American Agriculturist, September 29,1923 
215 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
L 
“T)ETER,” said Sir Richard suddenly. “You never saw your father to remem- 
x. ber, did you?” 
“No, Sir Richard.” 
“Nor your mother?” 
“Nor my mother.” 
“Poor boy—poor boy!” 
“You knew my mother?” 
“Yes, Peter, I knew your mother,” said Sir Richard, staring very hard at the 
chair again, and I saw that his mouth had grown wonderfully tender. “Yours 
has been a very secluded life hitherto, Peter,” he went on after a moment. 
“Entirely so,” said I, “with the exception of my never-to-be-forgotten visits to 
the Hall.” 
Sir Richard coughed and grew suddenly red. 
“Why—ah—you see, Peter,” he began, picking up his riding whip and staring 
at it, “you see your uncle was never very fond of company at any time, whereas 
I—” 
“Whereas you could always find time to i*emember the lonely boy left when 
all his companions were gone on their holidays—left to his books and the dreary 
desolation of the empty schoolhouse.” 
“Pooh!” exclaimed Sir Richard, redder than ever. “Bosh!” 
“Do you think I can ever forget the 
glorious day when you drove over in 
your coach and four, and carried me 
off in triumph, and how we raced the 
white-hatted fellow in the tilbury—?” 
“And beat him!” added Sir Richard. 
“Took off his near wheel on the 
turn,” said I. / 
“The fool’s own fault,” said Sir 
Richard. 
“And left him in the ditch, cursing 
us!” said I. 
“Egad, yes, Peter! Oh, but those 
were fine horses—and though I say it, 
no better team in the south country.” 
“And later, at Oxford,” I began. 
“What now, Peter?” said Sir 
Richard, frowning darkly. 
“Do you remember the bronze vase 
that used to stand on the mantlepiece 
in my study?” 
“Bronze vase?” repeated Sir 
Richard, intent upon his whip again. 
“I used to find bank-notes in it after 
you had visited me, and when I hid the 
vase they turned up just the same in 
most unexpected places.” 
“Young fellow—must have money — 
necessary—now and then,” muttered 
Sir Richard. 
At this juncture, the butler appeared 
to announce that Sir Richard’s horse 
was waiting. Hereupon the baronet 
caught up his hat and gloves, and I 
followed him out of the house and down 
the steps. 
IR RICHARD drew on his gloves, 
thrust his toe into the stirrup, and 
then turned to look at me over his 
arm. 
“Peter,” said he. “Regarding your 
walking tour—” 
“Yes?” 
“I think it’s all tomfoolery!” said 
Sir Richard. After saying which he 
swung himself into the* saddle with a 
lightness and ease that many younger 
might have envied. 
“I’m sorry, sir, because my mind is 
set upon it.” 
“With ten guineas in your pocket!” 
“That should be ample until I can 
find some means to earn more.” 
“A fiddlestick, sir — an accursed fid¬ 
dlestick!” snorted Sir Richard. “How 
is a boy, an unsophisticated, hotheaded 
young fool of a boy to earn his own 
living?” 
“Others have done it,” I began. 
“Pish!” said the baronet. 
“And been the better for it in the 
end.” 
“Tush!” said the baronet. 
“And I have a great desire to see 
the world from the viewpoint of the 
multitude.” 
“Bah!” said the baronet, so forcibly 
that his mare started; “this comes of 
your Revolutionary tendencies. Let 
me tell you, Want is a hard master, 
and the world a bad place for one who 
is moneyless and without friends.” 
“You forget, sir, I shall never be 
without a friend.” 
“God knows it, boy,” answered Sir 
Richard, and his hand rested for a 
moment upon my shoulder. “Pefer,” 
■ said he, very slowly and heavily, “I’m 
growing old—and I shall never marry 
— and sometimes, Peter, of an evening 
I get very lonely and—lonely, Peter.” 
He stopped, gazing away towards the 
green slopes of distant Shooter’s Hill. 
“Oh, boy!” said he at last, “won’t you 
come to the Hall and help me to spend 
my money?” 
Without answering I reached up and 
clasped his hand; it was the hand which 
i 
held his whip, and I noticed how tight¬ 
ly he gripped the handle, and wondered. 
“Sir Richard,” said I at last, “where- 
ever I go I shall treasure the recollec¬ 
tion of this moment, but—” 
“But, Peter?” 
“But, sir—” 
“Oh, dammit!” he exclaimed, and 
set spurs to his mare. Yet once he 
turned in his saddle to flourish his whip 
to me ere he galloped out of sight. 
CHAPTER II 
I SET OUT 
T HE clock of the square-towered 
Norman church, a mile away, was 
striking the hour of four as I let my¬ 
self out into the morning. It was dark 
as yet, and chilly, but in the East was 
already a faint glimmer of dawn. 
Reaching the stables, I paused with 
my hand on the door-hasp, listening to 
the hiss, hissing that told me Adam, 
the groom, was already at work within. 
