He flourished on a signature capability: no beast, however silent, however light of foot or neat of meal, could escape his observance.
There was no telling how a single twig awry on the twig-studded vastness of an evergreen bole could guarantee an ill-fated game-beast within the day, but nevertheless such was the guarantee in the woods by which—or rather, by the wild inhabitants of which—Robin “Hunter” sustained himself and his steadily waxing family.
If it had been the trend of the time to brag of hunting stag, then Robin would have hunted stag; but it so happened that the fashion remained to vaunt of chase after an animal whose meat was no better than dog's fare and whose hide was of no other use than attestation of the chase. Fraudulent attestation, at that: most hides that hung on the walls and doors of the well-to-do were less prizes of theirs from a courageous hunt than from a successful bargain, for Robin was aware of his matchless talent, and even the prosperous could blanch at the prices he demanded.
However, credit for killing a beast that had not provoked him was more blame than praise to him, so Robin’s business functioned most satisfactorily to all to sides. Robin’s wife grew plump, the children and the housecats followed suit, and the wealthy braggarts trod on skins of bears and wolves to their hearts’ content, while their unwitting guests giggled their admiration.