"
The Tinker slept until the afternoon drew to a close and the shadows
grew long beside the woodland edge, then he awoke. First he looked up,
then he looked down, then he looked east, then he looked west, for he
was gathering his wits together, like barley straws blown apart by the
wind. First he thought of his merry companion, but he was gone. Then he
thought of his stout crabstaff, and that he had within his hand. Then
of his warrant, and of the fourscore angels he was to gain for serving
it upon Robin Hood. He thrust his hand into his pouch, but not a scrap
nor a farthing was there. Then he sprang to his feet in a rage.
"Ho, landlord!" cried he, "whither hath that knave gone that was with me
but now?"
"What knave meaneth Your Worship?" quoth the landlord, calling the
Tinker Worship to soothe him, as a man would pour oil upon angry water.
"I saw no knave with Your Worship, for I swear no man would dare call
that man knave so nigh to Sherwood Forest. A right stout yeoman I saw
with Your Worship, but I thought that Your Worship knew him, for few
there be about here that pass him by and know him not.
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