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marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying: “Brother go find
your brother!” He watched where it stopped, and went there and looked. But it
must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more. The last repetition
was successful. The two marbles lay within a foot of each other.

Just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green aisles of the
forest. Tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt,
raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow,
a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and
bounded away, bare-legged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a
great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tip-toe and look warily
out, this way and that. He said cautiously-to an imaginary company: “Hold, my
merry men! Keep hid till I blow.” Now appeared Joe Harper, as airily clad and
elaborately armed as Tom. Tom called: “Hold! Who comes here into Sherwood
Forest without my pass?” “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 carcass 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 shan’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.