“That know I not,” quoth the stranger surlily, for he was angry at being so tumbled about.  “If ye handle yew bow and apple shaft no better than ye do oaken cudgel, I wot ye are not fit to be called yeomen in my country; but if there be any man here that can shoot a better shaft than I, then will I bethink me of joining with you.”

“Now by my faith,” said Robin, “thou art a right saucy varlet, sirrah; yet I will stoop to thee as I never stooped to man before.  Good Stutely, cut thou a fair white piece of bark four fingers in breadth, and set it fourscore yards distant on yonder oak.  Now, stranger, hit that fairly with a gray goose shaft and call thyself an archer.”

“Ay, marry, that will I,” answered he.  “Give me a good stout bow and a fair broad arrow, and if I hit it not, strip me and beat me blue with bowstrings.”

Then he chose the stoutest bow among them all, next to Robin’s own, and a straight gray goose shaft, well-feathered and smooth, and stepping to the mark—­while all the band, sitting or lying upon the greensward, watched to see him shoot—­he drew the arrow to his cheek and loosed the shaft right deftly, sending it so straight down the path that it clove the mark in the very center.  “Aha!” cried he, “mend thou that if thou canst”; while even the yeomen clapped their hands at so fair a shot.

“That is a keen shot indeed,” quoth Robin.  “Mend it I cannot, but mar it I may, perhaps.”

Then taking up his own good stout bow and nocking an arrow with care, he shot with his very greatest skill.  Straight flew the arrow, and so true that it lit fairly upon the stranger’s shaft and split it into splinters.  Then all the yeomen leaped to their feet and shouted for joy that their master had shot so well.

“Now by the lusty yew bow of good Saint Withold,” cried the stranger, “that is a shot indeed, and never saw I the like in all my life before!  Now truly will I be thy man henceforth and for aye.  Good Adam Bell[1] was a fair shot, but never shot he so!”

  [1] Adam Bell, Clym o’ the Clough, and William of Cloudesly were three
  noted north-country bowmen whose names have been celebrated in many
  ballads of the olden time.

“Then have I gained a right good man this day,” quoth jolly Robin.  “What name goest thou by, good fellow?”

“Men call me John Little whence I came,” answered the stranger.

Then Will Stutely, who loved a good jest, spoke up.  “Nay, fair little stranger,” said he, “I like not thy name and fain would I have it otherwise.  Little art thou indeed, and small of bone and sinew, therefore shalt thou be christened Little John, and I will be thy godfather.”

Then Robin Hood and all his band laughed aloud until the stranger began to grow angry.

“An thou make a jest of me,” quoth he to Will Stutely, “thou wilt have sore bones and little pay, and that in short season.”

“Nay, good friend,” said Robin Hood, “bottle thine anger, for the name fitteth thee well.  Little John shall thou be called henceforth, and Little John shall it be.  So come, my merry men, we will prepare a christening feast for this fair infant.”