American Agriculturist, October 27,1923 
287 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
T HE path sloped up gently before me, with a thick hedge upon my right, and, 
after crossing a brawling stream, lost itself in the small wood or coppice, that 
crowned the ascent. Wondering, I hastened forward and then, happening to 
look through the hedge, which grew very thick and high, I stopped all at once. 
On the other side of the hedge was a strip of meadow bounded by the brook 
I have mentioned; now across this stream was a small rustic bridge, and on 
this bridge was a man. Midway between this man and myself stood a group 
of four gentlemen, all talking very earnestly together, to judge by their actions, 
while somewhat apart from these, his head bent, his hands still thrust deep in 
his pockets, stood Sir Jasper. And from him, my eyes wandered to the man 
upon the bridge—a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, in a buff-colored greatcoat, 
who whistled to himself, swinging his tasseled riding-boot to and fro. All at 
once, as if in response to some signal, he rose, and unbuttoning his surtout, 
drew it off and flung it across the handrail of the bridge. 
Mr. Chester was on his knees before the oblong box, and I saw the glint of 
the pistols as he handed them up. The distance had already been paced and 
marked out, and now each man took his ground—Sir Jasper, still in his great¬ 
coat, his hat over his eyes, his neckerchief loose and dangling, one hand in his 
pocket, the other grasping his weapon; his antagonist on the contrary, jaunty and 
debonnair, a dandy from the crown of his hat to the soles of his shining boots. 
Their arms were raised almost to¬ 
gether. The man Selby glanced from 
one to the other, a handkerchief flut¬ 
tered, fell, and in that instant came the 
report of a pistol. I saw Sir Jasper 
reel backward, steady himself, and fire 
in return; then, while the blue smoke 
yet hung in the still air, he staggered 
blindly, and fell. 
Mr. Chester, and two or three more, 
ran forward and knelt beside him, 
while his opponent shrugged his shoul¬ 
ders, and, taking off his hat, pointed 
out the bullet hole to his white-faced 
second. 
And in a little while they lifted Sir 
Jasper in their arms, but seeing how 
his head hung, a sudden sickness came 
upon me, for I knew, indeed, that he 
would go walking back nevermore. Yet 
his eyes were wide and staring—star¬ 
ing up at the blue heaven. 
Then I, too, looked up at the cloud¬ 
less sky, and round upon the fair earth; 
and, in that moment, I, for one, re¬ 
membered his prophecy of an hour ago. 
And, indeed, the day was glorious. 
CHAPTER XI 
WHICH RELATES A BRIEF PASSAGE-AT- 
ARMS AT “THE CHEQUERS” INN 
I N due season I came into Tonbridge 
town, and presently observed a fine 
inn upon the right-hand side of the 
way, called “The Chequers.” 
And presently, as I paused before the 
inn, there issued from the stable yard 
one in a striped waistcoat, with top- 
boots and a red face, who took a straw 
from behind his ear, and began to chew 
it meditatively; to whom I now ad¬ 
dressed myself. 
“A fine day!” said I. 
“Oh!” said he, and shifted the straw 
very dexterously from one corner of 
his mouth to the other, and stared up 
the road harder than ever. 
“What are you looking at?” I in¬ 
quired. 
“’Ill,” said he. 
“And why do you look at the hill?” 
“Mail,” said he. 
“Is it the London coach?” 
“Ah!” said he. 
“Does it stop here?” 
“Ah!” said he. 
“Do you ever say anything much be¬ 
side ‘ah’?” 
He stopped chewing the straw, and 
with his eyes on the distance, seemed 
to turn this question over in his mind; 
having done which, he began to chew 
again. 
“Ah!” said he. 
“Why, then you can, perhaps, tell 
me how many miles it is—” 
“Five,” said he. 
“I was about to ask how far it was 
to—” 
“The Wells!” said he. 
“Why—yes, to be sure, but how did 
you know that?” 
“They all ask!” said he. 
“Who do?” 
