CHAPTER III

The butcher he answered jolly Robin,“No matter where I do dwell,For a butcher am I, and to NottinghamAm I going, my flesh to sell.”

The next morning the weather had turned ill, and Robin Hood’s band stayed close to their dry and friendly cave. The third day brought a diversion in the shape of a trap by a roving party of the Sheriff’s men. A fine stag had been struck down by one Of Will Stutely’s fellows, and he and others had stepped forth from the covert to seize it, when twenty bowmen from Nottingham appeared at the end of the glade. Down dropped Will’s men on all fours, barely in time to hear a shower of arrows whistle above their heads. Then from behind the friendly trees they sent back such a welcome that the Sheriff’s men deemed it prudent not to tarry in their steps. Two of them, in sooth, bore back unpleasant wounds in their shoulders, from the encounter.

When they returned to town the Sheriff waxed red with rage.

“What,” he gasped, “do my men fear to fight this Robin Hood, face to face? Would that I could get him within my reach, once. We should see then; we should see!”

What it was the Sheriff would see, he did not state. But he was to have his wish granted in short space, and you and I will see how he profited by it.

The fourth day and the one following this friendly bout, Little John was missing. One of his men said that he saw him talking with a beggar, but did not know whither they had gone. Two more days passed. Robin grew uneasy. He did not doubt the faith of Little John, but he was fearful lest a roving band of Foresters had captured him.

At last Robin could not remain quiet. Up sprang he, with bow and arrows, and a short sword at his side.

“I must away to Nottingham town, my men,” he cried. “The goodly Sheriff has long desired to see me; and mayhap he can tell me tidings of the best quarter-staff in the shire”—meaning Little John.

Others of the band besought him to let them go with him, but he would not.

“Nay,” he said smilingly, “the Sheriff and I are too good friends to put doubt upon our meeting. But tarry ye in the edge of the wood opposite the west gate of the town, and ye may be of service ere to-morrow night.”

So saying he strode forward to the road leading to Nottingham, and stood as before looking up and down to see if the way was clear. Back at a bend in the road he heard a rumbling and a lumbering, when up drove a stout butcher, whistling gaily, and driving a mare that sped slowly enough because of the weight of meat with which the cart was loaded.

“A good morrow to you, friend,” hailed Robin. “Whence come you and where go you with your load of meat?”

“A good morrow to you,” returned the butcher, civilly enough. “No matter where I dwell. I am but a simple butcher, and to Nottingham am I going, my flesh to sell. ‘Tis Fair week, and my beef and mutton should fetch a fair penny,” and he laughed loudly at his jest. “But whence come you?”

“A yeoman am I, from Lockesley town. Men call me Robin Hood.”

“The saints forefend that you should treat me ill!” said the butcher in terror. “Oft have I heard of you, and how you lighten the purses of the fat priests and knights. But I am naught but a poor butcher, selling this load of meat, perchance, for enough to pay my quarter’s rent.”

“Rest you, my friend, rest you,” quoth Robin, “not so much as a silver penny would I take from you, for I love an honest Saxon face and a fair name with my neighbors. But I would strike a bargain with you.”

Here he took from his girdle a well-filled purse, and continued, “I would fain be a butcher, this day, and sell meat at Nottingham town. Could you sell me your meat, your cart, your mare, and your good-will, without loss, for five marks?”

“Heaven bless ye, good Robin,” cried the butcher right joyfully, “that can I!” And he leaped down forthwith from the cart, and handed Robin the reins in exchange for the purse.

“One moment more,” laughed Robin, “we must e’en change garments for the nonce. Take mine and scurry home quickly lest the King’s Foresters try to put a hole through this Lincoln green.”

So saying he donned the butcher’s blouse and apron, and, climbing into the cart, drove merrily down the road to the town.

When he came to Nottingham he greeted the scowling gate-keeper blithely and proceeded to the market-place. Boldly he led his shuffling horse to the place where the butchers had their stalls.

He had no notion of the price to ask for his meat, but put on a foolish and simple air as he called aloud his wares:

“Hark ye, lasses and dames, hark ye,Good meat come buy, come buy,Three pen’orths go for one penny,And a kiss is good, say I!”

