Part 17 (1/2)
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.
”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 Zh.o.r.editch, a-playin' at t'
theater.”
”And where may Sh.o.r.editch be?”
”Whur be Zh.o.r.editch?” gaped the workman, vacantly. ”Whoy--whoy, zummers over there a bit yon, zure”; and he waved his hand about in a way that pointed to nowhere at all.
”When will he be back?” asked Nick, desperately.
”Be ba-ack?” drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; ”back whur?--here? Whoy, a wun't pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas.”
Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.