American Agriculturist, October 13,1923 
255 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery 
Farnol 
“TTUMPH!” said the red-headed man, “they say as he’s wonderful quick an’ 
XX can hit—like a sledge-hammer.” 
“Quick wi’ ’is ’ands ’e may be, an’ able to give a goodish thump, but as for 
beatin’ me—I could put ’im to sleep any time an’ anywhere, an’ I’d like—ah! I’d 
like to see the chap as says contrairy!” And here the pugilist scowled round 
upon his hearers. 
“You always was so fiery, Tom!” purred the one-eyed man. 
“I were,” cried the prizefighter, working himself into another rage, “ah! an’ 
I’m proud of it. I’d give any man ten shillin’ as could stand up to me for ten 
minutes.” 
“Ten shillings!” said I to myself, “ten shillings, when one comes to think of it, 
is a very handsome sum.” , 
“Wisji I may die!” roared Cragg, smiting his fist down on the table again, “a 
guinea—a golden guinea to the man as could stand, on ’is pins an’ fight me for 
five minutes.” 
“A guinea,” said I to myself, “is a fortune!” And, setting down my empty 
tankard, I crossed the room and touched Cragg upon the shoulder. 
“I will fight you,” said I, “for a guinea,” 
Now, as the fellow’s eyes met mine, 
he rose up out of his chair and his 
mouth opened slowly, but he spoke no 
word, backing from me until he was 
stayed by the table, where he stood, 
staring at me. And once again there 
fell a silence, in which I heard the tick 
of the clock in the corner and the 
crackle of the logs upon the hearth. 
“You?” said he, recovering himself 
with an effort, “you?” and, as he 
spoke, I saw his left eyelid twitch 
suddenly. 
“Exactly,” I answered, “I think I 
can stand up to even you — for five 
minutes.” Now, as I spoke, he winked 
at me again. That it was meant for 
me was certain, seeing that his back 
was towards the others, though what 
he intended to convey I could form 
no idea, so I assumed as confident an 
air as possible and waited. 'Hereupon 
the one-eyed man broke into a sudden 
raucous laugh. 
“ ’Ark to ’im, lads,” he cried, pointing 
to me with the stem of his pipe, “ ’e be 
a fine un to stand up to Tom Cragg — 
1 don’t think.” 
“rriELL ’un to go an’ larn hisself to 
X grow whiskers fust!” cried a sec¬ 
ond. 
“I am willing,” said I, “to accept 
your conditions and fight you — for a 
guinea — or any other man here for 
that matter, except the humorous gen¬ 
tleman with the watery eye, who can 
name his own price.” The fellow in 
question stared at me, glanced slowly 
t round, and, sitting down buried his face 
in his tankard. 
“Come, Tom Cragg,” said I, “a while 
f ago you seemed very anxious for a 
man to fight; well—I'm your man,” 
* and with the words I stripped off my 
coat and laid it across a chair-back. 
This apparent willingness on my part 
was but a cloak for my real feelings, 
for I will not disguise the fact that the 
prospect was anything but agreeable; 
indeed my heart was thumping in a 
most unpleasant manner, and my 
tongue and lips had become strangely 
parched and dry, as I fronted Cragg. 
Truly, he looked dangerous enough, 
with his beetling brow, his great depth 
of chest, and massive shoulders; and 
the possibility of a black eye or so, 
and general pounding from the fellow’s 
knotted fists, was daunting in the ex¬ 
treme. Still, the chance of earning a 
guinea, even under such conditions, was 
not to be lightly thrown away; there¬ 
fore I folded my arms and waited with 
as much resolution as I could. 
“Sir,” said Cragg, speaking in a 
very altered tone, “sir, you seem on- 
common — eager for it.” 
“I shall be glad to get it over,” said I. 
“If,” he went on slowly, “if I said 
anything against — you know who, I’m 
sorry for it — me ’aving the greatest 
respee’ for — you know who — you un¬ 
derstand me, I think.” And herewith 
he winked, three separate and distinct 
times. 
