“But you didn’t hit it?” said the big fellow, smiling.

“I just scratched one side of it though,” cried the boy.

“Did you now?  Well done!  You keep on trying, and you’ll beat me some day.”

“I don’t think I shall,” said Robin, shaking his head thoughtfully.

“Oh! but you will if you keep on trying.  A lad who tries hard can do nearly anything.”

“Can he?” said Robin.

“To be sure he can; so you try, and when you can hit anything you shoot at you’ll be half a man.  And when you’ve done growing you’ll be one quite.”

“Shall I ever be as big as you?” asked Robin.

“I hope not,” said Little John, laughing.  “I’m too big.”

“Are you?” said Robin.  “I should like to be as big as you.”

“No, no, don’t,” cried Little John.  “You go on growing till you’re a six-footer, and then you stop.  All that grows after that’s waste o’ good stuff, and gets in your way.  Big uns like me are always knocking their heads against something.”

“But how am I to know when I’m six feet high?” said Robin.

“Oh!  I’ll tell you, I’ll keep measuring you, my lad.”

“And how am I to stop growing?”

Little John took off his cap and scratched his head, as he wrinkled up his big, good-humored face.

“Well, I don’t quite know,” he said; “but there’s plenty o’ time yet, and we shall see.  Might put a big stone in your hat; or keep you in a very dry place; or tie your shoulders down to your waist—­no, that wouldn’t do.”

“Why?” said Robin promptly.

“Because it wouldn’t stop your legs growing, and it’s boys’ legs that grow the most when they’re young.  I say, though, what’s become of all those arrows I made you?”

“Shot them away.”

“And only two left.  You mustn’t waste arrows like that.  Why didn’t you look for them after you shot?”

“I did,” cried Robin, “but they will hide themselves so.  They creep right under the grass and among the weeds so that you can’t find them again.  But you’ll make me some more, won’t you?”

“Well,” said Little John, “I suppose I must; but you will have to be more careful, young un.  I can’t spend all my time making new arrows for you.  But there, I want you to shoot so that the captain will be proud of you, and some day you’ll have to shoot a deer.”

“I don’t think I should like to shoot a deer,” said the boy, shaking his head.

“Why not?” They’re good to eat.”

“They look so nice and kind, with their big soft eyes.”

“Well, a man then.”

“Oh, no!  I shouldn’t like to shoot a man.”

“What not one of the captain’s enemies who had come to kill him?”

“I don’t think I should mind so much then.  Look here, Little John, I’d shoot an arrow into his back, to prick him and make him run away.”

“And so you shall, my lad,” cried Little John, and he set to work directly to cut some wood for arrows to refill the boy’s quiver; and when those were lost, he made some more, for young Robin was always shooting and losing them; but Little John said it did not matter, for he was going to be a famous marksman, and the big fellow looked as proud of his pupil as could be.