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whispered.
    “So it seems,” Kit murmured, refusing this invitation to tell us more. For my part, I wished to know who was the “other knave” who had posed as a clergyman to trick Mistress Oxenbridge—he must have been quite a performer himself.
    “Who is this Captain Penny?” Robin persisted.
    “A corrupter of youth.”
    “And that barge of a woman—did she really set her two sons on you?”
    “How do you suppose I got this knot on my head?” Kit pushed back his hair to reveal an ugly bluish lump on his brow. “Or this cut on my neck, or this stitch in my side, where the ribs are probably cracked?” He put a hand to the affected place and winced. “It took two of us to bring one of them down—I lost count of the things we broke over his head.”
    “Was he big?”
    “Something less than the size of St. Paul's tower. But with about the same measure of wit.”
    Robin sniggered, as Kit favored him with a condescending smirk. I could have laughed, too, but the chilly silence wafting back from the two men ahead of us kept me from it. Suddenly John Heminges turned, quivering with fury. As soon as Kit was within range, Master Heminges slapped him so hard his head flew back.
    Kit's face drained of color, except for the angry red mark on his right cheek. His pale eyes blazed, first with surprise, then rage. Robin and I, and even Master Condell, stood shocked, as though we were the ones slapped. John Heminges was not one to offer violence, nor was Kit one to take it.
    Master Heminges raised his hand again, pointing two fingers in a way that, with him, always signaled a stern lecture.
    “Today,” he said, in a voice as thin as a string, “you are no longer welcome in my house. One more scrape like this and you will not be welcome in the Company; I swear it. Make some other arrangement for your lodging. I've done the best I could by you, Kit. I've been a father to you, as well as I might. But by heaven, there comes a time. If you would throw away your gifts on rakehells and scoundrels, so be it. But I care for my reputation, and you will
not
disgrace me again. Do you understand?”
    Kit swallowed once, but did not speak. His eyes spoke for him, burning with a fire that would not be quenched for a long, long time.
    No one spoke as we retraced our steps into the city and out again through Bishopsgate, heading up the Shoreditch Road. This was a journey that took most of an hour, not lagging—a long while for five people to hold silent, but Master Heminges's reprimand had left nothing much to say.
    As it happened, though, Kit's trouble was soon cast into the shade. On our approach to the Theater a curious sight met our eyes: the men who should have been inside at rehearsal were clustered around the main entrance, many of them shouting and waving their arms. Our masters looked at each other, then quickened their pace until all of us were practically running. The sterling voice of Richard Burbage rang out at our approach. “John Heminges! What a day to be late. See if you can make Master Allen see reason!”
    The view before us more than justified the urgency in hisvoice. Giles Allen, a stocky little pigeon with a face as round and red as an apple, stood in the midst of the Company, flanked by two marshals of the London watch. Their matched height and shining brass helmets lent authority to the landlord, not to mention the pikes held ready to fend off maddened players. What made the players mad was plain to see: dangling from the landlord's arm were a chain and a padlock.

Locked Out
    heard Master Condell groan aloud as he stopped on the edges of a hurly-burly that included all the players, hired help, and stage boys. Robin and I pushed toward the center, where Master Allen stood. He seemed wonderfully composed, though his confidence may have owed somewhat to the presence of the marshals. From every side voices were shouting, “You might have warned us!” and, “This is an outrage!” John Heminges's approach prompted