Now when the folk found what a simple butcher he was, they crowded around his cart; for he really did sell three times as much for one penny as was sold by the other butchers. And one or two serving-lasses with twinkling eyes liked his comely face so well that they willingly gave boot of a kiss.

But the other butchers were wroth when they found how he was taking their trade; and they accordingly put their heads together.

One said, “He is a prodigal and has sold his father’s land, and this is his first venture in trading.”

Another said, “He is a thief who has murdered a butcher, and stolen his horse and meat.”

Robin heard these sayings, but only laughed merrily and sang his song the louder. His good-humor made the people laugh also and crowd round his cart closely, shouting uproariously when some buxom lass submitted to be kissed.

Then the butchers saw that they must meet craft with craft; and they said to him, “Come, brother butcher, if you would sell meat with us, you must e’en join our guild and stand by the rules of our trade.”

“We dine at the Sheriff’s mansion to-day,” said another, “and you must take one of our party.”

“Accurst of his heart,” said jolly Robin,“That a butcher will deny.I’ll go with you, my brethren true,And as fast as I can hie.”

Whereupon, having sold all his meat, he left his horse and cart in charge of a friendly hostler and prepared to follow his mates to the Mansion House.

It was the Sheriff’s custom to dine various guilds of the trade, from time to time, on Fair days, for he got a pretty profit out of the fees they paid him for the right to trade in the market-place. The Sheriff was already come with great pomp into the banqueting room, when Robin Hood and three or four butchers entered, and he greeted them all with great condescension; and presently the whole of a large company was seated at a table groaning beneath the good cheer of the feast.

Now the Sheriff bade Robin sit by his right hand, at the head of the board; for one or two butchers had whispered to the official, “That fellow is a right mad blade, who yet made us much sport to-day. He sold more meat for one penny than we could sell for three; and he gave extra weight to whatsoever lass would buss him.” And others said, “He is some prodigal who knows not the value of goods, and may be plucked by a shrewd man right closely.”

The Sheriff was will to pluck a prodigal with the next man, and he was moreover glad to have a guest who promised to enliven the feast. So, as I have told you, he placed Robin by his side, and he made much of him and laughed boisterously at his jests; though sooth to say, the laugh were come by easily, for Robin had never been in merrier mood, and his quips and jests soon put the whole table at a roar.

Then my lord Bishop of Hereford came in, last of all, to say a ponderous grace and take his seat on the other side of the Sheriff—the prelate’s fat body showing up in goodly contrast to the other’s lean bones.

After grace was said, and while the servants clattered in with the meat platters, Robin stood up and said:

“An amen say I to my lord Bishop’s thanks! How, now, my fine fellows, be merry and drink deep; for the shot I’ll pay ere I go my way, though it cost me five pounds and more. So my lords and gentlemen all, spare not the wine, but fall to lustily.”

“Hear! hear!” shouted the butchers.

“Now are you a right jolly soul,” quoth the Sheriff, “but this feast is mine own. Howbeit you must have many a head of horned beasts, and many an acre of broad land, to spend from your purse so freely.”

“Aye, that have I,” returned Robin, his eyes all a twinkle, “five hundred horned beasts have I and my brothers, and none of them have we been able to sell. That is why I have turned butcher. But I know not the trade, and would gladly sell the whole herd, an I could find a buyer.”

At this, the Sheriff’s greed ‘gan to rise. Since this foolwouldbe plucked, thought he, why should not he do the plucking?

“Five hundred beasts, say you?” he queried sharply.

“Five hundred and ten fat beasts by actual count, that I would sell for a just figure. Aye, to him who will pay me in right money, would I sell them for twenty pieces of gold. Is that too much to ask, lording?”

Was there ever such an idiot butcher? thought the Sheriff; and he so far forgot his dignity as to nudge the Bishop in his fat ribs.

“Nay, good fellow,” quoth he chuckling, “I am always ready to help any in my shire. An you cannot find a buyer for your herd at this just figure, I will e’en buy them myself.”

At this generosity Robin was quite overcome, and fell to praising the Sheriff to the skies, and telling him that he should not have cause to forget the kindness.

“Tut, tut,” said the Sheriff, “‘tis naught but a trade. Drive in your herd tomorrow to the market-place and you shall have money down.”

