The Adventures of Tom Sawyer | Chapter VIII - Page 2
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, barelegged, with fluttering shirt. He presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe 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 carcase 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.
The boys dressed themselves, hid their accouterments, and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss. They said they would rather be outlaws a year in Sherwood Forest than President of the United States forever.
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