“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.”
“Now, how should I, that ne’er have squealed in your sty, know all the swine therein? Who was he, then, an thou knowest him so well?”
“Why, yon same is a right stout fellow whom men hereabouts do call Robin Hood, which same—”
“Now, by’r Lady!” cried the Tinker hastily, and in a deep voice like an angry bull, “thou didst see me come into thine inn, I, a staunch, honest craftsman, and never told me who my company was, well knowing thine own self who he was. Now, I have a right round piece of a mind to crack thy knave’s pate for thee!” Then he took up his cudgel and looked at the landlord as though he would smite him where he stood.
“Nay,” cried the host, throwing up his elbow, for he feared the blow, “how knew I that thou knewest him not?”