“Nay, excellence,” said Robin, “that can I not easily do, for they are grazing in scattered fashion. But they are over near Gamewell, not more than a mile therefrom at most. Will you not come and choose your own beasts tomorrow?”

“Aye, that I will,” said the Sheriff, his cupidity casting his caution to the winds. “Tarry with me over night, and I will go with you in the morning.”

This was a poser for Robin, since he liked not the idea of staying over night at the Sheriff’s house. He had hoped to appoint a meeting-place for the other, but now saw that this might excite doubt. He looked around at the company. By this time, you must know, the feast had progressed far, and the butchers were deep in their cups. The Sheriff and Robin had talked in a low voice, and my lord Bishop was almost asleep.

“Agreed,” said Robin presently, and the words were no sooner out of his mouth than the door opened and a serving-man entered bearing tray of mulled wine. At sight of the fellow’s face, Robin gave an involuntary start of surprise which was instantly checked. The other also saw him, stood still a moment, and as if forgetting something turned about and left the hall.

It was Little John.

A dozen questions flashed across Robin’s mind, and he could find answer for none of them. What was Little John doing in the Sheriff’s house? Why had he not told the band? Was he true to them? Would he betray him?

But these questions of distrust were dismissed from Robin’s open mind as soon as they had entered. He knew that Little John was faithful and true.

He recovered his spirits and began again upon a vein of foolish banter, for the amusement of the Sheriff and his guests, all being now merry with wine.

“A song!” one of them shouted, and the cry was taken up round the table. Robin mounted his chair and trolled forth:

“A lass and a butcher of NottinghamAgreed ‘twixt them for to wed.Says he, ‘I’ll give ye the meat, fair dame,And ye will give me the bread.”

Then they joined in the chorus amid a pounding of cups upon the board:

“With a hey and a hoAnd a hey nonny no,A butcher of Nottingham!”

While the song was at its height, Little John reappeared, with other servants, and refilled the cups. He came up to Robin and, as if asking him if he would have more wine, said softly, “Meet me in the pantry to-night.”

Robin nodded, and sang loudly. The day was already far spent, and presently the company broke up with many hiccupy bows of the Sheriff and little notice of the drowsy Bishop.

When the company was dispersed, the Sheriff bade a servant show Robin to his room, and promised to see him at breakfast the next day.

Robin kept his word and met Little John that night, and the sheriff next day; but Little John has been doing so much in the meantime that he must be allowed a chapter to himself.

So let us turn to another story that was sung of, in the ballads of olden time, and find out how Little John entered the Sheriff’s service.

List and hearken, gentlemen,All ye that now be here,Of Little John, that was Knight’s-man,Good mirth ye now shall hear.

It had come around another Fair day at Nottingham town, and folk crowded there by all the gates. Goods of many kinds were displayed in gaily colored booths, and at every cross-street a free show was in progress. Here and there, stages had been erected for the play at quarter-staff, a highly popular sport.

There was a fellow, one Eric of Lincoln, who was thought to be the finest man with the staff for miles around. His feats were sung about in ballads through all the shire. A great boaster was he withal, and to-day he strutted about on one of these corner stages, and vaunted of his prowess, and offered to crack any man’s crown for a shilling. Several had tried their skill with Eric, but he had soon sent them spinning in no gentle manner, amid the jeers and laughter of the onlookers.

A beggar-man sat over against Eric’s stage and grinned every time a pate was cracked. He was an uncouth fellow, ragged and dirty and unshaven. Eric caught sight of his leering face at one of his boasts—for there was a lull in the game, because no man else wanted to come within reach of Eric’s blows. Eric, I say, noticed the beggar-man grinning at him rather impudently, and turned toward him sharply.

“How now, you dirty villain!” quoth he, “mend your manners to your betters, or, by our Lady, I’ll dust your rags for you.”

The beggar-man still grinned. “I am always ready to mend my manners to my betters,” said he, “but I am afraid you cannot teach me any better than you can dust my jacket.”

“Come up! Come up!” roared the other, flourishing his staff.

“That will I,” said the beggar, getting up slowly and with difficulty. “It will pleasure me hugely to take a braggart down a notch, an some good man will lend me a stout quarter-staff.”

