American Agriculturist, October 20,1923 
271 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
^TTOWSOMEVER,” he continued, “it’s a handsome weskit, there’s no denyin’, 
ll an’ well worth a woman’s lookin’ at—wi’ a proper man inside of it. 
“Not a doubt of it,” said I. , ^ . . , , „ 
“I mean,” said he, scratching his ear, and staring hard at the handle of the 
pitchfork, “a chap wi’ a fine pair o’ whiskers, say.”. 
“Now, woman,” he went on, shifting his gaze to the top button of his left 
gaiter, “woman is uncommon fond o’ a good pair o’ whiskers—leastways, so 
X^VG Xl 661 ?cl ^ • 
“Indeed ’’ said I, “few women can look upon such things unmoved, I believe, 
and nothing can set off a pair of fine, black whiskers better than a flowered 
satin waistcoat.” 
“That’s so!” nodded the farmer. , 
“But, unfortunately,” said I, passing my hand over my smooth lips and 
chin, “I have no whiskers.” . 
“No,” returned the farmer, with a thoughtful shake of the head, least- 
ways, none as I can observe.” 
“Now, you have,” said I. 
“So they do tell me,” he answered modestly. , 
“And the natural inference is that you ought to have a flowered waistcoat 
to go with them.” 
“Why, that’s true, to be sure!” he nodded. 
“The price of this one is—fifteen shillings, said I. 
“That’s a lot o’ money,” said he. 
“It’s a great deal less than forty,” 
said I. „ , , 
“An’ ten is less than fifteen, an ten 
shillin’ is my price; what d’ ye say 
—come now.” 
“You drive a hard bargain,” said i, 
“but the waistcoat is yours at your own 
price.” So saying, I slipped off knap¬ 
sack and coat, and removing the gar¬ 
ment in question, having first felt 
through the pockets, handed it to him, 
whereupon he slowly counted the ten 
shillings into my hand; which done, he 
sat down upon the shaft of a cart near¬ 
by, and, spreading out the waistcoat 
on his knees, looked it over with glis¬ 
tening eyes. 
“Forty shillin’ you paid for ’un, up 
to Lunnon,” said he. 
“So you believe me now, do you? 
said I, pocketing the ten shillings. 
“Well,” he answered slowly, “I won’t 
go so fur as that, but ’t is a mighty 
fine weskit, an’ must ha’ cost a sight o’ 
money—a powerful sight!” I picked 
up my knapsack and, slipping it on, 
took my staff, and turned to depart. 
“Theer’s a mug o’ home-brewed, an’ 
a slice o’ fine roast beef up at th’ ’ouse, 
if you should be so inclined-” 
“Why, as to that,” said I, over my 
shoulder, “I neither eat nor drink with 
a man who doubts my word.” 
“Well,” said he, twisting his whisker 
with a thoughtful air, “if you could 
manage to mak’ it twenty—or even 
twenty-five, I might mak’ some shift to 
believe it—though ’t would be a strain, 
but forty!—no, I can’t swaller that!” 
“Then, neither can'I swallow your 
beef and ale,” said I. 
“Wheer be goin?” he inquired, rising, 
and following as I made for the gate. 
“To the end of the road,” I answered. 
«mHEN you be goin’ pretty fur—that 
ltheer road leads to the sea.” 
“Why, then I’m going to the sea,” 
said I. 
“What to do?” , 
“I haven’t the ghost of an idea,” I 
returned. 
“Can you work?” 
“Yes,” said I. 
“Can ye thatch a rick?” 
“No,” said I. 
“Shear a sheep?” 
“No,” said I. 
“Guide a plow?” 
“No,” said I. 
“Shoe a ’oss?” 
“No,” said I. 
“Then ye can’t work—Lord love me, 
wheer ’ave ’e been?” 
“At a university,” said I. 
