American Agriculturist, September 22,1923 
199 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
CHAPTER I 
CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLE’S LAST 
WILL AND TESTAMENT 
“‘AND to my nephew, Maurice Vi- 
A bart, I bequeath the sum of 
twenty thousand pounds in the fervent 
hope that it may help him to the devil 
within the year, or as soon after as 
may be.’ ” . , , . 
Here Mr. Grainger paused in his 
reading to glance up over the rim of 
his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay 
back in his chair and laughed loudly. 
“Gad!” he exclaimed, still chuckling, 
“I’d give a hundred pounds if he could 
have been present to hear that,” and 
the baronet went off into another roar 
of merriment. 
Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dig¬ 
nified and solemn, coughed a short, dry 
cough behind his hand. 
“Help him to the devil within a 
year,” repeated Sir Richard, still 
chuckling. 
“Pray proceed, sir,” said I, motion¬ 
ing towards the will. . . . But instead 
of complying, Mr. Grainger laid down 
the parchment, and removing his spec¬ 
tacles, began to polish them with a 
large silk handkerchief. 
“You are, I believe, unacquainted 
with your cousin, Sir Maurice Vibart?” 
he inquired. 
“I have never seen him,” said I; all 
my life has been passed either at 
school or the university, but I have 
frequently heard mention of him, 
nevertheless.” 
“Egad!” cried Sir Richard, “who 
hasn’t heard of Buck Vibart—beat Ted 
Jarraway of Swansea in five rounds 
drove coach and four down Whitehall 
—on sidewalk—ran away with a 
French marquise while but a _ boy of 
twenty, and shot her husband into the 
bargain. Celebrated figure in ‘sport¬ 
ing circles,’ friend of the Prince 
Regent-” 
“So I understand,” said I. 
“Altogether as complete a young 
blackguard as ever swaggered down. St. 
James’s.” Having said which, Sir Rich¬ 
ard crossed his legs and inhaled a 
pinch of snuff. 
“Twenty thousand pounds is a very 
handsome sum,” remarked Mr. Grain¬ 
ger ponderously. 
“Indeed it is,” said I, “and might help 
a man to the devil as comfortably as 
need be, but-” . 
“Though,” pursued Mr. Grainger, 
“much below his expectations and sad¬ 
ly inadequate to his present needs, I 
fear.” 
“That is most unfortunate,” said I, 
“but-” 
“His debts,” said Mr. Grainger, busy 
at his Spectacles again, “his debts are 
very heavy, I believe.” 
“Then doubtless some arrangement 
can be made to—but continue your 
reading, I beg,” said I. 
M R. GRAINGER repeated his short 
dry cough, and taking up the will, 
slowly and almost as though unwill¬ 
ingly, cleared his throat and began as 
follows: 
“ ‘Furthermore, to my nephew, Peter 
Vibart, cousin to the above, I will and 
bequeath my blessing and the sum of 
ten guineas in cash, wherewith to pur¬ 
chase a copy of Zeno or any other of 
the stoic philosophers he may prefer.’ ” 
Again Mr. Grainger laid down the 
will, and again he regarded me over 
the rim of his spectacles. 
“Good God!” cried Sir Richard, leap¬ 
ing to his feet, “the man must have 
been mad. Ten guineas—why, it’s an 
insult—you’ll never take it, of course, 
Peter.” 
“On the contrary, sir,” said I. 
“But—ten guineas!” bellowed the 
baronet; “on my soul now, George was 
a cold-blooded fish, but I didn’t think 
even he was capable of such a despica¬ 
ble trick—no—curse me_ if I did! 
Why, it would have been kinder to have 
left you nothing at all—but it was 
like George—bitter to the end—ten 
guineas!” 
“Is ten guineas,” said I, “and when 
one comes to think of it, much may 
be done with-ten guineas.” 