As I entered he looked up from the 
saddle he was polishing and touched 
his forehead with a grimy forefinger. 
“You be early abroad, Mr. Peter.” 
“Yes,” said I. “I wish to be on 
Shooter’s Hill at sunrise; but first I 
came to say good-by to Wings.” 
“To be sure, sir,” nodded Adam, 
picking up his lanthorn. 
Upon the ensuing interview I will 
not dwell; it was affecting both to her 
and to myself, for we were mutually 
attached. 
“Sir,” said Adam, when at last the 
stable door had closed behind us, “that 
there mare knows as you’re a-leaving 
her.” 
“I think she does, Adam.” 
“This is a bad day for Wings, sir— 
and all of us, for that matter.” 
“I hope not, Adam.” 
“Everything to be sold under the 
will, I think, sir?” 
“Everything, Adam.” 
“Excuse me, sir,” said he, knuckling 
his forehead, “you won’t be wanting 
ever a groom, will you?” 
“No, Adam,” I answered, shaking my 
head, “I shan’t be wanting a groom.” 
Here there ensued a silence during 
which Adam knuckled his right temple 
again and I tightened the buckle of 
my knapsack. 
“Good-by, Adam!” said I, ahd held 
out my hand. 
“Good-by, sir.” And, having shaken 
my hand, he went back into the stable. 
So I set off, walking beneath an 
avenue of trees looming up gigantic on 
either hand. At the end was the lodge 
and, ere I opened the gates—for John, 
the lodgekeeper, was not yet astir—I 
paused for one last look at the house 
that had been all the home I had ever 
known. As I stood thus, with my eyes 
upon the indistinct mass, I presently 
distinguished a figure running towards 
me and, as he came up, recognized 
Adam. 
“It ain’t much, sir, but it’s all I 
’ave,” said he, and thrust a short, thick, 
well-smoked clay pipe into my hand— 
a pipe that was fashioned to the shape 
of a negro’s head. “It’s a good pipe, 
sir,” he went on, “a mortal good pipe, 
and as sweet as a nut!” saying which, 
he turned about and ran off, leaving 
me standing there. 
And having put the pipe into an 
inner pocket, I opened the gate and 
started off at a good pace along the 
broad highway. 
It was a bleak, desolate world that 
lay about me, a world of shadows and 
a white, low-lying mist that filled every 
hollow and swathed hedge and ti’ee; 
a lowering earth and a frowning 
heaven infinitely depressing. But the 
eastern sky was clear with an ever¬ 
growing brightness: hope lay there, so, 
as I walked, I kept my eyes towards the 
East. 
Being come at last to that eminence 
which is called Shooter’s Hill, I sat 
down upon a bank and turned to look 
back upon the wonderful city. And as 
I watched, the pearly East changed 
little by little, to a varying pink, which 
in turn slowly gave place to reds and 
yellows, until up came the sun in all 
his majesty, gilding vane and weather¬ 
cock upon a hundred spires and steeples, 
and making a glory of the river. 
“Truly,” said I to myself, “nowhere 
in the whole world is there such 
another city as London!” And pres¬ 
ently I sighed and, rising, set.my back 
to the city and went on down tne hill. 
Yes—the sun was up at last, and at 
his advent the mists rolled up and 
vanished, the birds awoke in brake and 
thicket and, lifting their voices, sang 
together. Bushes rustled, trees whis¬ 
pered, while from every leaf and twig, 
from every blade of grass, there hung 
a flashing jewel. 
With the mists my doubts of the 
future vanished too, and I strode upon 
my way, king of my destiny, walk¬ 
ing through a tribute world where 
feathered songsters carolled for me and 
blossoming flowers wafted sweet per¬ 
fume upon my path. So I went on 
gayly down the hill, rejoicing that I 
was alive. 
In the knapsack at my back I had 
stowed a few clothes, the strongest and 
plainest I possessed, together with a 
shirt, some half-dozen favorite books, 
and my translation of Brantome; and 
in my pocket was my uncle George’s 
legacy—namely, ten guineas in gold. 
And, as I walked, I began to compute 
how long such a sum might be made to 
last. By practising the strictest econ¬ 
omy, I thought I might manage well 
enough on two shillings a day, and this 
left me some hundred odd days in which 
to find some means of livelihood, and if 
a man could not suit himself in such 
time, then (thought I) he must be a 
fool indeed. 
Thus, my thoughts caught something 
of the glory of the bright sky above 
and the smiling earth about me, as I 
strode along that “Broad Highway” 
which was to lead me I knew not 
whither, yet where disaster was al¬ 
ready lying in wait for me—as you 
shall hear. 
