The next morning the weather had turned ill, and Robin Hood’s band stayed close to their dry and friendly cave. The third day brought a diversion in the shape of a trap by a roving party of the Sheriff’s men. A fine stag had been struck down by one Of Will Stutely’s fellows, and he and others had stepped forth from the covert to seize it, when twenty bowmen from Nottingham appeared at the end of the glade. Down dropped Will’s men on all fours, barely in time to hear a shower of arrows whistle above their heads. Then from behind the friendly trees they sent back such a welcome that the Sheriff’s men deemed it prudent not to tarry in their steps. Two of them, in sooth, bore back unpleasant wounds in their shoulders, from the encounter. When they returned to town the Sheriff waxed red with rage. “What,” he gasped, “do my men fear to fight this Robin Hood, face to face? Would that I could get him within my reach, once. We should see then; we should see!” What it was the Sheriff would see, he did not state. But he was to have his wish granted in short space, and you and I will see how he profited by it. The fourth day and the one following this friendly bout, Little John was missing. One of his men said that he saw him talking with a beggar, but did not know whither they had gone. Two more days passed. Robin grew uneasy. He did not doubt the faith of Little John, but he was fearful lest a roving band of Foresters had captured him. At last Robin could not remain quiet. Up sprang he, with bow and arrows, and a short sword at his side. “I must away to Nottingham town, my men,” he cried. “The goodly Sheriff has long desired to see me; and mayhap he can tell me tidings of the best quarter-staff in the shire”--meaning Little John. Others of the band besought him to let them go with him, but he would not. “Nay,” he said smilingly, “the Sheriff and I are too good friends to put doubt upon our meeting. But tarry ye in the edge of the wood opposite the west gate of the town, and ye may be of service ere to-morrow night.” So saying he strode forward to the road leading to Nottingham, and stood as before looking up and down to see if the way was clear. Back at a bend in the road he heard a rumbling and a lumbering, when up drove a stout butcher, whistling gaily, and driving a mare that sped slowly enough because of the weight of meat with which the cart was loaded. “A good morrow to you, friend,” hailed Robin. “Whence come you and where go you with your load of meat?” “A good morrow to you,” returned the butcher, civilly enough. “No matter where I dwell. I am but a simple butcher, and to Nottingham am I going, my flesh to sell. ‘Tis Fair week, and my beef and mutton should fetch a fair penny,” and he laughed loudly at his jest. “But whence come you?” “A yeoman am I, from Lockesley town. Men call me Robin Hood.”