Early were hammers ringing on anvils in the Dragon Court, and all
was activity. Master Headley was giving his orders to Kit
Smallbones before setting forth to take the Duke of Buckingham's
commands; Giles Headley, very much disgusted, was being invested
with a leathern apron, and entrusted to Edmund Burgess to learn
those primary arts of furbishing which, but for his mother's vanity
and his father's weakness, he would have practised four years
sooner. Tibble Steelman was superintending the arrangement of half
a dozen corslets, which were to be carried by three stout porters,
under his guidance, to what is now Whitehall, then the residence of
the Archbishop of York, the king's prime adviser, Thomas Wolsey.

"Look you, Tib," said the kind-hearted armourer, "if those lads find
not their kinsman, or find him not what they look for, bring them
back hither, I cannot have them cast adrift. They are good and
brave youths, and I owe a life to them."

Tibble nodded entire assent, but when the boys appeared in their
mourning suits, with their bundles on their backs, they were sent
back again to put on their forest green, Master Headley explaining
that it was reckoned ill-omened, if not insulting, to appear before
any great personage in black, unless to enhance some petition
directly addressed to himself. He also bade them leave their
fardels behind, as, if they tarried at York House, these could be
easily sent after them.

They obeyed--even Stephen doing so with more alacrity than he had
hitherto shown to Master Headley's behests; for now that the time
for departure had come, he was really sorry to leave the armourer's