the
Tinker, and he sang more sweetly than any of the rest. His bag and his
hammer hung upon a twig of the oak tree, and near by leaned his good
stout cudgel, as thick as his wrist and knotted at the end.

"Come," cried one of the foresters to the tired messenger, "come join us
for this shot. Ho, landlord! Bring a fresh pot of ale for each man."

The messenger was glad enough to sit down along with the others who were
there, for his limbs were weary and the ale was good.

"Now what news bearest thou so fast?" quoth one, "and whither ridest
thou today?"

The messenger was a chatty soul and loved a bit of gossip dearly;
besides, the pot of ale warmed his heart; so that, settling himself in
an easy corner of the inn bench, while the host leaned upon the doorway
and the hostess stood with her hands beneath her apron, he unfolded his
budget of news with great comfort. He told all from the very first:
how Robin Hood had slain the forester, and how he had hidden in the
greenwood to escape the law; how that he lived therein, all against the
law, God wot, slaying His Majesty's deer and levying toll on fat abbot,
knight, and esquire, so that none dare travel even on broad Watling
Street or the Fosse Way for fear of him; how that the Sheriff had a mind
to serve the King's warrant upon this same rogue, though little would he
mind warrant of either king or sheriff, for he was far from being a
law-abiding man. Then he told how none could be found in all Nottingham
Town to serve this warrant, for fear of cracked pates and broken bones,
and how that he, the messenger, was now upon his way to Lincoln Town to
find of what mettle the Lincoln men might be.

"Now come I, forsooth, from good Banbury Town," said the jolly Tinker,
"and no one nigh Nottingham--nor Sherwood either, an that be the
mark--can hold cudgel with my grip. Why, lads, did I not meet that mad
wag Simon of Ely, even at the famous fair at Hertford Town, and beat him
in the ring at that place before Sir Robert of Leslie and his lady? This
same Robin Hood, of whom, I wot, I never heard before, is a right merry
blade, but gin he be strong, am not I stronger? And gin he be sly, am
not I slyer? Now by the bright eyes of Nan o' the Mill, and by mine own
name and that's Wat o' the Crabstaff, and by mine own mother's son,
and that's myself, will I, even I, Wat o' the Crabstaff, meet this same
sturdy rogue, and gin he mind not the seal of our glorious sovereign
King Harry, and