“Nay,” quoth Little John, also grinning, “the blessed Saint Dunstan hath given me a free dispensation for all indulgence in that line.”  And he thrust his hand into his pouch for money to pay his score.

“Truly,” quoth the Tinker, “without thy looks belie thee, holy friar, the good Saint Dunstan was wise, for without such dispensation his votary is like to ha’ many a penance to make.  Nay, take thy hand from out thy pouch, brother, for thou shalt not pay this shot.  Ho, landlord, a pot of ale!”

So the ale was brought and given to Little John.  Then, blowing the froth a little way to make room for his lips, he tilted the bottom of the pot higher and higher, till it pointed to the sky, and he had to shut his eyes to keep the dazzle of the sunshine out of them.  Then he took the pot away, for there was nothing in it, and heaved a full deep sigh, looking at the others with moist eyes and shaking his head solemnly.

“Ho, landlord!” cried the Peddler, “bring this good fellow another pot of ale, for truly it is a credit to us all to have one among us who can empty a canakin so lustily.”

So they talked among themselves merrily, until after a while quoth Little John, “Who rideth those two nags yonder?”

“Two holy men like thee, brother,” quoth the Beggar.  “They are now having a goodly feast within, for I smelled the steam of a boiled pullet just now.  The landlady sayeth they come from Fountain Abbey, in Yorkshire, and go to Lincoln on matters of business.”

“They are a merry couple,” said the Tinker, “for one is as lean as an old wife’s spindle, and the other as fat as a suet pudding.”

“Talking of fatness,” said the Peddler, “thou thyself lookest none too ill-fed, holy friar.”

“Nay, truly,” said Little John, “thou seest in me what the holy Saint Dunstan can do for them that serve him upon a handful of parched peas and a trickle of cold water.”

At this a great shout of laughter went up.  “Truly, it is a wondrous thing,” quoth the Beggar, “I would have made my vow, to see the masterly manner in which thou didst tuck away yon pot of ale, that thou hadst not tasted clear water for a brace of months.  Has not this same holy Saint Dunstan taught thee a goodly song or two?”

“Why, as for that,” quoth Little John, grinning, “mayhap he hath lent me aid to learn a ditty or so.”

“Then, prythee, let us hear how he hath taught thee,” quoth the Tinker.

At this Little John cleared his throat and, after a word or two about a certain hoarseness that troubled him, sang thus: 

 “Ah, pretty, pretty maid, whither dost thou go? 
 I prythee, prythee, wait for thy lover also,
     And we’ll gather the rose
     As it sweetly blows,
 For the merry, merry winds are blo-o-o-wing.”