“Guy of Guisborne wants no man’s pass.
Who art thou that—that—”
“Dares to hold such language,” said Tom,
prompting—for they talked “by the
book,” from memory.
“Who art thou that dares to hold such language?”
“I, indeed! I am Robin Hood, as thy caitiff
carcase soon shall know.”
“Then art thou indeed that famous outlaw?
Right gladly will I dispute with thee the passes of
the merry wood. Have at thee!”
They took their lath swords, dumped their other traps
on the ground, struck a fencing attitude, foot to
foot, and began a grave, careful combat, “two
up and two down.” Presently Tom said:
“Now, if you’ve got the hang, go it lively!”
So they “went it lively,” panting and
perspiring with the work. By and by Tom shouted:
“Fall! fall! Why don’t you fall?”
“I sha’n’t! Why don’t
you fall yourself? You’re getting the worst
of it.”
“Why, that ain’t anything. I can’t
fall; that ain’t the way it is in the book.
The book says, ’Then with one back-handed stroke
he slew poor Guy of Guisborne.’ You’re
to turn around and let me hit you in the back.”
There was no getting around the authorities, so Joe
turned, received the whack and fell.
“Now,” said Joe, getting up, “you
got to let me kill you. That’s fair.”
“Why, I can’t do that, it ain’t
in the book.”
“Well, it’s blamed mean—that’s
all.”
“Well, say, Joe, you can be Friar Tuck or Much
the miller’s son, and lam me with a quarter-staff;
or I’ll be the Sheriff of Nottingham and you
be Robin Hood a little while and kill me.”
This was satisfactory, and so these adventures were
carried out. Then Tom became Robin Hood again,
and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed his
strength away through his neglected wound. And
at last Joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping
outlaws, dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into
his feeble hands, and Tom said, “Where this arrow
falls, there bury poor Robin Hood under the greenwood
tree.” Then he shot the arrow and fell
back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle and
sprang up too gaily for a corpse.
The boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements,
and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any
more, and wondering what modern civilization could
claim to have done to compensate for their loss.
They said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood
Forest than President of the United States forever.
At half-past nine, that night, Tom and Sid were
sent to bed, as usual. They said their prayers,
and Sid was soon asleep. Tom lay awake and waited,
in restless impatience. When it seemed to him
that it must be nearly daylight, he heard the clock
strike ten! This was despair. He would have
tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he
was afraid he might wake Sid. So he lay still,