Sir Richard grew purple in the face, 
but before he could speak, Mr. Grain¬ 
ger began to read again: 
“ ‘Moreover, the sum of five hundred 
thousand pounds, now vested in the 
funds, shall be paid to either Maurice 
or Peter Vibart aforesaid, if either 
shall, within one calendar year, be¬ 
come the husband of the Lady Sophia 
Sefton of Cambourne.’ ” 
“Good Heavens!” exclaimed Sir 
Richard. 
“ ‘Failing which,’ ” read Mr. Grain¬ 
ger, “ ‘the said sum, namely, five hun¬ 
dred thousand pounds, shall be be¬ 
stowed upon such charity or charities 
as the trustee shall select. . Signed by 
me, this tenth day of April, eighteen 
hundred and -, George Vibart. 
Duly witnessed by Adam Penfleet, 
Martha Trent.’ ” 
H ERE Mr. Grainger’s voice stopped, 
and, in the silence that followed, 
the parchment crackled very loudly as 
he folded it precisely and laid it on the 
table before him. Sir Richard was 
swearing vehemently under his breath 
as he paced to and fro between me 
and the window. 
“And that is all?” I inquired at last. 
“That,” said Mr. Grainger, not look¬ 
ing at me now, “is all.” 
“The Lady Sophia/’ murmured Sir 
Sir Richard as if to himself, “the Lady 
Sophia!” And then, stopping sudden¬ 
ly before me in his walk, “Oh, Peter!” 
said he, clapping his hand down upon 
my shoulder, “oh, Peter, that settles it; 
you’re done for, boy—a crueller will 
was never made.” 
“Marriage!” said I to myself. 
“Hum!” 
“A damnable iniquity!” exclaimed 
Sir Richard, striding up and down the 
room again. 
“The Lady Sophia Sefton of Cam- 
bourne!” said I, rubbing my chin. 
“Why, that’s just it,” roared the 
baronet; “she’s a reigning toast—most 
famous beauty in the country, London’s 
mad over her—she can pick and choose 
from all the finest gentlemen in Eng¬ 
land. Oh, it’s ‘good-by’ to all your 
hopes of the inheritance, Peter.” 
“Sir, I fail to see your argument,” 
said I. 
“What?” cried Sir Richard, facing 
round on me, “d’ you think you’d have 
a chance with ber then?” 
“Why not?” 
“Without friends, position, or 
money? Pish, boy! don’t I tell you 
that every buck and dandy—every 
mincing macaroni in the three king¬ 
doms would give his very legs to marry 
“Sir Richard,” said I, “should I ever 
contemplate marriage, which is most 
improbable, my wife must be sweet and 
shy, gentle-eyed and soft of voice, in¬ 
stead of your bold, strong-armed, 
horse-galloping creature; above all, she 
must be sweet and clinging-” 
“Sweet and sticky, oh, the devil! 
Hark to the boy, Grainger,” cried Sir 
Richard, “hark to him—and one glance 
of the glorious Sefton’s bright eyes— 
one glance only, Grainger, and he’d 
be at her feet—on his knees—on his 
confounded knees, sir!” 
“The question is, how do you pro¬ 
pose to maintain yourself in the fu¬ 
ture?” said Mr. Grainger at this point; 
“life under your altered fortunes must 
prove necessarily hard, Mr. Peter.” 
“And yet, sir,” I answered, “a for¬ 
tune with a wife tagged on to it must 
prove a very mixed blessing after all. 
Surely there must be some position in 
life that I am competent to fill, some 
position that would maintain me honor¬ 
ably and well; I flatter myself that my 
years at Oxford were not altogether 
barren of result-” 
“By no means,” put in Sir Richard; 
“you won the high jump, I believe?” 
“Sir, I did,” said I; “also ‘throwing 
the hammer.’ ” 
“And spent two thousand pounds per 
annum?” said Sir Richard. 
