“That may be,” said the Tinker right sturdily, “but I am more deft than he, for did I not overcome Simon of Ely in a fair bout in the ring at Hertford Town?  But if thou knowest him, my jolly blade, wilt thou go with me and bring me to him?  Fourscore bright angels hath the Sheriff promised me if I serve the warrant upon the knave’s body, and ten of them will I give to thee if thou showest me him.”

“Ay, that will I,” quoth Robin, “but show me thy warrant, man, until I see whether it be good or no.”

“That will I not do, even to mine own brother,” answered the Tinker.  “No man shall see my warrant till I serve it upon yon fellow’s own body.”

“So be it,” quoth Robin.  “And thou show it not to me I know not to whom thou wilt show it.  But here we are at the Sign of the Blue Boar, so let us in and taste his brown October.”

No sweeter inn could be found in all Nottinghamshire than that of the Blue Boar.  None had such lovely trees standing around, or was so covered with trailing clematis and sweet woodbine; none had such good beer and such humming ale; nor, in wintertime, when the north wind howled and snow drifted around the hedges, was there to be found, elsewhere, such a roaring fire as blazed upon the hearth of the Blue Boar.  At such times might be found a goodly company of yeomen or country folk seated around the blazing hearth, bandying merry jests, while roasted crabs[Small sour apples] bobbed in bowls of ale upon the hearthstone.  Well known was the inn to Robin Hood and his band, for there had he and such merry companions as Little John or Will Stutely or young David of Doncaster often gathered when all the forest was filled with snow.  As for mine host, he knew how to keep a still tongue in his head, and to swallow his words before they passed his teeth, for he knew very well which side of his bread was spread with butter, for Robin and his band were the best of customers and paid their scores without having them chalked up behind the door.  So now, when Robin Hood and the Tinker came thereto and called aloud for two great pots of ale, none would have known from look or speech that the host had ever set eyes upon the outlaw before.

“Bide thou here,” quoth Robin to the Tinker, “while I go and see that mine host draweth ale from the right butt, for he hath good October, I know, and that brewed by Withold of Tamworth.”  So saying, he went within and whispered to the host to add a measure of Flemish strong waters to the good English ale; which the latter did and brought it to them.

“By Our Lady,” said the Tinker, after a long draught of the ale, “yon same Withold of Tamworth—­a right good Saxon name, too, I would have thee know—­breweth the most humming ale that e’er passed the lips of Wat o’ the Crabstaff.”

“Drink, man, drink,” cried Robin, only wetting his own lips meanwhile.  “Ho, landlord!  Bring my friend another pot of the same.  And now for a song, my jolly blade.”