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.