"Hast found one who doth not, Ralf? Then should he have a free gift
of my bauble," responded the jester, shaking on high that badge,
surmounted with the golden head of an ass, and jingling with bells.
"How now, friend Wry-mouth? 'Tis long since thou wert here! This
house hath well-nigh been forced to its ghostly weapons for lack of
thy substantial ones. Where hast thou been?"

"At Salisbury, good Merryman."

"Have the Wilts men raked the moon yet out of the pond? Did they
lend thee their rake, Tib, that thou hast raked up a couple of green
Forest palmer worms, or be they the sons of the man in the moon,
raked out and all astray?"

"Mayhap, for we met them with dog and bush," said Tibble, "and they
dropped as from the moon to save my poor master from the robbers on
Bagshot heath! Come now, mine honest fellow, aid me to rake, as
thou sayest, this same household. They are come up from the Forest,
to seek out their uncle, one Randall, who they have heard to be in
this meine. Knowest thou such a fellow?"

"To seek a spider in a stubble-field! Truly he needs my bauble who
sent them on such an errand," said the jester, rather slowly, as if
to take time for consideration. "What's your name, my Forest
flies?"

"Birkenholt, sir," answered Ambrose, "but our uncle is Harry
Randall."