These soldiers, noting the strange-faced, ashen-haired fellow who ate with his bow resting on the bench beside him, inquired about him from the other Dunwich men, and soon heard enough to cause them to open their eyes.

When the ale had got hold of them they opened their mouths also, and, crowding round Dick, asked if it were true that he could shoot well.
"As well as another," he answered, and would say no more.
Then they looked at his bow, and saw that it was old-fashioned, like his master's mail, and of some foreign make and wood, but a mighty weapon such as few could handle and hold straight.

Lastly, they began to challenge him to a match upon the morrow, to which he answered, who also had been drinking ale and was growing angry, that he'd give the best of them five points in fifty.
Now they mocked, for among them were some famous archers, and asked at what range.
"At any ye will," answered Grey Dick, "from twelve score yards down to one score yards.

Now trouble me no longer, who if I must shoot to-morrow would sleep first and drink no more of your strong ale that breeds bad humours in one reared upon dyke water." Then, seizing his bow, he glided away in his curious stoat-like fashion to the hole where he had been shown that he should sleep.
"A braggart!" said one.
"I am not so sure," answered a grizzled captain of archers, who had fought in many wars.

"Braggarts make a noise, but this fellow only spoke when we squeezed him and perhaps what came out of those thin lips was truth.