Great House elms across the lane.

Some few dull fellows sat upon the steps behind the school-house,
anxiously poring over their books. But the larger boys of the Fable
Class stood in an excited group beneath the shadow of the overhanging
second story of the grammar-school, talking all at once, each louder
than the other, until the noise was deafening.

"Oh, Nick, such goings on!" called Robin Getley, whose father was a
burgess, as Nick Attwood came slowly up the street, saying his sentences
for the day over and over to himself in hopeless desperation, having had
no time to learn them at home. "Stratford Council has had a quarrel,
and there's to be no stage-play after all."

"What?" cried Nick, in amazement. "No stage-play? And why not?"

"Why," said Robin, "it was just this way--my father told me of it. Sir
Thomas Lucy, High Sheriff of Worcester, y' know, rode in from Charlcote
yesternoon, and with him Sir Edward Greville of Milcote. So the
burgesses made a feast for them at the Swan Inn. Sir Thomas fetched a
fine, fat buck, and the town stood good for ninepence wine and twopence
bread, and broached a keg of sturgeon. And when they were all met
together there, eating, and drinking, and making merry--what? Why, in
came my Lord Admiral's players from London town, ruffling it like high
dukes, and not caring two pops for Sir Thomas, or Sir Edward, or for
Stratford burgesses all in a heap; but sat them down at the table
straightway, and called for ale, as if they owned the place; and not
being served as soon as they desired, they laid hands upon Sir Thomas's
server as he came in from the buttery with his tray full, and took both
meat and drink."