The Shakespeare Stealer by Gary Blackwood

projection, which meant, as nearly as I could tell, shouting more loudly than the audience.
    To my relief, the afternoon was less taxing. The company was presenting a play called Every Man Out of His Humour , which fit my mood exactly. As the book keeper was ill, Sander was given the task of holding the play book and throwing out lines to players who were floundering.
    I was posted, along with Samuel, one of the hopefuls, in the tiring-room to help the players change costume. In my ignorance, I did more to hinder than to help, yet none complained—except Nick. When I stepped on the hem of his gown, he aimed a blow at me. I ducked it easily; ducking was one athletic skill I had long since mastered. Before he could try it again, his cue came. “I’ll see to you later, Horse,” he growled, and swept out. His voice was so much at odds with his feminine appearance that I could not help snickering.
    â€œSuch a lady,” Sam said, and set us both laughing.
    Julian came into the tiring-room, greeted us, and retreated into the wardrobe to change. I stared after him. “Feels ’a’s too good for us, does ’a?”
    â€œOh, it’s nothing against us,” Sam said. “He’s a modest one, is all. Mr. Shakespeare’s the same, and Mr. Burbage. Don’t like others pawing them, I guess.”
    The mention of Mr. Shakespeare brought to mind something that the day’s constant activity had pushed aside—the lost script. If I did not find it soon, someone else would. Leaving Sam to take care of matters in the tiring-room, I crept up the stairs to the balcony.
    My luck was good that day; the balcony was not in use. I drew back the drapery and inspected the spot where I’d concealed myself the day before.
    So much for luck. The notebook was not there. Where in heaven’s name was it, then? Had some member of the company found it?
    Then it came to me: the man in the crowd who had jostled me from behind. He had smiled so sincerely. It never occurred to me that he had dipped his thieving fingers in my wallet. “Gog’s bread!” I murmured. “’A’s stolen me script!”
    The thief must have been upset to discover that he had filched not a purse but a book full of scribbles. He could hardly return it, though. And however great his frustration, it could not have held a candle to the dismay that I felt at that moment, knowing that all my work and worry was for naught.

13
    D espite my exhaustion, I lay awake a long time that night, wondering how I could possibly survive another week of lessons until such time as Hamlet came around again. And how would I manage to transcribe it unobserved? I tried hard to think of some alternative.
    Perhaps I could copy out the players’ individual parts from their “sides.” The problem with that was that they had all learned their parts and seldom used the sides. What about the book used to prompt the players, then? But I had seen how diligently Sander guarded it, never letting it out of his hands, let alone his sight. At last my battered brain succumbed to sleep.
    The following day, Sunday, the theatre was closed. I was grateful for the day off, and for the chance to sleep late. In truth, I slept only an hour or so past matins; then several of Mr. Pope’s orphans invaded our room, begging for stories and horseback rides.
    At first I refused. Bad enough to be called Horse by Nick; now I was expected to behave as one. But when the boys pleaded with me, tugging eagerly at my sleeve, it brought to my mind a picture of myself at that age, tugging at Mistress MacGregor’s skirts as she handed out the contents of some charity basket. Grudgingly I let myself be pulled down onto all fours, straddled, and spurred by bare feet into a sluggish gait.
    Sander, burdened with a pair of riders, glanced at me and grinned broadly. I shook my head in exasperation. “Make horsie noises!” my rider commanded