238 
American Agriculturist, October 6,1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
CHAPTER IV 
I MEET WITH A GREAT MISFORTUNE 
rilHAT day I passed through several villages, stopping only to eat and drink; 
JL thus evening was falling as, having left fair Sevenoaks behind, T came to 
the brow of a certain hill, a long and very steep descent called the River Hill. 
And here rising stark against the evening sky, was a gibbet, and standing be¬ 
neath it a man, a short, square man in a somewhat shabby coat of a bottle- 
green, and with a wide-brimmed beaver hat sloped down over his eyes, who 
stood with his feet well apart, sucking the knob of a stick he carried, while he 
stared up at that which dangled by a stout chain from the cross beam of the 
gibbet—something black and shrivelled and horrible that had once been human. 
As I came up, the man drew the stick from his mouth and touched the brim 
of his hat with it in salutation. 
“An object lesson, sir,” said he, and nodded towards the loathsome mass above. 
“A very hideous one!” said I, pausing, “and I think a very useless one.” 
“He was as fine a fellow as ever thrust toe into stirrup,” the man went on, 
pointing upward with his stick, “though you’d never think so to look at him now!” 
“You knew him perhaps?” said I. 
“Knew him,” repeated the man, staring at me over his shoulder, “knew him 
—ah—that is, I knew of him.” 
“A highwayman?” 
“Nick Scrope his name was,” answered the man with a nod, “hung at Maid¬ 
stone assizes last year, and here he be—hung up in chains as a warning to all 
and sundry.” 
“The more shame to England,” said I; “to my thinking it is a scandal that our 
highways should be rendered odious by such horrors, and as wicked as it 
is useless.” 
“ ’Od rot me!” cried the fellow, 
slapping a cloud of dust from his coat 
with his stick, “hark to that now.” 
“What?” said I, “do you think for 
one moment that such a sight, horrible 
though it is, could possibly deter a man 
from robbery or murder whose mind is 
already made up to it by reason of 
circumstances or starvation?” 
“Well, but it's an old custom, as old 
as this here road.” 
“True,” said I, “and that of itself 
but proves my argument, for men have 
been hanged and gibbeted all these 
years, yet robbery and murder are of 
daily occurrence.” 
“Why, as to that, sir,” said the man, 
falling into step beside me as I walked 
on down the hill, “I won’t say yes and 
I won’t say no, but what I do say is— 
as many a man might think twice afore 
running the chance of coming to that— 
look!” And he stopped to turn, and 
point back at the gibbet with his stick. 
Once more, though my whole being 
revolted at the sight I must needs turn 
to look at the thing—the tall, black 
shaft of the gibbet, and the grisly hor¬ 
ror that dangled beneath with its chains 
and iron bands; and from this, back 
again to my companion, to find him re¬ 
garding me with a curiously twisted 
smile, and a long-barrelled pistol held 
within a foot of my head. 
“Sir,” said he, “I must trouble you 
for the shiner I see a-winking at me 
from your cravat, likewise your watch 
and any small change you may have.” 
For a moment I hesitated, glancing 
from his grinning mouth swiftly over 
the deserted road, and back again. 
“Likewise,” said the fellow, “I must 
ask you to be sharp about it.” It was 
with singularly clumsy fingers that I 
drew the watch from my fob and the 
pin from my cravat. 
“Now your pockets,” he suggested, 
“turn ’em out.” 
This command I reluctantly obeyed, 
bringing to light my ten guineas, which 
were as yet intact, and which he 
pocketed forthwith, and two pennies— 
which he bade me keep. 
“For,” said he, “’t will buy you a 
draught of ale, sir, and there’s good 
stuff to be had at ‘The White Hart’ 
yonder, and there’s nothin’ like a. 
draught of good ale to comfort a man 
in any such small adversity like this 
here. As to that knapsack now,” he 
pursued, eyeing it thoughtfully, “it 
looks heavy and might hold valleybels, 
but then, on the other hand, it might 
not, and those there straps takes time 
to unbuckle and—” He broke off sud¬ 
denly, for from somewhere on the hill 
below us came the unmistakable sound 
of wheels. Hereupon the fellow very 
nimbly ran across the road, and 
vanished among the trees. 