At this a score of idlers reached him their staves—being ready enough to see another man have his head cracked, even if they wished to save their own—and he took the stoutest and heaviest of all. He made a sorry enough figure as he climbed awkwardly upon the stage, but when he had gained it, he towered full half a head above the other, for all his awkwardness. Nathless, he held his stick so clumsily that the crowd laughed in great glee.

Now each man took his place and looked the other up and down, watching warily for an opening. Only a moment stood they thus, for Eric, intent on teaching this rash beggar a lesson and sweeping him speedily off the stage, launched forth boldly and gave the other a sounding crack on the shoulder. The beggar danced about, and made as though he would drop his staff from very pain, while the crowd roared and Eric raised himself for another crushing blow. But just then the awkward beggar came to life. Straightening himself like a flash, he dealt Eric a back-handed blow, the like of which he had never before seen. Down went the boaster to the floor with a sounding thump, and the fickle people yelled and laughed themselves purple; for it was a new sight to see Eric of Lincoln eating dust.

But he was up again almost as soon as he had fallen, and right quickly retreated to his own ringside to gather his wits and watch for an opening. He saw instantly that he had no easy antagonist, and he came in cautiously this time.

And now those who stood around saw the merriest game of quarter-staff that was ever played inside the walls of Nottingham town. Both men were on their guard and fenced with fine skill, being well matched in prowess. Again and again did Eric seek to force an opening under the other’s guard, and just as often were his blows parried. The beggar stood sturdily in his tracks contenting himself with beating off the attack. For a long time their blows met like the steady crackling of some huge forest fire, and Eric strove to be wary, for he now knew that the other had no mean wits or mettle. But he grew right mad at last, and began to send down blows so fierce and fast that you would have sworn a great hail-storm was pounding on the shingles over your head. Yet he never so much as entered the tall beggar’s guard.

Then at last the stranger saw his chance and changed his tune of fighting. With one upward stroke he sent Eric’s staff whirling through the air. With another he tapped Eric on the head; and, with a third broad swing, ere the other could recover himself, he swept him clear off the stage, much as you would brush a fly off the window pane.

Now the people danced and shouted and made so much ado that the shop-keepers left their stalls and others came running from every direction. The victory of the queer beggar made him immensely popular. Eric had been a great bully, and many had suffered defeat and insult at his hands. So the ragged stranger found money and food and drink everywhere at his disposal, and he feasted right comfortably till the afternoon.

Then a long bow contest came on, and to it the beggar went with some of his new friends. It was held in the same arena that Robin had formerly entered; and again the Sheriff and lords and ladies graced the scene with their presence, while the people crowded to their places.

When the archers had stepped forward, the herald rose and proclaimed the rules of the game: how that each man should shoot three shots, and to him who shot best the prize of a yoke of fat steers should belong. A dozen keen-eyed bowmen were there, and among them some of the best fellows in the Forester’s and Sheriff’s companies. Down at the end of the line towered the tall beggar-man, who must needs twang a bow-string with the best of them.

The Sheriff noted his queer figure and asked: “Who is that ragged fellow?”

“‘Tis he that hath but now so soundly cracked the crown of Eric of Lincoln,” was the reply.

The shooting presently began, and the targets soon showed a fine reckoning. Last of all came the beggar’s turn.

“By your leave,” he said loudly, “I’d like it well to shoot with any other man here present at a mark of my own placing.” And he strode down the lists with a slender peeled sapling which he stuck upright in the ground. “There,” said he, “is a right good mark. Will any man try it?”

But not an archer would risk his reputation on so small a target.

Whereupon the beggar drew his bow with seeming carelessness and split the wand with his shaft.

“Long live the beggar!” yelled the bystanders.

The Sheriff swore a full great oath, and said: “This man is the best archer that ever yet I saw.” And he beckoned to him, and asked him: “How now, good fellow, what is your name, and in what country were you born?”

“In Holderness I was born,” the man replied; “men call me Reynold Greenleaf.”

“You are a sturdy fellow, Reynold Greenleaf, and deserve better apparel than that you wear at present. Will you enter my service? I will give you twenty marks a year, above your living, and three good suits of clothes.”

“Three good suits, say you? Then right gladly will I enter your service, for my back has been bare this many a long day.”

Then Reynold turned him about to the crowd and shouted: “Hark ye, good people, I have entered the Sheriff’s service, and need not the yoke of steers for prize. So take them for yourselves, to feast withal.”