“No, I don’t understand you in the 
least,” said I, “nor do I think it at all 
necessary; all that I care about is the 
guinea in question.” 
“Come, Tom,” cried one of the com- 
* pany, “knock ’is ’ead off.” 
“Ay, Tom — cut your gab an’ finish 
’im,” and here came the clatter of 
’ chairs as the company rose. 
“Can’t be done,” said Cragg, shak¬ 
ing his head, “leastways — not ’ere.” 
“I’m not particular,” said I, “if you 
prefer, we might manage it very well 
in the stable with a couple of lan- 
thorns.” 
“The barn would be the very place,” 
suggested the landlord, bustling eagerly 
forward and wiping his hands on his 
apron, “the very place—plenty of room 
and nice and soft to fall on. If you 
would only put off your fightin’ till 
to-morrow, we might cry it through 
the villages; ’t would be a big draw. 
Ecod! we might make a purse o’ twenty 
pound—if you only would!” 
“To-morrow I hope to be a good dis¬ 
tance from here,” said I; “come, show 
us your barn.” So the landlord called 
for lanthorns and led the way to a 
large outbuilding back of the inn, into 
which we all trooped. 
“If Tom Cragg is ready,” said I, 
turning up the wristbands of my shirt, 
“why, so am I.” Here it was found to 
every one’s surprise, and mine in par¬ 
ticular, that Tom Cragg was not in the 
barn. Surprise gave place to noisy as¬ 
tonishment when, after much running 
to and fro, it was further learned that 
he had vanished altogether. Tom was 
gone as completely as though he had 
melted into thin air, and with him all 
my hopes of winning the guinea and a 
comfortable bed. 
It was with all my old dejection 
upon me, therefore, that I returned to 
the tap-room, and, refusing the officious 
aid of the One-Eyed Man, put on my 
coat, readjusted my knapsack and 
crossed to the door. On the threshold 
1 paused, and looked back. 
“If,” said I, glancing round the ring 
of faces, “if there is any man here who 
is at all willing to fight for a guinea, 
ten shillings, or even five, I should be 
very glad of the chance to earn it.” 
But, seeing how each, wilfully avoid¬ 
ing my eye, held his peace, I sighed, 
and turning my back upon them, set off 
along the darkening road. 
CHAPTER VII 
OF THE FURTHER PUZZLING BEHAVIOR OF 
TOM CRAGG, THE PUGILIST 
E VENING had fallen, and I walked 
along in no very happy frame of 
mind, the more so, as the rising wind 
and flying wrack of clouds above 
(through which a watery moon had 
peeped at fitful intervals) seemed to 
presage a wild night. It needed but 
this to make my misery the more com¬ 
plete, for, as far as I could tell, if I 
slept at all (and I was already very 
weary), it must, of necessity, be be¬ 
neath some hedge or tree. 
As I approached the brow of the hill, 
I suddenly remembered that I must 
once more pass the gibbet, and began 
to strain my eyes for it. Presently I 
spied it, and instinctively I quickened 
my stride. 
I was almost abreast of it when a 
figure rose from beneath it and 
slouched into the road to meet me. I 
stopped there and then, and grasping 
my heavy staff waited its approach. 
“Be that you, sir?” said a voice, 
and I recognized the voice of Tom 
Cragg. 
“What are you doing—and there of 
all places?” 
“Oh—I ain’t afeared of ’im,” an¬ 
swered Cragg, jerking his thumb to¬ 
wards the gibbet, “I ain't afeard o’ 
none as ever drawed breath—dead or 
livin'—except it be ’is ’Ighness the 
Prince Regent.” 
“And what do you want with me?” 
“I ’opes as theer’s no offence, my 
lord,” said he, knuckling his forehead, 
and speaking in a tone that was a 
strange mixture of would-be comrade¬ 
ship and cringing servility. “Cragg is 
my name, an’ craggy ’s my natur’, but 
I know when I’m beat. I knowed ye as 
soon as I laid my ‘peepers’ on ye, an’ 
if I said as it were a foul, why, when 
a man 's in ’is cups, d’ ye see, ’e ’s apt 
to shoot rayther wide o’ the gospel, d’ 
ye see, an’ there was no offence, my 
lord, strike me blind! I know you, an' 
you know me.” 
