At the Bridge street crossing Nick paused irresolute. Around the public
pump a chattering throng of housewives were washing out their towels and
hanging them upon the market-cross to dry. Along the stalls in Middle
Row the grumbling shopmen were casting up their sales from tallies
chalked upon their window-ledges, or cuffing their tardy apprentices
with no light hand.

John Gibson's cart was hauling gravel from the pits in Henley street to
mend the causeway at the bridge, which had been badly washed by the late
spring floods, and the fine sand dribbled from the cart-tail like the
sand in an hour-glass.

Here and there loutish farm-hands waited for work; and at the corner two
or three stout cudgel-men leaned upon their long staves, although the
market was two days closed, and there was not a Coventry merchant in
sight to be driven away from Stratford trade.

Goody Baker with her shovel and broom of twigs was sweeping up the
market litter in the square. Nick wondered if his own mother's back
would be so bent when she grew old.

"Whur be-est going, Nick?"

Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey
Thompson's new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis
and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a
tenant-farmer's son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.

"To Coventry," said Nick, curtly.