“I tell thee, fellow, we have no money,” thundered the fat little Friar with the great voice.

“Ha’ ye, in holy truth, no money?” asked Little John.

“Not a farthing,” said the lean Friar sourly.

“Not a groat,” said the fat Friar loudly.

“Nay,” quoth Little John, “this must not be.  Far be it from me to see such holy men as ye are depart from me with no money.  Get both of you down straightway from off your horses, and we will kneel here in the middle of the crossroads and pray the blessed Saint Dunstan to send us some money to carry us on our journey.”

“What sayest thou, thou limb of evil!” cried the lean Friar, fairly gnashing his teeth with rage.  “Doss thou bid me, the high cellarer of Fountain Abbey, to get down from my horse and kneel in the dirty road to pray to some beggarly Saxon saint?”

“Now,” quoth Little John, “I ha’ a great part of a mind to crack thy head for thee for speaking thus of the good Saint Dunstan!  But get down straightway, for my patience will not last much longer, and I may forget that ye are both in holy orders.”  So saying, he twirled his stout staff till it whistled again.

At this speech both friars grew as pale as dough.  Down slipped the fat Brother from off his horse on one side, and down slipped the lean Brother on the other.

“Now, brothers, down on your knees and pray,” said Little John; thereupon, putting his heavy hands upon the shoulder of each, he forced them to their knees, he kneeling also.  Then Little John began to beseech Saint Dunstan for money, which he did in a great loud voice.  After he had so besought the Saint for a time, he bade the friars feel in their pouches and see if the Saint had sent them anything; so each put his hand slowly in the pouch that hung beside him, but brought nothing thence.

“Ha!” quoth Little John, “have your prayers so little virtue?  Then let us at it again.”  Then straightway he began calling on Saint Dunstan again, somewhat in this wise:  “O gracious Saint Dunstan!  Send some money straightway to these poor folk, lest the fat one waste away and grow as lean as the lean one, and the lean one waste away to nothing at all, ere they get to Lincoln Town; but send them only ten shillings apiece, lest they grow puffed up with pride, Any more than that that thou sendest, send to me.

“Now,” quoth he, rising, “let us see what each man hath.”  Then he thrust his hand into his pouch and drew thence four golden angels.  “What have ye, brothers?” said he.

Then once again each friar slowly thrust his hand into his pouch, and once again brought it out with nothing in it.

“Have ye nothing?” quoth Little John.  “Nay, I warrant there is somewhat that hath crept into the seams of your pouches, and so ye ha’ missed it.  Let me look.”