“But I don’t know you,” said I, “and, 
for that matter, neither do you know 
me.” 
“W’y, you ain’t got no whiskers, my 
lord—leastways, not with you now, 
but—” 
“And what the devil has that got to 
do with it?” said I angrily. 
“Disguises, p’raps!” said the fellow, 
with a sly leer, “arter that theer kid- 
nappin’—an’ me ’avin’ laid out Sir 
Jarsper Trent, in Wych Street, accord¬ 
in’ to your orders, my Iprd, the Prince 
give me word to clear out—cut an’ run 
for it, till it blow’d over; an’ I thought, 
p’raps, knowin’ as you an’ ’im ’ad 'ad 
words, I thought as you ’ad too.” 
“And I think that you are manifestly 
drunk,” said I, “if you still wish to 
fight, for any sum, put up your hands; 
if not, get out of my road.” The 
craggy one stepped aside, somewhat 
hastily, removed his hat arid stood 
scratching his bullet-head as one in 
sore perplexity. 
“I seen a many rum goes in my 
time,” said he, “but I never see so 
rummy a go as this ’ere — strike me 
dead!” 
So _ I left him, and strode on down 
the hill. As I went, the moon shot out 
a feeble ray, and, looking back, 1 saw 
him standing where I had left him, 
still staring after me down the hill. 
N OW, though the whole attitude and 
behavior of the fellow was puzzling 
to no small degree, my mind was too 
full of my own concerns to give much 
thought to him — indeed, scarce was he 
out of my sight but I forgot him alto¬ 
gether; for, what with my weariness, 
the long, dark road before and behind 
me, and my empty pockets, I became a 
prey to great dejection. So much so 
that I pi’esently sank wearily beside the 
way, and, resting my chin in my hands, 
sat there, miserably enough, watching 
the night deepen about me. 
I was thus engaged when I heard 
the creak of wheels, and the pleasant 
rhythmic jingle of harness on the dark 
hill above, and, in a little while, a great 
wagon or wain, piled high with hay, 
hove into view, the driver of which 
rolled loosely in his seat with every 
jolt of the wheels, so that it was a 
wonder he did not roll off altogether. 
As he came level with me I hailed him 
loudly, whereupon he started erect and 
brought his horses to a stand: 
“Hulloa!” he bellowed, in the loud, 
strident tone of one rudely awakened, 
“w'at do ’ee want wi’ I?” 
“A lift,” I answered, “will you give 
a tired fellow a lift on his way?” 
“W’y — I dunno—be you a talkin’ 
chap?” 
“I don’t think so,” said I. 
“Because, if you be a talkin’ chap, I 
beant a-goin’ to give ’ee a lift, no’ow — 
not if I knows it; give a chap a lift, 
t’ other day, I did—an’ ’e talked me 
up ’ill an’ down ’ill, ’e did — dang me! 
if I could get a wink o’ sleep all the 
way to Tombridge.” 
“I am generally a very silent chap,” 
said I; “besides, I am too tired and 
sleepy to talk, even if I wished —” 
“Sleepy,” yawned the man, “then 
up you get, my chap—I’m sleepy too 
—I alus am, Lord love ye! theer’s nowt 
like sleep—up wi’ you, my chap.” 
Forthwith, up I clambered, and, lay¬ 
ing myself down among the fragrant 
hay, stretched out my tired limbs, and 
sighed. Never shall I forget the de¬ 
licious sense of restfulness that stole 
over me as I lay there upon my back, 
listening to the creak of the wheels, 
the deliberate hoof-strokes of the 
horses, muffled in the thick dust of the 
road, and the gentle snore of the driver 
who had promptly fallen asleep again. 