“Why, I don’t hold wi’ eddication nor 
book-larnin’, myself, master. Here I 
be wi’ a good farm, an’ money in the 
bank, an’ can’t write my own name,” 
said the farmer. 
“And here am I, selling my waist¬ 
coat that I may eat,” said I. Being- 
come to the gate of the yard, I paused. 
“There is one favor you might grant 
me,” said I. 
“As what?” 
“Five minutes under the pump yon¬ 
der, and a clean towel.” The farmer 
nodded, and crossing to one of the out¬ 
houses, presently returned with a 
towel. And, resting the towel upon 
the pump-head, he seized the handle, 
and sent a jet of clear, cool water over 
my head, and face, and hands. 
“You’ve got a tidy, sizable arm,” 
said he, as I dried myself vigorously, 
“likewise a good strong back an’ shoul¬ 
ders; theer’s the makin’s of a man in 
you as might do summat—say in the 
plow or smithin’ way. Hows’ever, sir, 
if you’ve a mind to a cut o’ good beef, 
an’ a mug o’ fine ale—say the word.” • 
“First,” said I, “do you believe it 
was forty shillings—yes or no?” 
The farmer stared very hard at the 
spout of the pump. 
“Tell ’ee what,” said he at length, 
“mak’ it thirty, an’ I give ye my Bible 
oath to do the best I can.” 
“Then I must needs seek my break¬ 
fast at the nearest inn,” said I. 
4 “Why, as to that,” said he, busy with 
his whisker again, “I might stretch a 
pint or two an’ call it—thirty-five, at 
a pinch—what d’ ye say?” 
“Why, I say ‘good moaning,’ and 
many of them!” And, opening the 
gate, I started off down the road at 
a brisk pace. Now, as I went, it began 
to rain. 
CHAPTER IX 
IN WHICH I STUMBLE UPON AN AFFAIR 
OF HONOR 
I SWUNG along the road beneath the 
swaying green of trees, past fragrant, 
blooming hedges, paying small heed to 
the beauties of wooded hill and grassy 
dale, my eyes constantly searching the 
road before me for some sign of the 
“Old Cock” tavern. And presently, 
sure enough, I espied it, an ugly, flat- 
fronted building, before which stood a 
dilapidated horse trough and a bat¬ 
tered sign. Despite its uninviting ex¬ 
terior, I hurried forward, and pushed 
open the door. I now found myself in 
a room of somewhat uninviting aspect, 
though upon the hearth a smouldering 
fire was being kicked into a blaze by 
a sulky-faced fellow. 
“Can I have some breakfast here?” 
said I. 
“Why, it’s all according, master, he 
answered in a surly tone.' 
“According to what?” said I. 
“According to what you want, 
yy»oc4-pY* ^ > 
“Why, as to that-” I began. 
“Because,” he went on, administering 
a particularly vicious kick to the fire, 
“if you was to ask me for the ’ump 
of a cam-el—being a very truthful 
man, I should say—no.” 
“I tell you I want nothing of the 
sort,” said I, “a chop would do-” 
“Chop!” sighed the man, scowling. 
“Or steak,” I hastened to add. 
“Now it’s a steak!” said the man, 
shaking his head ruefully, “a steak!” 
he repeated; “of course—it would be; 
I s’pose you’d turn up your nose at ’am 
and eggs?” 
“On the contrary,” said I, “ham and 
eggs will suit me very well.” 
“Why, you never axed me as I re¬ 
member,” growled the fellow. 
Slipping my knapsack from my 
shoulders, I sat down at a small table 
in a corner while the man went to give 
my order. In a few minutes he reap¬ 
peared with some billets of wood be¬ 
neath his arm, and followed by a 
merry-eyed, rosy-cheeked lass, who pro¬ 
ceeded, very deftly, to lay a snowy cloth 
and thereupon, in due season, a dish 
of savory ham and golden-yolked eggs. 
“It’s a lovely morning!” said I, lift¬ 
ing my eyes to her comely face. 
