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Updated: May 27, 2025
For, though still by name master-player with Henslowe and Alleyn, his business with them had come to be but little more than pocketing his share of the profits; and for the rest, nothing but to take Nick daily to and from St. Paul's, and to draw his wages week by week. Of those wages Nick saw never a penny: Carew took good care of that.
The master-player very seldom left him by himself to mope or to be melancholy; but, while ever vaguely promising to let him go, did everything in his power to make him rather wish to stay; so that Nick was constantly surprised by the free-handed kindness of this man whom he had every other reason in the world, he thought, for deeming his worst enemy.
But Nick stood up, and, bowing, thanked him gratefully; at which the master-player went from chuckling to laughing, and leered at Nick so oddly that the boy would have thought him tipsy, save that there had been nothing yet to drink.
But at that the master-player and the bandy-legged man waved their hands and set up such a shout that his shrill outcry was not even heard. And the simple country bumpkins, standing in a grinning row like so many Old Aunt Sallys at a fair, pulled off their caps and bowed, thinking it some company of great lords, and fetched a clownish cheer as the players galloped by.
The road was certainly growing stranger and stranger as they passed. The company, too, instead of ambling leisurely along, as they had done at first, were now spurring ahead at a good round gallop, in answer to a shrill whistle from the master-player; and the horses were wet with sweat.
Come, Nick, thou wilt not hate me any more. 'Twill not be worth thy while, Nick; the night is coming fast." "Why, sir," said Nick, "it is not so dark outside 'tis scarcely noon; and thou wilt soon be out." "Out? Ay, on Tyburn Hill," said the master-player, quietly. "I've spent my whole life for a bit of hempen cord. I've taken my last cue.
The master-player lifted up his head, and his lips were trembling. "'T is not the heart, Tom," he cried bitterly, "upon my word, and on the remnant of mine honour! 'Tis the head which doeth this. For, Tom, I cannot leave him go. Why, Tom, hast thou not heard him sing? A voice which would call back the very dead that we have loved if they might only hear. Why, Tom, 'tis worth a thousand pound!
"Whither did they go?" asked Nick, both sorry and glad to hear that they were gone. "To Coventry, and left the master-player behind in gaol." "Why, they dare na use him so the Lord Admiral's own man!" "Ay, that they don't! Why, hark 'e, Nick!
The violin needed dusting, and readjustment of its strings before the music came. Shall we not each of us yield this rarest instrument, his own personality, to the Master's hand? There will be some changes needed, no doubt, as the Master-player takes hold.
"Why, sir," hesitated Nick, no little awed by the stranger's wild words and imperious way, "ye surely are the master-player." "There!" cried the stranger, whirling about, as if defying some one in the hedge. "Who said I could not act? Why, see, he took me at a touch! Say, boy," he laughed, and turned to Nick, "thou art no fool.
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