On we went as if borne on air, so soft 
was my bed, now beneath the far- 
flung branches of trees, sometimes so 
low that I could have touched them 
with my hand, now, beneath a sky 
heavy with sombre masses of flying 
cloud or bright with the soft radiance 
of the moon. And so, lulled by the 
gentle movement, by the sound of 
wheels and harness, and the whisper 
of the soft wind about me, I presently 
fell into a most blessed sleep. 
CHAPTER VIII 
WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A FARM¬ 
ER’S WHISKERS AND A WAISTCOAT 
H OW long I slept I have no idea, 
but when I opened my eyes it was 
to find the moon shining down on me 
from a cloudless heaven; the wind also 
had died away; it seemed my early fears 
of a wild night were not to be fulfilled, 
and for this I was sufficiently grateful. 
Now as I lay, blinking up to the moon, 
I presently noticed that we had come 
to a standstill and I listened expectant¬ 
ly for the jingle of harness and 
creak of the wheels to recommence. 
“Strange!” said I to myself; I sat up 
and looked about me. The first object 
my eyes encountered was a haystack 
and, beyond that, another, with, a lit¬ 
tle to one side, a row of barns, and 
again beyond thes£, a gTeat, rambling 
farmhouse. Evidently the wain had 
reached its destination, and the sleepy 
wagoner, forgetful of my presence, had 
tumbled off to bed. The which I 
INTRODUCING THE HERO 
"DETER VIBART, disinherited, 
takes to the road to earn his 
own living-, leaving- his dissolute 
cousin, Sir Maurice Vibart, to win 
their uncle’s fortune, if he can, 
by marrying- Lady Sophia Sefton. 
Peter, who tells the story, has 
never seen either of them, but 
from talk he hears at a wayside 
tavern, he gathers that his cousin 
is an expert boxer as well as a 
dandy. A professional pugilist, 
Tom Cragg, denies he was knocked 
out by Sir Maurice. 
thought so excellent an example that I 
lay down again, and, drawing the loose 
hay over me, closed my eyes, and once 
more fell asleep. 
My second awakening was gradual. 
I at first became conscious of a sound, 
rising and falling with a certain mo¬ 
notonous regularity, that my drowsy 
ears could make nothing of. Little by 
little, however, the sound developed it¬ 
self into a somewhat mournful melody 
or refrain, chanted by a not unmusical 
voice. I yawned and, having stretched 
myself, sat up to look and listen. And 
the words of the song were these: 
When a man, who muffins cries. 
Cries not, when his father dies, 
T is a proof that he would rather 
Have a muffin than his lather. 
The singer was a tall, strapping fel¬ 
low with a good-tempered face, whose 
ruddy health was set off by a hand¬ 
some pair of black whiskers. As I 
watched him, he laid aside the pitch- 
fork he had been using, and approached 
the wagon, but, chancing to look up, his 
eye met mine, and he stopped: 
“Hulloa!” he exclaimed, breaking 
short off in the middle of a note. 
“Hallo!” said I. 
“W’at be doin’ up theer?” 
“I was thinking,” I returned, “that 
I, for one, could not blame the individ¬ 
ual, mentioned in your song, for his 
passionate attachment to muffins. At 
this precise moment a muffin — or, say, 
fivd or six, would be highly acceptable.” 
“Be you partial to muffins, then?” 
“Yes, indeed,” said I, “more especially 
seeing I have not broken my fast since 
midday yesterday.” 
“Well, an’ w’at be doin’ in my hay?” 
“I have been asleep,” said I. 
“Well, an’ what business ’ave ye got 
a-sleepin’ an’ a-snorin’ in my hay?” 
“I was tired,” said I, “still—I do not 
think I snored.” 
“ ’Ow do I know that—or you, for 
that matter?” rejoined the farmer, 
stroking his glossy whiskers, “hows’- 
ever, if you be quite awake, come on 
down out o’ my hay.” As he said this 
he eyed me with rather a truculent air, 
likewise he clenched his fist. Thinkimr 
(Continued on page 256) 
(I 
