You Know the Saying

Tis not often so,” he returned; “you know the saying, Thomas, that the breeches you make yourself are unusual easy for Christmas songs lyrics quick running to the tavern, and uncommon broad and thick in the seat, that you may sit on our ale-bench by the hour with small wear to them.” The crowd laughed yet more heartily at this, though many had heard the same stock jest before. “But now, to tell truth, Tom, ye’re the very first from the gardens.” He lowered his voice. “These be soldiers, as you see. Some arrived at Portsmouth from the Low Countries last month, and already must sally forth again, most madly, methinks, on the perilous Virginia voyage.”

The breeches-maker glanced about him for the first time with a close attention to the room’s occupants. For the most part they were unknown to him, several wearing the unmistakable air of fighting men. But his scrutiny was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of others more familiar in appearance. Leading the new arrivals into the tap-room came a short, nervous man, very thin both of body and voice. As he saw Watkins, his face, which had been eager, showed disappointment. “Faugh!” he ejaculated, turning to Groat; “Tom’s told you.”

The host looked as surprised as a very bland, corpulent person can. “Nay, Peter, what’s he told me?”

The expression of Peter Sharp, needle-maker by trade, news-monger by preference, grew eager again.[10] “That’s like Tom,” he declared. “Some observation concerning the ale-tap instead of a good story, I’ll warrant.” After reading the first book of Adam and eve He turned to his first book of adam and eve fellow-guests, with the exception of those who had entered behind him. “Were none of ye there,” he asked, “to see a most astounding bear-baiting?”

The soldiers looked up with interest from their games. Marlowe and Rouse in particular showed a keen attention to the speaker. “Alack!” whispered Rouse, “I knew he’d do it.” But his companion, all ears for what was coming, made a cautious gesture commanding silence, and said nothing.

“This is how it happened,” began the needle-maker, now sure of an attentive audience. “First, Old Sarcason—by Heaven, the gamest bear, as I thought, that ever entered ring!—came badly off. The wards must needs grab every dog’s tail and pull it might and main to hold them back from killing him. But Harry Hunks gave better fight, and nearly hugged a mastiff pup to death. And Little Bess of Bromley, too—ye should have seen her punish Queen Elgifa, a noble slut in her day. I’ve rarely seen so great sport at public baiting; but Bruin and his wards were on their mettle. The French ambassador was there. At the end they had a new pastime in store for us. And here came the trouble. Leading a small brute—him they call King Lud—faith, little more than cub, but strong as iron and uncommon savage, being a son of Old Sarcason and Little Bess—out they come with him, and blind his eyes. Then, tying him fast to the post, they flog his hide, each with a leathern whip, till the blood runs.[1] Whereat down jumps from a seat near the ring a man we knew not, tall and[11] travel-stained, and says that they should stop their ‘wanton sport.’ And following him into the ring jumps a clownish fellow of low stature and round paunch, like a stage jester in appearance. They both carried arms, the first a rapier, the mountebank a broadsword half his own length. We thought, then, it was all arranged, some new-conceived buffoonery to finish the baiting. Quick as can be, the two, with drawn swords, went forward and untied the bear, about whose back a lash still whistled. ‘Tie him up,’ says the tall man, pointing to one of the floggers. And suddenly ’twas done before we knew it. There stood Sir Knight of the Whip tied to the post in place of King Lud, and writhing most horribly, while the pot-bellied little clown danced about him, plying the self-same lash for dear life. In the mean time the other—of high station, I take it, despite his weather-worn garb—calmly unblinds the bear and turns him toward the sight at the whipping-post. The wards stood speechless, for Master Long-man held his rapier ready, and a pistol stuck out at his belt.”

The needle-maker paused for breath, and, having a certain dramatic instinct, called for a flagon of ale, in order to postpone his climax. The other inmates of the tavern now listened to the nervous little storyteller with keen interest and some excitement. The pair in a corner waited breathlessly for the end. From time to time as the narrative had proceeded the bigger of the two could scarcely suppress his agitation, but, being restrained by Marlowe, he managed to voice the alarm he felt by no more than some occasional smothered ejaculation, such as, “I knew he’d do it!” or, “In troth, he was ever thus!”