CHAPTER III 
CONCERNS ITSELF MAINLY WITH A HAT 
AS the day advanced, the sun beat 
JLJL down with an ever-increasing heat, 
and what with this and the dust I 
presently grew very thirsty; wherefore, 
as I went, I must needs conjure up 
tantalizing visions of ale—of ale that 
foamed gloriously in tankards, and 
gurgled deliciously from the spouts of 
earthen pitchers, and I began to look 
about me for some inn where these 
visions might be realized and my burn¬ 
ing thirst nobly quenched. On I went, 
through this beautiful land of Kent, 
past tree and hedge and smiling 
meadow, by hill and dale and sloping 
upland, while ever the sun grew hotter, 
the winding road dustier, and my 
mighty thirst mightier. 
At length, reaching the brow of 
a hill, I espied a small inn that stood 
back from the glare of the road, and 
joyfully I hastened toward it. 
As I approached I heard loud voices, 
raised as though in altercation, and a 
hat came hurtling through the open 
doorway and, bounding into the road, 
rolled over and over to my very feet. 
I saw that it was a very ill-used hat, 
frayed and worn, dented of crown and 
broken of brim, yet beneath its sordid 
shabbiness there lurked the dim sem¬ 
blance of what it had once been, for, in 
the scratched ahd tarnished buckle, in 
the jaunty curl of the brim, it still 
preserved a certain pitiful air of 
rakishness; wherefore, I stooped, and, 
picking it up, began to brush the dust 
from it. 
I was thus engaged when there arose 
a sudden bull-like roar and, glancing 
up, I beheld a man who reeled back¬ 
wards out of the inn and who, after 
staggering a yard or so, thudded down 
into the road and so lay, staring va¬ 
cantly up at the sky. Before I could 
reach him, however, he got upon his 
legs and, crossing unsteadily to the 
tree I have mentioned, leaned there, 
and I saw there was much blood upon 
his face which he essayed to wipe away 
with the cuff of his coat. Now, upon 
his whole person, from the crown of 
his unkempt head down to his broken, 
dusty boots, there yet clung that air 
of jaunty, devil-may-care rakishness 
which I had seen, and pitied in his hat. 
Observing, as I came up, how heavily 
he leaned against the tree, and noting 
the extreme pallor of his face and the 
blank gaze of his sunken eyes, I touched 
him upon the shoulder. 
“Sir, I trust you are not hurt?” 
said I. 
“Thank you,” he answered, his glance 
still wandering, “not in the least—as¬ 
sure you—merely tap on the nose, sir 
—unpleasant—but no more, no more.” 
“I think,” said I, holding out the 
battered hat, “I think this is yours?” 
H IS eye encountering it in due time, 
he reached out his hand somewhat 
fumblingly, and took it from me with 
a slight movement of the head and 
shoulders that might have been a bow. 
“Thank you—yes—should know it 
among a thousand,” said he dreamily, 
“an old friend and a tried—a very 
much tried one—many thanks.” With 
which words he clapped the much-triedi 
friend upon his head, and with another 
movement that might have been a bow, 
turned short round and strode away. 
And as he went, despite the careless 
swing of his shoulder, his legs seemed 
to falter somewhat in their stride and 
once I thought he staggered; yet, as I 
watched, half minded to follow after 
him, he settled his hat more firmly 
with a light tap upon the crown and, 
thrusting his hands into the pockets 
of his threadbare coat, fell to whistling 
lustily, and so, turning a bend in the 
road, vanished from my sight. 
And presently, my thirst recurring 
to me, I approached the inn, and de¬ 
scending three steps entered its cool 
shade. Here I found four men, each 
with his pipe and tankard, to whom a 
THE START OE THE STORY! 
0 inherit his uncle’s fortune, 
Peter Vibart must, within six 
months, marry the Lady Sophia 
Sefton, a famous beauty. His 
cousin Maurice, whom he has 
never seen, can win the money 
on the same condition. 
But Peter, in spite of Sir 
Richard’s friendly offers, prefers 
to take to the road, with the ten 
guineas left him by his uncle. He 
declares the dashing Lady Sophia 
(whom he has also never seen) a 
termagant, and horrifies his 
friend by his democratic tastes. 
large, red-faced, big-fisted fellow was 
bolding forth in a high state of heat 
and indignation. 
“Wot’s England a-comin’ to?—that’s 
wot I wants to know,” he was saying; 
“wot’s England a-comin’ to when thiev¬ 
in’ robbers can come a-walkin’ in on 
you a-stealin’ a pint o’ your best ale 
out o’ your very own tankard under 
your very own nose. 
“Ah!” nodded the others solemnly, 
“that’s it, Joel—wot?” 
“W’y,” growled the red-faced inn¬ 
keeper, bringing his big fist down with 
a bang, “it’s a-comin’ to per—dition; 
that’s wot it’s a-comin’ to!” 
“And wot,” inquired a rather long, 
bony man with a face half-hidden in 
sandy whisker, “wot might per—dition 
be, Joel; likewise, wheer?” 
“You must be a danged fule, Tom, 
my lad!” retorted he whom they called 
Joel, redder in the face than ever. 
“I only axed wot an’ wheer.” 
“Only axe t d, did ye?” repeated Joel 
scornfully. 
“W’ich I notice,” retorted the man 
(Continued on page 216) 