“It is indeed, sir,” said she, setting 
down the cruet with a turn of her 
slender wrist. 
“Which I make so bold as to deny,” 
said the surly man, dropping the wood 
with a prodigious clatter, “ ’ow can any 
morning be lovely when there ain’t no 
love in it—no, not so much as would fill 
a thimble?” With which words he 
sighed, kicked the fire again, and 
stumped out. 
“Our friend would seem somewhat 
gloomy this morning,” said I. 
“Yes,” she answered, checking a 
smile, and sighing instead; “it’s very 
sad, he’ve been crossed in love.” 
“Poor fellow!” said I, “can’t you try 
to console him?” 
“Why, you see, sir,” said she, blush¬ 
ing very prettily, “it do so happen as 
I’m the one as crossed him.” 
“Ah!—I understand,” said I. 
“I’m to be married to a farmer— 
down the road yonder; leastways, I 
haven’t quite made up my mind yet.” 
A fine, tall fellow?” I inquired. 
“Yes—do ’ee know him, sir?” 
“With a handsome pair of black 
whiskers?” said I. 
“The very same, sir, and they do be 
handsome whiskers.” 
“The finest I ever saw. I wish you 
every happiness,” said I. 
“Thankee sir, I’m sure,” said she, 
and, dimpling more prettily than ever, 
she tripped away. 
And when I had assuaged my hun¬ 
ger, I took out the pipe of Adam, the 
groom, and, calling for a paper of to¬ 
bacco, I filled and lighted the pipe, and 
sat staring dreamily out of the window. 
So I sat. And presently, chancing 
to turn my eyes up the road, I beheld 
a chaise that galloped in a smother of 
mud. As I watched its rapid approach, 
the postilion swung his horses towards 
the inn, and a moment later had pulled 
up before the door. 
The chaise door was now thrown 
open, and three gentlemen alighted. 
The first was a short, plethoric indi¬ 
vidual, bull-necked and loud of voice, 
for I could hear him roundly cursing 
the post-boy; the second was a tall, 
languid gentleman, who carried a flat, 
oblong box beneath one arm, and who 
paused to fondle his whisker, and look 
up at the inn with an exaggerated air 
of disgust; while the third stood mute¬ 
ly by, his hands thrust into the pockets 
of his greatcoat, and stared straight 
before him. 
T HE three entered the room together, 
and, while the languid gentleman 
paused to survey himself in the small, 
cracked mirror that hung against the 
wall, the plethoric individual bustled 
to the fire, and, lossening his coats and 
neckerchief, spread out his hands to 
thiG blftZG 
“A good half-hour before our time,” 
said he, glancing towards the third gen¬ 
tleman, who stood looking out of the 
window with his hands still deep in 
his pockets; “we did the last ten miles 
well under the hour—come, what do 
you say to a glass of brandy?” 
At this, his languid companion 
turned from the mirror. 
“By all means,” said he, “though Sir 
Jasper would hardly seem in a drink¬ 
ing humor.” 
“No, Mr. Chester, I am not—in a 
drinking humor,” answered Sir Jasper, 
without turning around. 
“Sir Jasper?” said I to myself, “now 
where, and in what connection, have I 
heard such a name before?” 
He was of a slight build, and seem¬ 
ingly younger than either of his com¬ 
panions, but what struck me particu¬ 
larly was the extreme pallor of his 
face. I noticed also a habit he had of 
moistening his lips at frequent inter¬ 
vals, and there was, besides, something 
in the way he stared at the trees, the 
wet road, and the gray sky—a strange 
wide-eyed intensity—that drew and 
held my attention. 
“Devilish weather—devilish, on my 
life and soul!” exclaimed the short, 
red-faced man, in a loud, peevish tone, 
tugging viciously at the bell-rope, “hot 
one day, cold the next, now sun, now- 
rain. Now in France—ah, what a cli¬ 
mate—heavenly—positively divine; say 
what you will of a Frenchman, but the 
climate, the country, and the women— 
who would not worship ’em?” 