“But the most astonishing incident is yet to come,” resumed Peter Sharp, wiping the ale-foam from his lips. “No sooner did King Lud see what was going[12] forward than along he shambled slowly toward the clownish fellow, and, standing up on his hind legs, put a great paw on each of the little man’s shoulders, and looked at him in a most friendly way as dogs do. Whereat the mountebank dropped his whip and spoke to his superior officer, as I took the other to be. Then Sir Soldier, drawing out a fat purse and turning to the Master of the Sports, who was even now coming into the ring in great dismay, nodded and delivered the purse into his hands. At that the stout retainer made a comical bow to all the people around the ring, as who should say, ‘I hope we have amused you,’ and, leading King Lud by his chain, calmly walked out of the arena. From this we felt all the more sure that it had been part of the performance. But I could not believe that the angry and amazed looks of him who had been flogged in Bruin’s place, and of the wards, were feigned. Moreover, when the tall man left, he says to us all: ‘Call ye yourselves men and watch such sports as these? Get ye to your kennels with the other dogs.’ Whereupon he, too, walked from the ring slowly. It was all done with such despatch by him, and such a ready wit by his servant, that they befooled us utterly. Thinking it a comicality, no man in all the audience took action, and the few below us in the ring, being so terrified and bewildered by the sudden remonstrance and show of arms, stood dumfounded. But even then, I think, they might have regained their senses in time to send the twain to jail had not the Master of the Sports advised against pursuit, being, as I believe, well requited for King Lud and not unfamiliar with his purchaser.”

The needle-maker raised his cup and drank deep, while a buzz of conversation began about him. A look of unspeakable relief had come to the faces of the soldier and the poet in the corner.

[13]
Carl Linnaeus Love Man in his social character Elements of character Roman Patriotism Domestic Altar Loadstar of My Life You Know the Saying Our Swords Will Play the Orator The Day Before Yesterday The Cause of Troubles Precautions from the beginning Desire to Exceed One's Program The Daily Miracle Some Wonderful Efforts The Dawn of Freedom Of Our Striving The beginning of slavery Second Residence in England Return to Basle First Visit to England Life of Hans Holbein
Toward this pair the eyes of a group across the room were frequently directed. Among the latter company one figure was particularly noticeable, being that of a very young man, of medium size, bearing himself not ungracefully, and wearing a riding-cloak thrown off over one shoulder above an inconspicuous doublet of dark red satin, which, together with his silken hose and velvet, befeathered hat, revealed the civilian. The man nearest to him, many years his senior, was, by name, Sir Walter St. Magil; by profession, unmistakably a soldier. He, too, was of medium height and aristocratic carriage, though with a face rendered exceedingly ill-appearing by a cast in one of his eyes which drew the pupil so far in toward the nose as to leave but a half of it visible.

As the needle-maker concluded his tale this man smiled knowingly, and the smile had more of meaning in it than of mirth or pleasantness. “There is but one,” he said, that all might hear him—“but one with a brain so addled as to be capable of such folly. And that man, my masters, is none other than John—”

But the sentence died on his tongue, half spoken. For Hugh Rouse, who until now had taken no part in the general conversation, came forward from his corner like a great mastiff from its kennel.

“Nay, Sir Walter,” he objected, “I pray you make no mention of the man’s name; it will do no good.”

For an instant the other’s brow clouded, but, controlling himself with ease, he returned, suavely: “Oh, an you, as the man’s friend, desire it, I keep silence. Ne’ertheless, fool, I call him, name or no name, thus to interrupt a bear-baiting.”

Little satisfied with this forbearance, Hugh, whose honest face had been for the moment almost threatening,[14] reluctantly resumed his seat in the corner near Marlowe. “Ah, Hugh Rouse,” observed the latter, in an undertone, “your name neatly fits its owner. But you did well.”

In the mean time, Sir Walter St. Magil, whose remarks had been so unceremoniously interrupted by Rouse, was talking in a low voice with his young companion. “The man,” he said, so low that none but the immediate listener could hear him, “is Vytal—John Vytal. We’ve fought together in the Low Countries, but—” and here his voice sank to a whisper, while he glanced furtively about him, “he’s not one of our men.”

“Nay, I supposed not,” rejoined the young man, in a careless voice, contrasting strongly with his elder’s caution; “therefore, why consult this fellow’s pleasure?”

“Because we might but stir up mischief by opposing the brawling giant. Well I know him, for he is Vytal’s follower. As I live, the man has but few friends, yet those few would die for him.”

“Some day the opportunity may be theirs,” observed the other, smiling almost boyishly.

“Yes,” assented St. Magil, in a grimmer tone, “but now we must have patience. For the moment let us guard Vytal’s name as carefully as we conceal your own. Which reminds me—I’d almost forgot—what name dost go by now?”

“’Tis ‘Frazer’; but give heed! That tale of bear-flogging has set these louts at odds.”

He spoke truth, for Peter Sharp, the needle-maker, now not over-steady, thanks to the never-idle tapster, was indulging in an argument with Watkins, the breeches-maker, concerning his favorite entertainment. Entering with them into the discussion, though with less volubility and heat, were Samuel Gorm, a[15] bear-ward, and Alleyn, a young actor of plays and interludes. It was not, however, until Peter expressed the astonishing opinion that “none save a fool would enter a play-house, whereas, every man worthy of the name was at one time or another to be seen in the Paris Gardens,” that Hugh Rouse rushed into the argument in his customary reckless manner.