So Little John came to the Fair.  All scarlet were his hose and jerkin, and scarlet was his cowled cap, with a scarlet feather stuck in the side of it.  Over his shoulders was slung a stout bow of yew, and across his back hung a quiver of good round arrows.  Many turned to look after such a stout, tall fellow, for his shoulders were broader by a palm’s-breadth than any that were there, and he stood a head taller than all the other men.  The lasses, also, looked at him askance, thinking they had never seen a lustier youth.

First of all he went to the booth where stout ale was sold and, standing aloft on a bench, he called to all that were near to come and drink with him.  “Hey, sweet lads!” cried he “who will drink ale with a stout yeoman?  Come, all!  Come, all!  Let us be merry, for the day is sweet and the ale is tingling.  Come hither, good yeoman, and thou, and thou; for not a farthing shall one of you pay.  Nay, turn hither, thou lusty beggar, and thou jolly tinker, for all shall be merry with me.”

Thus he shouted, and all crowded around, laughing, while the brown ale flowed; and they called Little John a brave fellow, each swearing that he loved him as his own brother; for when one has entertainment with nothing to pay, one loves the man that gives it to one.

Then he strolled to the platform where they were at cudgel play, for he loved a bout at quarterstaff as he loved meat and drink; and here befell an adventure that was sung in ballads throughout the mid-country for many a day.

One fellow there was that cracked crowns of everyone who threw cap into the ring.  This was Eric o’ Lincoln, of great renown, whose name had been sung in ballads throughout the countryside.  When Little John reached the stand he found none fighting, but only bold Eric walking up and down the platform, swinging his staff and shouting lustily, “Now, who will come and strike a stroke for the lass he loves the best, with a good Lincolnshire yeoman?  How now, lads?  Step up!  Step up!  Or else the lasses’ eyes are not bright hereabouts, or the blood of Nottingham youth is sluggish and cold.  Lincoln against Nottingham, say I!  For no one hath put foot upon the boards this day such as we of Lincoln call a cudgel player.”

At this, one would nudge another with his elbow, saying, “Go thou, Ned!” or “Go thou, Thomas!” but no lad cared to gain a cracked crown for nothing.

Presently Eric saw where Little John stood among the others, a head and shoulders above them all, and he called to him loudly, “Halloa, thou long-legged fellow in scarlet!  Broad are thy shoulders and thick thy head; is not thy lass fair enough for thee to take cudgel in hand for her sake?  In truth, I believe that Nottingham men do turn to bone and sinew, for neither heart nor courage have they!  Now, thou great lout, wilt thou not twirl staff for Nottingham?”

“Ay,” quoth Little John, “had I but mine own good staff here, it would pleasure me hugely to crack thy knave’s pate, thou saucy braggart!  I wot it would be well for thee an thy cock’s comb were cut!” Thus he spoke, slowly at first, for he was slow to move; but his wrath gathered headway like a great stone rolling down a hill, so that at the end he was full of anger.