“Friend, thou hast said enough,” said the Beggar, getting down from the stile.  “I will feast thee with the best that I have and bless Saint Cedric for thy company.  But, sweet chuck, I prythee bring three quarts of ale at least, one for thy drinking and two for mine, for my thirst is such that methinks I can drink ale as the sands of the River Dee drink salt water.”

So Robin straightway left the Beggar, who, upon his part, went to a budding lime bush back of the hedge, and there spread his feast upon the grass and roasted his eggs upon a little fagot fire, with a deftness gained by long labor in that line.  After a while back came Robin bearing a goodly skin of ale upon his shoulder, which he laid upon the grass.  Then, looking upon the feast spread upon the ground—­and a fair sight it was to look upon—­he slowly rubbed his hand over his stomach, for to his hungry eyes it seemed the fairest sight that he had beheld in all his life.

“Friend,” said the Beggar, “let me feel the weight of that skin.

“Yea, truly,” quoth Robin, “help thyself, sweet chuck, and meantime let me see whether thy pigeon pie is fresh or no.”

So the one seized upon the ale and the other upon the pigeon pie, and nothing was heard for a while but the munching of food and the gurgle of ale as it left the skin.

At last, after a long time had passed thus, Robin pushed the food from him and heaved a great sigh of deep content, for he felt as though he had been made all over anew.

“And now, good friend,” quoth he, leaning upon one elbow, “I would have at thee about that other matter of seriousness of which I spoke not long since.”

“How!” said the Beggar reproachfully, “thou wouldst surely not talk of things appertaining to serious affairs upon such ale as this!”

“Nay,” quoth Robin, laughing.  “I would not check thy thirst, sweet friend; drink while I talk to thee.  Thus it is:  I would have thee know that I have taken a liking to thy craft and would fain have a taste of a beggar’s life mine own self.”

Said the Beggar, “I marvel not that thou hast taken a liking to my manner of life, good fellow, but ‘to like’ and ‘to do’ are two matters of different sorts.  I tell thee, friend, one must serve a long apprenticeship ere one can learn to be even so much as a clapper-dudgeon, much less a crank or an Abraham-man.[3] I tell thee, lad, thou art too old to enter upon that which it may take thee years to catch the hang of.”

  [3] Classes of traveling mendicants that infested England as late as the
  middle of the seventeenth century.  VIDE Dakkar’s ENGLISH VILLAINIES,
  etc.

“Mayhap that may be so,” quoth Robin, “for I bring to mind that Gaffer Swanthold sayeth Jack Shoemaker maketh ill bread; Tom Baker maketh ill shoon.  Nevertheless, I have a mind to taste a beggar’s life, and need but the clothing to be as good as any.”

“I tell thee, fellow,” said the Beggar, “if thou wert clad as sweetly as good Saint Wynten, the patron of our craft, thou wouldst never make a beggar.  Marry, the first jolly traveler that thou wouldst meet would beat thee to a pudding for thrusting thy nose into a craft that belongeth not to thee.”