At this the crowd shouted more merrily than ever, and threw their caps high into the air. And none so popular a man had come to Nottingham town in many a long day as this same Reynold Greenleaf.

Now you may have guessed, by this time, who Reynold Greenleaf really was; so I shall tell you that he was none other than Little John. And forth went he to the Sheriff’s house, and entered his service. But it was a sorry day for the Sheriff when he got his new man. For Little John winked his shrewd eye and said softly to himself: “By my faith, I shall be the worst servant to him that ever yet had he!”

Two days passed by. Little John, it must be confessed, did not make a good servant. He insisted upon eating the Sheriff’s best bread and drinking his best wine, so that the steward waxed wroth. Nathless the Sheriff held him in high esteem, and made great talk of taking him along on the next hunting trip.

It was now the day of the banquet to the butchers, about which we have already heard. The banquet hall, you must know, was not in the main house, but connected with it by a corridor. All the servants were bustling about making preparations for the feast, save only Little John, who must needs lie abed the greater part of the day. But he presented himself at last, when the dinner was half over; and being desirous of seeing the guests for himself he went into the hall with the other servants to pass the wine. First, however, I am afraid that some of the wine passed his own lips while he went down the corridor. When he entered the banqueting hall, whom should he see but Robin Hood himself. We can imagine the start of surprise felt by each of these bold fellows upon seeing the other in such strange company. But they kept their secrets, as we have seen, and arranged to meet each other that same night. Meanwhile, the proud Sheriff little knew that he harbored the two chief outlaws of the whole countryside beneath his roof.

After the feast was over and night was beginning to advance, Little John felt faint of stomach and remembered him that he had eaten nothing all that day. Back went he to the pantry to see what eatables were laid by. But there, locking up the stores for the night, stood the fat steward.

“Good Sir Steward,” said Little John, “give me to dine, for it is long for Greenleaf to be fasting.”

The steward looked grimly at him and rattled the keys at his girdle.

“Sirrah lie-abed,” quoth he, “‘tis late in the day to be talking of eating. Since you have waited thus long to be hungry, you can e’en take your appetite back to bed again.”

“Now by mine appetite, that will I not do,” cried Little John. “Your own paunch of fat would be enough for any bear to sleep on through the winter. But my stomach craves food, and food it shall have!”

Saying this he brushed past the steward and tried the door, but it was locked fast; whereat the fat steward chuckled and jangled his keys again.

Then was Little John right mad, and he brought down his huge fist on the door-panel with a sledge-hammer blow that shivered an opening you could thrust your hand into. Little John stooped and peered through the hole to see what food lay within reach, when crack! went the steward’s keys upon his crown, and the worthy danced around him playing a tattoo that made Little John’s ears ring. At this he turned upon the steward and gave him such a rap that his back went nigh in two, and over went the fat fellow rolling on the floor.

“Lie there,” quoth Little John, “till ye find strength to go to bed. Meanwhile, I must be about my dinner.” And he kicked open the buttery door without ceremony and brought to light a venison pasty and cold roast pheasant—goodly sights to a hungry man. Placing these down on a convenient shelf he fell to with right good will. So Little John ate and drank as much as he would.

Now the Sheriff had in his kitchen a cook, a stout man and bold, who heard the rumpus and came in to see how the land lay. There sat Little John eating away for dear life, while the fat steward was rolled under the table like a bundle of rags.

“I make my vow!” said the cook, “you are a shrewd hind to dwell thus in a household, and ask thus to dine.” So saying he laid aside his spit and drew a good sword that hung at his side.

“I make my vow!” said Little John, “you are a bold man and hardy to come thus between me and my meat. So defend yourself and see that you prove the better man.” And he drew his own sword and crossed weapons with the cook.

Then back and forth they clashed with sullen sound. The old ballad which tells of their fight says that they thought nothing for to flee, but stiffly for to stand. There they fought sore together, two miles away and more, but neither might the other harm for the space of a full hour.

“I make my vow!” cried Little John, “you are the best swordsman that ever yet I saw. What say you to resting a space and eating and drinking good health with me. Then we may fall to again with the swords.”