“Exactly!” said the languid gentle¬ 
man, examining a pimple upon his chin 
with a high degree of interest, “always 
’dored a Frenchwoman myself; they’re 
so—so—ah—so deuced French!” 
“Selby,” said Sir Jasper, in the same 
repressed tone and still without taking 
his eyes from the gray prospect of sky 
and tree and winding road, “there is 
no fairer land, in all the world, than 
this England of ours; it were a good 
thing to die—for England, but that 
is a happiness reserved for compara¬ 
tively few.” And, with the words, he 
sighed, a strange, fluttering sigh. _ 
“Die!” repeated the man Selby, in a 
loud, boisterous way. “Who talks of 
death?” 
“Deuced unpleasant subject!” said 
the other, with a shrug. “Something 
so infernally cold and clammy about 
it—like the weather.” 
“And yet it will be a glorious day 
later. The clouds are thinning al¬ 
ready,” Sir Jasper went on; “strange, 
but I never realized, until this morn¬ 
ing, how green—and wonderful—every¬ 
thing is!” 
T HE languid Mr. Chester forgot the 
mirror, and turned to stare at Sir 
Jasjer’s back, with raised brows, while 
the man Selby shook his head, and 
smiled unpleasantly. As he did so, his 
eye encountered me, where I sat quietly 
in my corner, smoking my negro-head 
pipe, and his thick brows twitched 
sharply together in a frown. 
“In an hour’s time, gentlemen,” pur¬ 
sued Sir Jasper, “we shall write ‘finis’ 
to a more or less interesting incident, 
THE HERO’S ADVENTURES 
P ETER VIBART has started to 
tramp the Broad Highway 
His adventures include being 
robbed of the ten guineas left him 
by his uncle, seeing the impov¬ 
erished young gentleman thrown 
from one roadside inn, and in 
another meeting Tom Cragg, a 
pugilist who seems to take him 
for someone else. Pondering on 
Cragg’s behavior, Peter goes on, 
getting a lift in a haywain, where 
he awakes the next morning to 
find a young farmer casting en¬ 
vious eyes upon his embroidered 
waistcoat, remnant of better days 
in London. 
and I beg of you, in that hour, to re¬ 
member my prophecy—that it would be 
a glorious day, later.” 
“It’s just half-past seven,” declared 
Mr. Chester, consulting his watch, 
“and I’m rather hazy as to the exact 
place.” 
“Deepdene Wood,” said Sir Jasper 
dreamily. 
“You know the place?” 
“Yes, it will be cool and fresh.” 
“Settle the bill, Selby, we’ll walk 
on slowly,” said Mr. Chester, and, with 
a last glance at the mirror, he slipped 
his arm within Sir Jasper’s, and they 
went out together. 
Mr. Selby meanwhile rang for the 
bill, frowning at me all the time. 
“What the devil are you staring 
at?” he demanded suddenly, in a loud, 
bullying tone. 
“If you are pleased to refer to me, 
sir,” said I, “I would say that my eyes 
were given for use, and that having 
used them upon you, I have long since 
arrived at the conclusion that I don’t 
like you.” 
“An impertinent young jackanapes!” 
said he; “I think I’ll pull your nose!” 
“Why, you may try, and welcome, 
sir,” said I, “though I should advise 
you not, for should you make the at¬ 
tempt I should be compelled to throw 
you out of the window.” 
At this moment the pretty maid ap¬ 
peared, and tendered him the bill with 
a curtesy. He glanced at it, tossed 
some money upon the table, and turned 
to stare at me again. 
“If ever I meet you again-he 
began. 
“You’d probably know me,” I put in. 
“Without a doubt,” he answered, put¬ 
ting on his hat and buttoning his be- 
(Continued on page 273) 
