undoing of a little round citizen into whom I ran full tilt at the
corner of Balliol College: who, before I could see his face in the
darkness, was tipp'd on his back in the gutter and using the most
dismal expressions. So I left him, considering that my excuses would
be unsatisfying to his present demands, and to his cooler judgment
a superfluity.

The windows of the "Crown" were cheerfully lit behind their red
blinds. A few straddling grooms and troopers talked and spat in the
brightness of the entrance, and outside in the street was a servant
leading up and down a beautiful sorrel mare, ready saddled, that was
mark'd on the near hind leg with a high white stocking. In the
passage, I met the host of the "Crown," Master John Davenant, and
sure (I thought) in what odd corners will the Muse pick up her
favorites! For this slow, loose-cheek'd vintner was no less than
father to Will Davenant, our Laureate, and had belike read no other
verse in his life but those at the bottom of his own pint-pots.

"Top of the stairs," says he, indicating my way, "and open the door
ahead of you, if y'are the young gentleman Master Killigrew spoke
of."

I had my foot on the bottom step, when from the room above comes the
crash of a table upsetting, with a noise of broken glass, chairs
thrust back, and a racket of outcries. Next moment, the door was
burst open, letting out a flood of light and curses; and down flies
a drawer, three steps at a time, with a red stain of wine trickling
down his white face.

"Murder!" he gasped out; and sitting down on a stair, fell to