There he saw a party of right jovial fellows seated beneath the spreading oak that shaded the greensward in front of the door.  There was a tinker, two barefoot friars, and a party of six of the King’s foresters all clad in Lincoln green, and all of them were quaffing humming ale and singing merry ballads of the good old times.  Loud laughed the foresters, as jests were bandied about between the singing, and louder laughed the friars, for they were lusty men with beards that curled like the wool of black rams; but loudest of all laughed 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 the warrant of the good Sheriff of Nottinghamshire, I will so bruise, beat, and bemaul his pate that he shall never move finger or toe again!  Hear ye that, bully boys?”