"Well then," quoth Robin, "list thou and I will tell, but bear thyself
up bravely, for the news is sad, I wot. Thus it is: I hear that two
tinkers are in the stocks for drinking ale and beer!"

"Now a murrain seize thee and thy news, thou scurvy dog," quoth the
Tinker, "for thou speakest but ill of good men. But sad news it is
indeed, gin there be two stout fellows in the stocks."

"Nay," said Robin, "thou hast missed the mark and dost but weep for the
wrong sow. The sadness of the news lieth in that there be but two in
the stocks, for the others do roam the country at large."

"Now by the pewter platter of Saint Dunstan," cried the Tinker, "I have
a good part of a mind to baste thy hide for thine ill jest. But gin men
be put in the stocks for drinking ale and beer, I trow thou wouldst not
lose thy part."

Loud laughed Robin and cried, "Now well taken, Tinker, well taken! Why,
thy wits are like beer, and do froth up most when they grow sour! But
right art thou, man, for I love ale and beer right well. Therefore come
straightway with me hard by to the Sign of the Blue Boar, and if thou
drinkest as thou appearest--and I wot thou wilt not belie thy looks--I
will drench thy throat with as good homebrewed as ever was tapped in all
broad Nottinghamshire."

"Now by my faith," said the Tinker, "thou art a right good fellow in
spite of thy scurvy jests. I love thee, my sweet chuck, and gin I go
not with thee to that same Blue Boar thou mayst call me a heathen."