“Sir, I did, but between whiles man¬ 
aged to finish a new and original trans¬ 
lation of Quintilian, and also a literal 
rendering into the English of the 
Memoirs of the Sieur de Brantome.” 
“For none of which you have hitherto 
found a publisher?” inquired Mr. 
Grainger. 
“’VTOT as yet,” said I, “but I have 
IN great hopes of my, Brantome, as 
you are probably aware this is the first 
time he has ever been translated into 
the English.” 
“Hum!” said Sir Richard, “ha!—and 
in the meantime what do you intend 
to do?” 
“On that head I have as yet come to 
no definite conclusion, sir,” I answered. 
“I have been wondering,” began Mr. 
Grainger, somewhat diffidently, “if you 
would care to accept a position in my 
office. To be sure the remuneration 
Would be small at first and quite insig¬ 
nificant in comparison to the income 
you have been in the receipt of.” 
“But it would have been mOney 
earned,” said I, “which is infinitely 
STARTING THIS WEEK—THE BROAD HIGHWAY 
E NGLAND of the Georges—perfumed dandies and dashing belles— 
roadside taverns and tankards of ale—dangling gibbets, highway¬ 
men, ladies in distress and tattered philosophers—the tranquil beauty 
of English country and the comradeship of the open road, all are un¬ 
folded in this story of adventure and romance. 
In the first installment, Peter Vibart, disinherited, starts out to ex¬ 
plore the Broad Highway—life itself—in spite of the wish of his loyal 
friend, Sir Bichard, a hard-swearing, tender-hearted old baronet, to 
keep him in London. What happens to Peter—and he never lacks ad¬ 
venture—will be set forth in succeeding numbers.—The Editors. 
her—either for her beauty or her for¬ 
tune?” spluttered the baronet. “‘And 
let me inform you further that she’s 
devilish high and haughty with it all— 
they do say she even rebuffed the 
Prince Regent himself.” 
“But then, sir, I consider myself a 
better man than the Prince Regent,” 
said I. 
Sir Richard sank into the nearest 
chair and stared at me open-mouthed. 
“Deuce take me!” said he. 
“Referring to the Lady Sophia, I 
have heard that she once galloped her 
horse up the steps of St. Paul’s 
Cathedral-” 
“And down again, Peter,” added Sir 
Richard. 
“Also she is said to be possessed of 
a temper,” I continued, “and is above 
the average height, I believe, and I 
have a natural antipathy to terma¬ 
gants, more especially tall ones.” 
“Termagant!” cried Sir Richard. 
“Why, she’s the handsomest woman 'in 
London, boy. She’s none of your milk- 
and-watery, meek-mouthed misses— 
curse me, no! She’s all fire and blood 
and high mettle—a woman, sir—glori¬ 
ous—divine!” 
preferable to that for which we never 
turn a hand—at least, I think so.” 
“Then you accept?” 
“No, sir,” said I, “though I am grate¬ 
ful to you, and thank you most sincere¬ 
ly, yet I have never felt the least in¬ 
clination to the law; where there is no 
interest one’s work must necessarily 
suffer, and I have no desire that your 
business should be injured by any care¬ 
lessness of mine.” 
“What do you think of a private 
tutorship?” 
“It would suit me above all things 
were it not for the fact that the genus 
‘Boy’ is the most aggravating of all 
animals, and that I am conscious of a 
certain shortness of temper at times, 
which might result in pain to my pupil, 
loss of dignity to myself, and general 
unpleasantness to all concerned—other¬ 
wise a private tutorship would suit 
most admirably.” 
Here Sir Richard took another pinch 
of snuff and sat frowning up at the 
ceiling, while Mr. Grainger began tying 
up that document which had so altered 
my prospects. As for me, I crossed to 
the window and stood. staring- out at 
the evening. Everywhere were-trees 
tinted by the rosy glow of sunset, trees 
that stirred sleepily in the gentle wind, 
and far - away I could see that famous 
highway, built and paved for the march 
of Roman Legions, winding away to 
where it vanished over distant Shoot¬ 
er’s Hill. 
