"'Forlornly I flap in the tormenting breeze,
Out at the elbows and out at the knees.
Never before such a figure of fun—
See how I make all the little ones run!'"
"Why," said Little John, actually smiling, "anybody knows the answer to that. It's a scarecrow."
"Of course," said a lot of the others.
"Wrong," said Robin. "Keep it dark, all you fellows, till the night of the concert. The answer is 'Fluffy Jim'."
"The Village Idiot at the football match!" exclaimed Will Scarlet. "Best of the bunch, I call that. Robin, old man, how in thunder did you make them all up?"
"I didn't!" said Robin.
"Then who did?"
"That's telling. I'm not allowed to say."
"Whoever put them together was a clever guy."
"He is," agreed Robin, "but you'll never guess who, so don't try. There's twenty-two of them in all and they ought to bring the house down. But now, my stout fellows," he broke off, changing again to old-time terms, "right worthily have ye gone through your parts, and I have a mind to reward ye for it. In yonder pack of mine there are sweet venison pasties and sundry cakes, with three pottles of humming ale—ginger ale. If there be any amongst ye who cares not to feast on such goodly fare, let him hang himself on yonder tree for the crows to peck at."