CHAPTER V 
THE BAGMAN 
I WAS yet standing there, half 
stunned by my loss, when a tilbury 
came slowly round a bend in the road, 
the driver of which nodded lazily in his 
seat while his horse, a sorry, jaded 
animal, plodded wearily up the steep 
slope of the hill. As he approached I 
hailed him loudly, upon which he sud¬ 
denly dived down between his knees 
and produced a brass-bound blunder¬ 
buss. 
“What’s to do?” cried he, a thick-set, 
round-faced fellow, “what’s to do, eh?” 
and he covered me with the wide mouth 
of the blunderbuss. 
“Thieves!” said I, “I’ve been robbed, 
and not three minutes since.” 
“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a tone of 
great relief, and with the color return¬ 
ing to his plump cheeks, “is that the 
way of it?” 
“It is,” said I, “and a very bad way; 
the fellow has left me but twopence in 
the world.” 
“Twopence—ah?” 
“Come,” I went on, “you are armed, 
I see; the thief took to the brushwood, 
here, not three minutes ago; we may 
catcb him yet—” 
“Catch him?” repeated the fellow, 
staring. 
“Yes, don’t I tell you he has stolen 
all the money I possess?” 
“Except twopence,” said the fellow. 
“Yes—” 
‘*Well, twopence ain’t to be sneezed 
at, and if I was you—” 
“Come, we’re losing time,” said I, 
cutting him short. 
“But—my mare, what about my 
mare?” 
“She’ll stand,” I answered; “she’s 
tired enough.” 
The Bagman, for such I took him to 
be, sighed, and blunderbuss in hand, 
prepared to alight, but, in the act of 
doing so, paused: 
“Was the rascal armed?” he in¬ 
quired, over his shoulder. 
“To be sure he was,” said I. 
T HE Bagman got back into his seat 
and took up the reins. 
“What now?” I inquired. 
“It ’s this accursed mare of mine,” 
he answered; “she’ll bolt again, d’ye 
see—twice yesterday and once the day 
before, she bolted, sir, and on a road 
like this—” 
“Then lend me your blunderbuss.” 
“I can’t do that,” he replied, shaking 
his head. 
“But why not?” said I impatiently. 
“Because this is a dangerous road, 
and I don’t intend to be left unarmed 
on a dangerous road; I never have 
been and I never will, and there’s an 
end of it, d’ye see!” 
“Then do you mean to say that you 
refuse your aid to a fellow-traveler— 
that you will let the rogue get away 
with all the money I possess in the 
world—” 
“Oh, no; not on no account; just you 
get up here beside me and we’ll drive 
to ‘The White Hart.’ I’m well known 
at ‘The White Hart;’ we’ll get a few 
honest fellows at our heels and have 
this thieving, rascally villain in the 
twinkling of an—” He stopped sud¬ 
denly, made a frantic clutch at his 
blunderbuss, and sat* staring. Turn¬ 
ing short round, I saw the man in the 
beaver hat standing within a yard of 
us, fingering his long pistol and with 
the same twisted smile upon his lips. 
“I’ve a mind,” said he, nodding his 
head at the Bagman “I’ve a grea f 
mind to blow your face off.” 
The blunderbuss fell to the roadway, 
with a clatter. 
“Thievin’, rascally villain—was it? 
Damme! I think I will blow your 
face off.” 
“No—don’t do — that,” said the Bag- 
man, in a strange, jerky voice, “what 
’ud be—the good?” 
“Why, that there poor animal 
wouldn’t have to drag that fat carkiss 
of yours up and down hills, for one 
thing.” 
“I’ll get out and walk.” 
_ ‘‘And it might learn ye to keep a 
civil tongue in your head.” 
“I—I didn’t mean—any—offence.” 
