"I call to mind that I once shot six ends with a Kentish woldsman
at Ashford--" began the Bowyer.
"Nay, nay, we have heard that story!" said old Wat impatiently.
"Shut thy clap, Bartholomew, for it is no time for redeless
gossip! Walk down the line, I pray you, and see if there be no
frayed string, nor broken nock nor loosened whipping to be
mended."
The stout bowyer passed down the fringe of bowmen, amidst a
running fire of rough wit. Here and there a bow was thrust out at
him through the hedge for his professional advice.
"Wax your heads!" he kept crying. "Pass down the wax-pot and wax
your heads. A waxed arrow will pass where a dry will be held.
Tom Beverley, you jack-fool! where is your bracer-guard? Your
string will flay your arm ere you reach your up-shot this day.
And you, Watkin, draw not to your mouth, as is your wont, but to
your shoulder. You are so used to the wine-pot that the string
must needs follow it. Nay, stand loose, and give space for your
drawing arms, for they will be on us anon."
He ran back and joined his comrades in the front, who had now
risen to their feet. Behind them a half-mile of archers stood
behind the hedge, each with his great warbow strung, half a dozen
shafts loose behind him, and eighteen more in the quiver slung
across his front. With arrow on string, their feet firm-planted,
their fierce eager faces peering through the branches, they
awaited the coming storm.
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