"Ah, sir," said I, "they had famous bands of robbers in the good old
times. Those were glorious poetical days. The merry crew of Sherwood
Forest, who led such a roving picturesque life, 'under the greenwood
tree.' I have often wished to visit their haunts, and tread the scenes
of the exploits of Friar Tuck, and Clym of the Clough, and Sir William
of Coudeslie."
"Nay, sir," said the gentleman in green, "we have had several very
pretty gangs since their day. Those gallant dogs that kept about the
great heaths in the neighborhood of London; about Bagshot, and
Hounslow, and Black Heath, for instance - come, sir, my service to you.
You don't drink."
"I suppose," said I, emptying my glass - "I suppose you have heard of
the famous Turpin, who was born in this very village of Hempstead, and
who used to lurk with his gang in Epping Forest, about a hundred years
since."
"Have I?" cried he - "to be sure I have! A hearty old blade that; sound
as pitch. Old Turpentine! - as we used to call him. A famous fine
fellow, sir."
"Well, sir," continued I, "I have visited Waltham Abbey, and Chinkford
Church, merely from the stories I heard, when a boy, of his exploits
there, and I have searched Epping Forest for the cavern where he used
to conceal himself. You must know," added I, "that I am a sort of
amateur of highwaymen.