“Agreed!” said the cook, who loved good fare as well as a good fight; and they both laid by their swords and fell to the food with hearty will. The venison pasty soon disappeared, and the roast pheasant flew at as lively a rate as ever the bird itself had sped. Then the warriors rested a space and patted their stomachs, and smiled across at each other like bosom friends; for a man when he as dined looks out pleasantly upon the world.

“And now good Reynold Greenleaf,” said the cook, “we may as well settle this brave fight we have in hand.”

“A true saying,” rejoined the other, “but first tell me, friend—for I protest you are my friend henceforth—what is the score we have to settle?”

“Naught save who can handle the sword best,” said the cook. “By my troth I had thought to carve you like a capon ere now.”

“And I had long since thought to shave your ears,” replied Little John. “This bout we can settle in right good time. But just now I and my master have need of you, and you can turn your stout blade to better service than that of the Sheriff.”

“Whose service would that be?” asked the cook.

“Mine,” answered a would-be butcher entering the room, “and I am Robin Hood.”

“Make good cheer,” said Robin Hood.“Sheriff! for charity!And for the love of Little JohnThy life is granted thee!”

The cook gasped in amazement. This Robin Hood! and under the Sheriff’s very roof!

“Now by my troth you are a brave fellow,” he said. “I have heard great tales of your prowess, and the half has not been told. But who might this tall slasher be?”

“Men do call me Little John, good fellow.”

“Then Little John, or Reynold Greenleaf, I like you well, on my honor as Much the miller’s son; and you too, bold Robin Hood. An you take me, I will enter your service right gladly.”

“Spoken like a stout man!” said Robin, seizing him by the hand. “But I must back to my own bed, lest some sleepy warden stumble upon me, and I be forced to run him through. Lucky for you twain that wine flowed so freely in the house to-day; else the noise of your combat would have brought other onlookers besides Robin Hood. Now if ye would flee the house to-night, I will join you in the good greenwood to-morrow.”

“But, good master,” said the cook, “you would not stay here over night! Verily, it is running your head into a noose. Come with us. The Sheriff has set strict watch on all the gates, since ‘tis Fair week, but I know the warden at the west gate and could bring us through safely. To-morrow you will be stayed.” “Nay, that will I not,” laughed Robin, “for I shall go through with no less escort than the Sheriff himself. Now do you, Little John, and do you, Much the miller’s son, go right speedily. In the borders of the wood you will find my merry men. Tell them to kill two fine harts against to-morrow eve, for we shall have great company and lordly sport.”

And Robin left them as suddenly as he had come.

“Comrade,” then said Little John, “we may as well bid the Sheriff’s roof farewell. But ere we go, it would seem a true pity to fail to take such of the Sheriff’s silver plate as will cause us to remember him, and also grace our special feasts.”

“‘Tis well said indeed,” quoth the cook.

Thereupon they got a great sack and filled it with silver plate from the shelves where it would not at once be missed, and they swung the sack between them, and away they went, out of the house, out of the town, and into the friendly shelter of Sherwood Forest.

The next morning the servants were late astir in the Sheriff’s house. The steward awoke from a heavy sleep, but his cracked head was still in such a whirl that he could not have sworn whether the Sheriff had ever owned so much as one silver dish. So the theft went undiscovered for the nonce.

Robin Hood met the Sheriff at breakfast, when his host soon spoke of what was uppermost in his heart—the purchase of the fine herd of cattle near Gamewell. ‘Twas clear that a vision of them, purchased for twenty paltry gold pieces, had been with him all through the night, in his dreams. And Robin again appeared such a silly fellow that the Sheriff saw no need of dissembling, but said that he was ready to start at once to look at the herd.

Accordingly they set forth, Robin in his little butcher’s cart, behind the lean mare, and the Sheriff mounted on a horse. Out of Nottingham town, through gates open wide, they proceeded, and took the hill road leading through Sherwood Forest. And as they went on and plunged deeper among the trees, Robin whistled blithely and sang snatches of tunes.

“Why are you so gay, fellow?” said the Sheriff, for, sooth to say, the silence of the woods was making him uneasy.

“I am whistling to keep my courage up,” replied Robin.

“What is there to fear, when you have the Sheriff of Nottingham beside you?” quoth the other pompously.

Robin scratched his head.

“They do say that Robin Hood and his men care little for the Sheriff,” he said.