“And pray,” said Sir Richard, still 
frowning at the ceiling, “what do you 
propose to do with yourself?” 
N OW, as I looked out upon this fair 
evening, I became, of a sudden, 
possessed of an overmastering desire, 
a great longing for field and meadow 
and hedgerow, for wood and coppice 
and shady stream, for sequestered inns 
and wide, wind-swept heaths, and ever 
the broad highway in front. Thus I 
answered Sir Richard’s question un¬ 
hesitatingly, and without turning from 
the window: 
“I shall go, sir, on a walking tour 
through Kent and Surrey into Devon¬ 
shire, and thence probably to Corn¬ 
wall.” **■*■ 
“And with a miserable ten giuneas 
in your pocket? Preposterous—ab¬ 
surd!” retorted Sir Richard. 
“On the contrary, sir,” said I, “the 
more I ponder the project, the more 
enamored of it I become.” 
“And when your money is all gone— 
how then?” 
“I shall turn my hand to some use¬ 
ful employment,” said I; “digging, for 
instance.” 
“Digging!” ejaculated Sir Richard, 
“and you a scholar—and what is more, 
a gentleman!” 
“My dear Sir Richard,” said I, “that 
all depends upon how you would de¬ 
fine a. gentleman. To ijie he would ap¬ 
pear, of late years, to have degenerated 
into a creature whose chief end in life 
is to spend money he has never earned, 
habitually to ■ drink more than is good 
for him, and, between whiles, to fill 
in his time hunting, cock-fighting, or 
watching entranced while two men 
pound each other unrecognizable in the 
prize ring. Occasionally he has the 
good taste to break his neck in the 
hunting field, or get himself gloriously 
shot in a duel, but the generality live 
on to a good old age.” 
“Deuce take me!” ejaculated Sir 
Richard feebly, while Mr. Grainger 
buried his face in his pocket hand¬ 
kerchief. 
“To my mind,” I ended, “the man 
who sweats over a spade or follows the 
tail of a plow is far nobler and higher 
in the Scheme of Things than any of 
your young ‘bloods’ driving his coach 
and four to Brighton to the danger 
of all and sundry.” 
Sir Richard slowly got up. out of 
his chair, staring at me open-mouthed. 
“Good God!” he exclaimed at last, “the 
boy’s a Revolutionary.” 
I SMILED and shrugged my shoul¬ 
ders, but, before I could speak, Mr. 
Grainger interposed: 
“Referring to your proposed tour, 
Mr. Peter, when do you expect to 
start?” 
“Early to-morrow morning, sir.” 
“I will not attempt to dissuade you, 
well knowing the difficulty,” said he, 
with a faint smile, “but a letter ad¬ 
dressed to me at Lincoln’s Inn will al¬ 
ways receive my most earnest atten¬ 
tion.” So saying, he rose, bowed, and 
having shaken my hand, left the room, 
closing the door behind him. 
“Peter,” exclaimed the baronet, 
striding up and down, “Peter, you are 
a fool, sir, a hot-headed, self-sufficient 
young fool, sir, curse me!” 
“I am sorry you should think so,” 
I answered. 
“And,” he continued, regarding me 
with a defiant eye, “I shall expect you 
to draw upon me for any sum that— 
that you may require for the present 
—friendship’s sake—boyhood and—and 
all that sort of thing, and—er—oh, 
damme, you understand, Peter?” 
“Sir Richard,” said I, grasping his 
unwilling hand, “I—I thank you from 
the bottom of my heart.” 
“Pooh, Peter!” said he, snatching his 
hand away. 
“Thank you, sir,” I reiterated; “be 
sure that should I fall ill or any un¬ 
foreseen calamity happen to me, I will 
most gladly, most gratefully accept your 
{Continued on page 201) 
