and then bore heavily forward. As Robin stepped back he caught his heel against a half-buried stone, and next instant lay flat on his back with his antagonist on top of him. He had hit his head in falling, and was half stunned, so that for a moment the potter had him at his mercy. Then the outlaws, who had been watching delightedly all this while, broke from cover and flung themselves upon the potter.
Little John was the first to reach him, Peterkin was the second, and then came all the rest of the picket, including Marian. They hauled the potter off his victim, rapped his head sharply on the hard road to mend his manners for him, and sat him up against the wheel of his own cart.
Robin was by this time also sitting up, and the two surveyed each other dizzily, rubbing their heads. Then they smiled, and getting slowly to his knees, Robin held out his hand in token of friendship. Still sitting against the wheel of his cart, the potter returned his grip warmly, and nodded.
‘Wolfshead you may be,’ he said; ‘but you’re a good man to fight!’
‘So are you,’ answered Robin, ‘though you
are
only a potter!’
‘
Only
a potter?’ cried the other. ‘
Only
a potter? Now by the saints in Heaven, I am minded to give you the trouncing you deserve, for you are an insolent puppy if ever there was one!’
Robin shook his head. ‘No, no, friend Potter, for my bones are still sore from the last one. But I see you have a bow in your cart—come and beat me at the butts instead.’
Now it was the potter’s turn to shake his head. ‘I am not such a fool as to pit myself for marksmanship against the best marksman in all the North Country. If you wish to show off your shooting, go to Nottingham, good lad. The sheriff is holding an archery contest this afternoon for his men-at-arms and any other folk who like to try their skill. Go and win the forty shillings he is offering as the prize.’
‘An archery contest, eh?’ said Robin thoughtfully; and then he laughed. ‘Yes, I will go to Nottingham. I will go at once. Friend Potter, will you lend me your clothes and cart?’
‘And what of my pots, may I ask?’
‘I will sell your pots for you—as well as even
you
could do yourself, I’ll warrant!’
Marian did not like him to run into needless danger, and looking at Little John’s gloomy face, she knew that he liked it no better than she did; but they knew better than to try talking Robin out of anything on which he had once set his mind. So Robin changed clothes with the potter and climbed into the little cart. The little pony, which had stood placidly all this time, started at once when he shook the reins, and broke into a trot. So pony, cart, pots, and make-believe potter disappeared roundthe corner of the road, and the trit-trot of hooves and the trundling of wheels grew quickly fainter in the distance.
The real potter, the outlaws, and Marian looked at one another. ‘The lad’s mad!’ exclaimed the potter.
Meanwhile, Robin was bowling gaily along the road in the sunshine, whistling to himself and the pony as blithely as a blackbird on a hawthorn branch.
It was yet early when he reached Nottingham, and, after leaving the pony and cart at an inn in Chandler’s Lane, he made his way to the market, carrying his wares with him in two great baskets. There he took up his pitch, arranging the pots round him, and began to cry his wares.
Soon he had attracted a large crowd and the housewives of the town began to press forward, handling the pots and admiring their shapes and the gay colours of the glaze. Robin sold cheaply, charging only threepence for five pots, and did such a roaring trade that by noon he had only five pots left. These he gathered into one of the baskets, and set out along the narrow cobbled streets towards the house of Ralf Murdoch, the sheriff.
The sheriff’s house was a fine building: heavily timbered, and gay with painted carvings above the door and windows. Robin mounted the milk-white steps
Little John was the first to reach him, Peterkin was the second, and then came all the rest of the picket, including Marian. They hauled the potter off his victim, rapped his head sharply on the hard road to mend his manners for him, and sat him up against the wheel of his own cart.
Robin was by this time also sitting up, and the two surveyed each other dizzily, rubbing their heads. Then they smiled, and getting slowly to his knees, Robin held out his hand in token of friendship. Still sitting against the wheel of his cart, the potter returned his grip warmly, and nodded.
‘Wolfshead you may be,’ he said; ‘but you’re a good man to fight!’
‘So are you,’ answered Robin, ‘though you
are
only a potter!’
‘
Only
a potter?’ cried the other. ‘
Only
a potter? Now by the saints in Heaven, I am minded to give you the trouncing you deserve, for you are an insolent puppy if ever there was one!’
Robin shook his head. ‘No, no, friend Potter, for my bones are still sore from the last one. But I see you have a bow in your cart—come and beat me at the butts instead.’
Now it was the potter’s turn to shake his head. ‘I am not such a fool as to pit myself for marksmanship against the best marksman in all the North Country. If you wish to show off your shooting, go to Nottingham, good lad. The sheriff is holding an archery contest this afternoon for his men-at-arms and any other folk who like to try their skill. Go and win the forty shillings he is offering as the prize.’
‘An archery contest, eh?’ said Robin thoughtfully; and then he laughed. ‘Yes, I will go to Nottingham. I will go at once. Friend Potter, will you lend me your clothes and cart?’
‘And what of my pots, may I ask?’
‘I will sell your pots for you—as well as even
you
could do yourself, I’ll warrant!’
Marian did not like him to run into needless danger, and looking at Little John’s gloomy face, she knew that he liked it no better than she did; but they knew better than to try talking Robin out of anything on which he had once set his mind. So Robin changed clothes with the potter and climbed into the little cart. The little pony, which had stood placidly all this time, started at once when he shook the reins, and broke into a trot. So pony, cart, pots, and make-believe potter disappeared roundthe corner of the road, and the trit-trot of hooves and the trundling of wheels grew quickly fainter in the distance.
The real potter, the outlaws, and Marian looked at one another. ‘The lad’s mad!’ exclaimed the potter.
Meanwhile, Robin was bowling gaily along the road in the sunshine, whistling to himself and the pony as blithely as a blackbird on a hawthorn branch.
It was yet early when he reached Nottingham, and, after leaving the pony and cart at an inn in Chandler’s Lane, he made his way to the market, carrying his wares with him in two great baskets. There he took up his pitch, arranging the pots round him, and began to cry his wares.
Soon he had attracted a large crowd and the housewives of the town began to press forward, handling the pots and admiring their shapes and the gay colours of the glaze. Robin sold cheaply, charging only threepence for five pots, and did such a roaring trade that by noon he had only five pots left. These he gathered into one of the baskets, and set out along the narrow cobbled streets towards the house of Ralf Murdoch, the sheriff.
The sheriff’s house was a fine building: heavily timbered, and gay with painted carvings above the door and windows. Robin mounted the milk-white steps
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