“Pooh!” said the Sheriff. “I would not givethatfor their lives, if I could once lay hands upon them.” And he snapped his fingers angrily. “But Robin Hood himself was on this very road the last time I came to town,” said the other.

The Sheriff started at the crackling of a twig under his horse’s feet, and looked around.

“Did you see him?” he asked.

“Aye, that did I! He wanted the use of this mare and cart to drive to Nottingham. He said he would fain turn butcher. But see!”

As he spoke he came to a turn in the road, and there before them stood a herd of the King’s deer, feeding. Robin pointed to them and continued:

“There is my herd of cattle, good Master Sheriff! How do you like them? Are they not fat and fair to see?”

The Sheriff drew rein quickly. “Now fellow,” quoth he, “I would I were well out of this forest, for I care not to see such herds as these, or such faces as yours. Choose your own way, therefore, whoever you be, and let me go mine.”

“Nay,” laughed Robin, seizing the Sheriff’s bridle, “I have been at too much pains to cultivate your company to forego it now so easily. Besides I wish you to meet some of my friends and dine with me, since you have so lately entertained me at your board.”

So saying he clapped a horn on his lips and winded three merry notes. The deer bounded away; and before the last of them was seen, there came a running and a rustling, and out from behind covert and tree came full twoscore of men, clad in Lincoln green, and bearing good yew bows in their hands and short swords at their sides. Up they ran to Robin Hood and doffed their caps to him respectfully, while the Sheriff sat still from very amazement.

“Welcome to the greenwood!” said one of the leaders, bending the knee with mock reverence before the Sheriff.

The Sheriff glared. It was Little John.

“Woe the worth, Reynold Greenleaf,” he said, “you have betrayed me!”

“I make my vow,” said Little John, “that you are to blame, master. I was misserved of my dinner, when I was at your house. But we shall set you down to a feast we hope you will enjoy.”

“Well spoken, Little John,” said Robin Hood. “Take you his bridle and let us do honor to the guest who has come to feast with us.”

Then turning abruptly the whole company plunged into the heart of the forest.

After twisting and turning till the Sheriff’s bewildered head sat dizzily upon his shoulders, the greenwood men passed through a narrow alley amid the trees which led to a goodly open space flanked by wide-spreading oaks. Under the largest of these a pleasant fire was crackling, and near it two fine harts lay ready for cooking. Around the blaze were gathered another company of yeomen quite as large as that which came with Robin Hood. Up sprang they as the latter advanced and saluted their leader with deference, but with hearty gladness to see him back again.

That merry wag Will Stutely was in command; and when he saw the palefaced Sheriff being led in like any culprit, he took his cloak and laid it humbly upon the ground and besought the Sheriff to alight upon it, as the ground of Sherwood was unused to such dignitaries.

“Bestir yourselves, good fellows!” cried Robin Hood; “and while our new cook, whom I see with us, is preparing a feast worthy of our high guest, let us have a few games to do him honor!”

Then while the whole glade was filled with the savory smell of roasting venison and fat capons, and brown pasties warmed beside the blaze, and mulled wine sent forth a cordial fragrance, Robin Hood placed the Sheriff upon a knoll beneath the largest oak and sat himself down by him.

First stepped forward several pairs of men armed with the quarter-staff, the widow’s sons among them, and so skilfully did they thrust and parry and beat down guards, that the Sheriff, who loved a good game as well as any man, clapped his hands, forgetting where he was, and shouted, “Well struck! well struck! Never have I seen such blows at all the Fairs of Nottingham!”

Then the best archers of the band set up a small wand at eightscore paces distant, and thereon they affixed a wreath of green. And the archers began to shoot; and he who shot not through the garland without disturbing its leaves and tendrils was fain to submit to a good sound buffet from Little John. But right cunning was the shooting, for the men had spent a certain time in daily practice, and many were the shafts which sped daintily through the circle. Nathless now and again some luckless fellow would shoot awry and would be sent winding from a long arm blow from the tall lieutenant while the glade roared with laughter. And none more hearty a guffaw was given than came from the Sheriff’s own throat, for the spirit of the greenwood was upon him.

But presently his high mood was dashed. The company sat down to meat, and the guest was treated to two more disturbing surprise. The cook came forward to serve the food, when the Sheriff beheld in him his own former servant, and one whom he supposed was at the moment in the scullery at Nottingham.