“Then chuck us your purse,” 
growled the other, “and be quick about 
it.” The Bagman obeyed with wonder¬ 
ful celerity, and I heard the pUrse chink 
as the footpad dropped it into the 
pocket of his greatcoat. 
“As for you,” said he, turning to 
me, “you get on your way and never 
mind me; forget you ever had ten 
guineas and don’t go a-riskin’ your 
vallyble young life; come—up with 
you!” and he motioned me into the 
tilbury with his pistol. 
“What about my blunderbuss?” ex¬ 
postulated the Bagman, faintly, as I 
seated myself beside him, “you’ll give 
me my blunderbuss—cost me five pound 
it did.” 
“More fool you!” said the highway¬ 
man, and, picking up the unwieldy 
weapon, he hove it into the ditch. 
“As to our argyment—regardin’ gib¬ 
betin’, sir,” said he, nodding to me, “I’m 
rayther inclined to think you was in 
the right on it arter all.” Then, turn¬ 
ing towards the Bagman: “Drive on, 
fat-face!” said he, “and sharp ’s 
the word.” Whereupon the Bagman 
whipped up his horse and, as the tired 
animal struggled forward over the 
crest of the hill, I saw the highwayman 
still watching us. 
V ERY soon we came in view of “The 
White Hart,” and scarce were we 
driven up to the door than down 
jumped the Bagman, leaving me to fol¬ 
low at my leisure, and running into the 
tap, forthwith began recounting his loss 
to all and sundry, so that I soon found 
we were become the center of a gaping 
crowd, much to my disgust. 
“Galloping Dick himself, or I’m a 
Dutchman!” he cried for the twentieth 
time; “up he comes, bold as brass, bless 
you, and a horse-pistol in each hand. 
‘Hold hard!’ says I, and ups with my 
blunderbuss; you remember as I ups 
with my blunderbuss?” he inquired, 
turning to me. 
“Quite well,” said I. 
“Ah, but you should have seen the fel¬ 
low’s face, when he saw my blunder¬ 
buss ready at my shoulder; green it 
was—green as grass, for if ever there 
was death in a man’s face, and sudden 
death at that, there was sudden death 
in niipe, when, all at once, my mare, 
my accursed mare jibbed—” 
“Yes, yes?” cried half-a-dozen breath¬ 
less voices, “what then?” 
“Why, then, gentlemen,” said the 
Bagman, shaking his head and frown¬ 
ing round upon the ring of intent faces, 
“why then, gentlemen, being a resolute, 
determined fellow, I did what any other 
man of spirit would have done—I—” 
“Dropped your blunderbuss,” said I. 
“Ay, to be sure I did—” 
“And he pitched it into the ditch,” 
said I. 
“Ay,” nodded the Bagman dubiously, 
while the others crowded nearer. 
“And then he took your money, and 
called you ‘Fool’ and ‘Fat-face,’ and so 
it ended,” said I. With which I pushed 
my way from the circle, and, finding a 
quiet corner beside the chimney, sat 
down, and with my last twopence paid 
for a tankard of ale. 
CHAPTER VI 
WHAT BEFELL ME AT “THE WHITE HART” 
W HEN a man has experienced some 
great and totally unexpected re¬ 
verse of fortune, has been swept from 
one plane of existence to another, that 
he should fail at once to recognize the 
full magnitude of that change is but 
natural, for his faculties must of neces¬ 
sity be nuinbered more or less by its 
very suddenness. 
Yesterday I had been reduced from 
affluence to poverty with an unexpected¬ 
ness that had dazed me, and, from pov¬ 
erty I now found myself reduced to an 
utter destitution, without the where¬ 
withal to pay for the meanest night’s 
lodging. I fell into a gloomy medita¬ 
tion; and the longer I thought it over, 
the more dejected I became. To be sure, 
I might apply to Sir Richard for as¬ 
sistance, but my pride revolted at even 
the thought, more especially at such an 
early stage; moreover, 1 had deter¬ 
mined, beforehand, to walk my ap¬ 
pointed road unaided. 
