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Updated: June 27, 2025
"When Gaston Carew, lately master-player of the Lord High Admiral's company, was arraigned before my Lord Justice for the killing of that rascal, Fulk Sandells, there was not a man of his own company had the grace to lend him even so much as sympathy. But there were still some in London who would not leave him totally friendless in such straits."
The fellow in it had his ear pressed close against the bars. "He is listening," said Nick. The fellow cursed and shook his fist, and then, when Master Carew dropped his voice and would have gone on whispering, set up so loud a howling and clanking of his chains that the lad could not make out one word the master-player said. "Peace, thou dog!" cried Carew, and kicked the grating.
It seemed somehow less lonely just to think of it. Yet in truth he had but little time to think of it; for the master-player kept him closely at his strange, new work, and taught him daily with the most amazing patience.
"Oh, Nick, I love thee," said the master-player, holding the boy's hands with a bitter grip. "Dost thou not love me just a little? Come, lad, say that thou lovest me." And, sir, if thy being out would keep me stolen, still I think I'd wish thee out for Cicely. But, Master Carew, do na break my hands." The master-player loosed his grasp. "I will not seek to be excused to thee," he said huskily.
So they have spoken the master-player softly, and given him his freedom out of hand, and a long gold chain to twine about his cap, to mend the matter with, beside." "Whee-ew!" whistled Nick. "I wish I were a master-player!" "Oh, but he will not be pleased, and says he will have his revenge on Stratford town if he must needs wait until the end of the world or go to the Indies after it.
So for her sake, as well as for Nick's own, the master-player came to love the lad. And this was shown in queer ways. In the wainscot of the dining-hall there was a carven panel just above the Spanish chest.
He squinted so that he might see from the broad daylight outside into the darker room. "Gaston Carew wants to see thee, Skylark," said he, quickly, seeing Nick beside the door. Nick drew back. It seemed as if the master-player must be lying in wait outside to catch him if he stirred abroad. "He says that he must see thee without fail, and that straightway. He is in Newgate prison. Wilt come?"
At that the master-player took on so offended an air that Nick was sorry he had spoken. "Why, now," said Carew, haughtily, "if thou dost know the roads of England better than I, who have trudged and ridden them all these years, I'll sit me down and learn of thee how to follow mine own nose.
"Why," exclaimed the master-player "why, upon my word, it is a fair town as fair a town as the heart of man could wish. Wish? I wish 't were sunken in the sea, with all its pack of fools! Why," said he, turning wrathfully upon Nick, "that old Sir Thingumbob of thine, down there, called me a caterpillar on the kingdom of England, a vagabond, and a common player of interludes! Called me vagabond!
"Why, to be sure!" cried the master-player, in great glee, clapping him upon the back. "Didst think I meant a parcel of dirty tinkers? Nay, lad; thou art just the very fellow for the part my lady's page should be a pretty lad, and, soul o' me, thou art that same! And, Nick, thou shalt sing Tom Heywood's newest song. It is a pretty song; it is a lark-song like thine own."
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