Much the miller’s son grinned by way of answer to the Sheriff’s amazement, and served the plates, and placed them before the party. Then did the Sheriff gasp and fairly choke with rage. The service was his own silverware from the Mansion House!

“You rascals! you rogues!” he spluttered. “Was it not enough to defraud me out of three of my servants, that you must also rob me of my best silver service? Nay, by my life, but I will not touch your food!”

But Robin Hood bade him pause.

“Gramercy!” quoth he, “servants come and go, in merry England, and so does service. The platters are but used to do your worship honor. And as for your life, it is forfeit to your eagerness to buy my herd of cattle so cheaply. Now sit you down again and make good cheer, Sheriff, for charity! And for the love of Little John your life is granted you!”

So the Sheriff sat him down again, with the best face he could assume, and soon the cook’s viands were disappearing down his gullet as rapidly as the next man’s. And they feasted royally and clinked each other’s cups until the sun had ceased to print the pattern of the leaves upon the forest carpet.

Then the Sheriff arose and said: “I thank you, Robin Hood, one-time butcher, and you, Little John, one-time beggar, and you, Much, one-time cook, and all you good men who have entertained me in Sherwood so well. Promises I make not as to how I shall requite you when next you come to Nottingham, for I am in the King’s service. So for the present the score rests with you. But the shadows grow long and I must away, if you will be pleased to pilot me to the road.”

Then Robin Hood and all his men arose and drank the Sheriff’s health, and Robin said: “If you must needs go at once we will not detain you—except that you have forgotten two things.”

“What may they be?” asked the Sheriff, while his heart sank within him.

“You forget that you came with me to-day to buy a herd of horned beasts; likewise that he who dines at the Greenwood Inn must pay the landlord.”

The Sheriff fidgeted like a small boy who has forgotten his lesson.

“Nay, I have but a small sum with me,” he began apologetically.

“What is that sum, gossip?” questioned Little John, “for my own wage should also come out of it!”

“And mine!” said Much.

“And mine!” smiled Robin.

The Sheriff caught his breath. “By my troth, are all these silver dishes worth anything?”

The outlaws roared heartily at this.

“I’ll tell you what it is, worship,” said Robin, “we three rascally servants will compound our back wages for those plates. And we will keep the herd of cattle free for our own use—and the King’s. But this little tavern bill should be settled! Now, what sum have you about you?”

“I have only those twenty pieces of gold, and twenty others,” said the Sheriff: and well it was that he told the truth for once, for Robin said:

“Count it, Little John.”

Little John turned the Sheriff’s wallet inside out. “‘Tis true enough,” he said.

“Then you shall pay no more than twenty pieces for your entertainment, excellence,” decreed Robin. “Speak I soothly, men of greenwood?”

“Good!” echoed the others.

“The Sheriff should swear by his patron saint that he will not molest us,” said Will Stutely; and his addition was carried unanimously.

“So be it, then,” cried Little John, approaching the sheriff. “Now swear by your life and your patron saint—”

“I will swear it by St. George, who is patron of us all,” said the Sheriff vigorously, “that I will never disturb or distress the outlaws in Sherwood.”

“But let me catch any of yououtof Sherwood!” thought he to himself.

Then the twenty pieces of gold were paid over, and the Sheriff once more prepared to depart.

“Never had we so worshipful a guest before,” said Robin; “and as the new moon is beginning to silver the leaves, I shall bear you company myself for part of the way. ‘Twas I who brought you into the wood.”

“Nay, I protest against your going needlessly far,” said Sheriff.

“But I protest that I am loath to lose your company,” replied Robin. “The next time I may not be so pleased.”

And he took the Sheriff’s horse by the bridle rein, and led him through the lane and by many a thicket till the main road was reached.

“Now fare you well, good Sheriff,” he said, “and when next you think to despoil a poor prodigal, remember the herd you would have bought over against Gamewell. And when next you employ a servant, make certain that he is not employing you.”

So saying he smote the nag’s haunch, and off went the Sheriff upon the road to Nottingham.

And that is how—you will find from many ballads that came to be sung at the Sheriff’s expense, and which are known even to the present day—that, I say, is how the Sheriff lost three good servants and found them again.

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