So he cautiously made his way from tree to tree, as Robin had done, till he came to the little open space where Robin and Arthur were circling about each other with angry looks, like two dogs at bay.
“Ha! this looks interesting!” muttered Little John to himself, for he loved a good quarter-staff bout above anything else in the world, and was the best man at it in all the greenwood. And he crawled quietly underneath a friendly bush—much as he had done when Robin undertook to teach Will Scarlet a lesson—and chuckled softly to himself and slapped his thigh and prepared to watch the fight at his ease.
Indeed it was both exciting and laughable. You would have chuckled one moment and caught your breath the next, to see those two stout fellows swinging their sticks—each half as long again as the men were, and thick as their arm—and edging along sidewise, neither wishing to strike the first blow.
At last Robin could no longer forbear, and his good right arm swung round like a flash. Ping! went the stick on the back of the other’s head, raising such a welt that the blood came. But the tanner did not seem to mind it at all, for bing! went his own staff in return, giving Robin as good as he had sent. Then the battle was on, and furiously it waged. Fast fell the blows, but few save the first ones landed, being met in mid-air by a counter-blow till the thwacking sticks sounded like the steady roll of a kettle-drum and the oak—bark flew as fine as it had ever done in Arthur-a-Bland’s tannery.
Round and round they fought, digging their heels into the ground to keep from slipping, so that you would have vowed there had been a yoke of oxen ploughing a potato-patch. Round and round, up and down, in and out, their arms working like threshing-machines, went the yeoman and the tanner, for a full hour, each becoming more astonished every minute that the other was such a good fellow. While Little John from underneath his bushy covert had much ado to keep from roaring aloud in pure joy.
Finally Robin saw his chance and brought a full arm blow straight down upon the other’s head with a force that would have felled a bullock. But Arthur’s trebled cow-skin cap here stood him in good stead: the blow glanced off without doing more than stunning him. Nathless, he reeled and had much ado to keep from falling; seeing which Robin stayed his hand—to his own sorrow, for the tanner recovered his wits in a marvelous quick space and sent back a sidelong blow which fairly lifted Robin off his feet and sent him tumbling on to the grass.
“Hold your hand! hold your hand!” roared Robin with what little breath he had left. “Hold, I say, and I will give you the freedom of the greenwood.”
“Why, God-a-mercy,” said Arthur; “I may thank my staff for that—not you.”
“Well, well, gossip’ let be as it may. But prithee tell me your name and trade. I like to know fellows who can hit a blow like that same last.”
“I am a tanner,” replied Arthur-a-Bland. “In Nottingham long have I wrought. And if you’ll come to me I swear I’ll tan your hides for naught.”