F ROM these depressing thoughts I 
was presently aroused by a loud, 
rough voice at no great distance, to 
which, though I had been dimly con¬ 
scious of it for some time, I had before 
paid no attention. Now, however, I 
raised my eyes, and fixed them upon 
the speaker. 
He was a square-shouldered, bullet¬ 
headed fellow, evidently held in much 
respect by his companions, for he oc¬ 
cupied the head of the table, and I 
noticed that whenever he spoke the 
others held their peace, and hung upon 
the words with much respect. 
“ ‘Yes, sirs,’ says I,” he began, with 
a flourish of his long-stemmed pipe, 
“ ‘yes, sirs, Tom Cragg’s my name an' 
craggy ’s my natur’, says I. ‘I be ’ard 
sirs, dey-vilish ’ard an’ uncommon 
rocky! ’Ere ’s a face as likes good 
knocks,’ I says, ‘w’y, when I fought Crib 
Burke o’ Bristol ’e broke ’is ’and again’ 
my jaw, an’ I scarce knowed ’e’d ’it me 
till I see ’im ’oppin’ wi’ pain. ‘Come, 
sirs,’ says I, ‘who’ll give me a black eye; 
a fiver’s all I ask.’ Well, up comes a 
young buck, ready an’ willin’. ‘Tom,’ 
says ’e, ‘I’ll take tWo flaps at that fig- 
ger-head o’ yourn for seven guineas, 
come, what d’ ye say?’ I says, ‘done.’ 
So my fine gentleman lays by ’is ’at 
an’ cane, strips off ’is right-’and glove, 
an’ ’eavin’ back lets fly at me. Bang 
comes ’is fist again’ my jaw, an’ there's 
my gentleman a-dabbin’ at ’is broken 
knuckles wi’ ’is ’ankercher. ‘Come, my 
lord,’ says I, ‘fair is fair, take your 
other Whack.’ ‘Damnation!’ says ’e, 
‘take your money an’ go to the devil!' 
says ’e, ‘I thought you was flesh an' 
START THE STORY HERE! 
VOUNG PETER VIBART takes 
to the Broad Highway, his 
uncle’s legacy of ten guineas his 
only fortune. Having taken leave 
of his friends, Sir Richard and 
Adams, the groom, he determines 
to make a man of himself by 
honest labor somewhere in coun¬ 
try England. In doihg so, he 
turns his back on the prospect of 
inheriting his uncle’s fortune by 
marrying Lady Sophia Sefton, 
whom he has never seen—a con¬ 
dition also open to his dissolute 
cousin, Sir Maurice Vibart. 
blood an’ not cast iron!’ ‘Craggy, my 
lord,’ says I, gathering up the rhino, 
‘Cragg by name an’ craggy by natur’, 
my lord,’ says I.” 
Hereupon ensued a roar of laughter, 
with much slapping of thighs, and 
stamping of feet, while the bullet¬ 
headed man solemnly emptied his 
tankard. 
“Now, Tom,” said a tall, bony in¬ 
dividual, chiefly remarkable in pos¬ 
sessing but one eye, and that so ex¬ 
tremely pale and watery as to give one 
the idea that it was very much over¬ 
worked, “now, Tom,” said he, setting 
down the refilled tankard at the great 
man’s elbow with a triumphant flourish, 
“tell us ’ow you shook ’ands wi’ the 
Prince Regent.” 
“Ah! tell us,” chimed the rest. 
“Well,” said the bullet-headed man, 
stooping to blow the froth from his 
ale, “it was arter I beat Jack Nolan. 
The Prince ’e come a-runnin’ to me, ’e 
did, as I sat in my corner a-workin’ at 
a loose tusk. ‘Tom,’ ’e says, ‘Tom, you 
be a wonder.’ ‘I done Jack Nolan up 
proper I think, your ’Ighness,’ says I. 
{Continued on page 240) 
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