocks," said Roger, peering through the jeering crowd about the pillory and post; "a broke Tom Samson's pate wi' 's ale-can yestreen." But Nick pushed on.
"Noa," drawled the carpenter; "Muster Bubbage beant here; doan't want un, nuther nuvver do moind a's owen business always jawin' volks. A beant here, an' doan't want un, nuther." Nick's heart went down. "And where is he?" "Who? Muster Bubbage? Whoy, a be-eth out to Zhoreditch, a-playin' at t' theater." "And where may Shoreditch be?" "Whur be Zhoreditch?" gaped the workman, vacantly.
"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!"
In the midst of them Nick saw his father, and scurried away into Back Bridge street as fast as he could, feeling very near a sneak, but far from altering his purpose. "Job Hortop," said Simon Attwood to his apprentice at his side, looking out suddenly over the crowd, "was that my Nick yonder?" "Nay, master, could na been," said Job, stolidly; "Nick be-eth in school by now the clock ha' struck.
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