And she dismissed him.
Middle departed from the house mightily pleased with himself, and proud of his commission. He swung his crab-tree-staff recklessly in his glee—so recklessly that he imperiled the shins of more than one angry passer-by—and vowed he’d crack the ribs of Robin Hood with it, though he was surrounded by every outlaw in the whole greenwood.
Spurred on by the thoughts of his own coming bravery, he left the town and proceeded toward Barnesdale. The day was hot and dusty, and at noontime he paused at a wayside inn to refresh himself. He began by eating and drinking and dozing, in turn, then sought to do all at once.
Mine host of the “Seven Does” stood by, discussing the eternal Robin with a drover.
“Folk do say that my lord Sheriff has sent into Lincoln for more men-at-arms and horses, and that when he has these behind him, he’ll soon rid the forest of these fellows.”
“Of whom speak you?” asked the tinker sitting up.
“Of Robin Hood and his men,” said the host; “but go to sleep again. You will never get the reward!”
“And why not?” asked the tinker, rising with great show of dignity.
“Where our Sheriff has failed, and the stout Guy of Gisborne, and many more beside, it behoves not a mere tinker to succeed.”
The tinker laid a heavy hand upon the innkeeper’s fat shoulder, and tried to look impressive.