“Men do call me Arthur a Bland,” spoke up the Tanner boldly, “and now what may be thy name?”
“Ha, Arthur a Bland!” quoth Robin, “I have heard thy name before, good fellow. Thou didst break the crown of a friend of mine at the fair at Ely last October. The folk there call him Jock o’ Nottingham; we call him Will Scathelock. This poor fellow whom thou hast so belabored is counted the best hand at the quarterstaff in all merry England. His name is Little John, and mine Robin Hood.”
“How!” cried the Tanner, “art thou indeed the great Robin Hood, and is this the famous Little John? Marry, had I known who thou art, I would never have been so bold as to lift my hand against thee. Let me help thee to thy feet, good Master Little John, and let me brush the dust from off thy coat.”
“Nay,” quoth Little John testily, at the same time rising carefully, as though his bones had been made of glass, “I can help myself, good fellow, without thy aid; and let me tell thee, had it not been for that vile cowskin cap of thine, it would have been ill for thee this day.”