I try to slip past the gatherers and into the theatre, but a hand grabs me by the ruff.

"'ey, wotcha think ye're doin'?"

He stinks of rotten apples and garlic. Wearing a noble's outfit, I almost mistake him for a nobleman. Then I see his fake moustache hanging precariously on his nose and recognise him.

"Ye're the 'un that got me inter trouble with Master Playwright two moons past!" he growls. "Ye're not goin' inter my theatre tonigh'."

I struggle in his grip, to no avail.

"Master Playwright! Master Playwright!" I shout.

He spins around, dropping me, and swears vociferously. I take the chance and run for it. I shove through the milling crowd, knowing that there's no way for him to catch me now.

The curtains rise. I have to stand on an ale barrel to be able to see.

"In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you-"

A jeering boo splits the air and a rotten apple comes flying at the player, hitting him squarely on the face. They continue to play as if nothing had happened.

"Tarry a little; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood: the words expressly are 'a pound of flesh'. Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; but, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed one drop of Christian blood, thy land and goods are, by the law of Venice, confiscate unto the state of Venice."

Everyone cheers heartily, and several throw egg shells at Shylock.

"O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge!"

"Is that the law?"

"Aye, 'tis!" someone shouts out.

"Thyself shalt see the act; for, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st."

"O learned judge! Mar, Jew. A learned judge!"

"I take this offer then; pay the bond thrice, and let the Christian go."

Booing along with the crowd, I nick an apple from a passing apple-wife. I raise my arm to hurl it at Shylock, but two brawny arms lift me off my barrel and drop me onto the floor. I look up.

It's Mother.

"'ow many times do me tell ye, get the barley reaped afore comin' to this curst mudpit!"

She smacks my head, and sees the apple still in my hand.

"oo teach ye ter filch things from folk! Get off ye lazy butt an' give it back ter the poor girl!"

I frown. All the apple-wives look alike, and I hadn't given as much as a second glance to the one I nicked my apple from. I shrug stuff the apple into the nearest girl's basket, and follow Mother out of the theatre. Nobody takes notice. How I envy them- they can stand there and watch without being dragged off by their mothers.

Maybe, when I am rich, I'll run a theatre that don't let in angry mothers.

I'd like that.