yards high, clad in the beards o' murdered kings, like granny saith she
used to see?"

"Pshaw! no," said Nick; "none of those old-fashioned things. These be
players from London town, and I hope they'll play a right good English
history-play, like 'The Famous Victories of Henry Fift,' to turn a
fellow's legs all goose-flesh!"

Hodge stopped short in the road. "La!" said he, "I'll go no furder if
they turn me to a goose. I wunnot be turned goose, Nick Attwood--an' a
plague on all witches, says I!"

"Oh, pshaw!" laughed Nick; "come on. No witch in the world could turn
thee bigger goose than thou art now. Come along wi' thee; there be no
witches there at all."

"Art sure thou 'rt not bedaffing me?" hesitated Hodge. "Good, then; I
be na feared. Art sure there be no witches?"

"Why," said Nick, "would Master Burgess John Shakspere leave his son
Will to do with witches?"

"I dunno," faltered Hodge; "a told Muster Robin Bowles it was na right
to drownd 'em in the river."

Nick hesitated. "Maybe it kills the fish," said he; "and Master Will
Shakspere always liked to fish. But they burn witches in London, Hodge,
and he has na put a stop to it--and he's a great man in London town."

Hodge came on a little way, shaking his head like an old sheep in a