“Tramps!” said he. 
“Oh! so you take me for a tramp?” 
“Ah!” said he. 
“And you,” said I, “put me in mind 
of a certain Semi-quavering Friar.” 
“Eh?” said he, frowning a little. 
“You’ve never heard of Rabelais, of 
course,” said I. 
“No,” said he. 
“More ’s the pity!” said I, and was 
about to turn away, when he drew the 
nearest fist abruptly from his pocket. 
“Look at that!” he commanded. 
“Rather dirty,” I commented, “but 
otherwise a good, useful member!” 
“It’s a-goin’,” said he, alternately 
drawing in and shooting out the fist in 
question, “it’s a-goin’ to fill your eye 
up.” 
“But what for?” 
“I are n’t a Semmy, nor yet a Quaver, 
an’ as for Friers,” said he, very de¬ 
liberately, “why—Frier yourself, says 
I.” 
“Nevertheless,” said I, “you are 
gifted with a certain terse—” 
“Joe!” he called out suddenly over 
his shoulder. “Mail, Joe!” 
Lifting my eyes to the brow of the 
hill, I could see nothing save a faint 
haze, which, however, gradually grew 
denser and thicker; and out from this 
gathering cloud, soft, and faint with 
distance, stole the silvery notes of a 
horn. Now I saw the coach itself, 
and, as I watched it rapidly descend¬ 
ing the hill, I longed to be upon it, with 
the sun above, the smooth road below, 
and the wind rushing through my hair. 
On it came at a gallop, rocking and 
swaying, a good fifteen miles an hour; 
while clear and high rang the cheery 
note of the horn. And now, from the 
cool shadows of the inn yard, there rose 
a prodigious stamping of hoofs, rattling 
of chains, and swearing of oaths, and 
out came four fresh horses, led by 
two men, each of whom wore top-boots, 
a striped waistcoat, and chewed upon 
straws. 
And now the coach came thundering 
down upon “The Chequers,” chains 
jingling, wheels rumbling, horn bray¬ 
ing and, with a stamp and ring of 
hoofs, pulled up before the inn. 
And then what a running to and fro! 
what a prodigious unbuckling and 
buckling of straps, while the coachman 
fanned himself with his hat, and swore 
jovially at the ostlers, and the ostlers 
swore back at the coachman, and the 
guard, and the coach, and the horses, 
individually and collectively; in the 
midst of which confusion, little by little, 
I became conscious I was being watched 
and stared at by some one near by. 
Shifting my eyes, I cast them swiftly 
about until they presently met those 
of one of the four outside passengers— 
a tall, roughly-clad man who leaned far 
out from the coach roof, watching me 
intently; and his face was thin, and 
very pale, and the eyes which stared 
into mine glowed beneath a jagged 
prominence of brow. 
B UT now the four fresh horses were 
in and harnessed, capering and danc¬ 
ing with an ostler at the head of each; 
the driver settled his feet against the 
dashboard, and gathered up the reins. 
“All right behind?” sang out the 
driver, over his shoulder. 
“All right!” sang back the guard. 
“Then—let ’em go!” cried the driver. 
Whereupon the ostlers jumped nimbly 
back, the horses threw up their heads, 
and danced for a moment, the long whip 
cracked, hoofs clattered, sparks flew, 
and, rumbling and creaking, off went 
the London Mail with a flourish of the 
horn. As I turned away, I noticed that 
there remained but three outside pas¬ 
sengers; the pale-faced man had evi¬ 
dently alighted. 
Hereupon, being in no mind to under¬ 
go the operation of having my eye filled 
up, I stepped into the “Tap.” And 
there, sure enough, was the Outside 
Passenger staring moodily out of the 
window, with an untouched mug of ale 
at his elbow. Opposite him sat an old 
man in a smock frock, talking to a very 
short, fat man behind the bar, who took 
my twopence with a smile, smiled as he 
drew my ale, and, smiling, watched 
me drink. 
“Be you from Lunnon, sir?” inquired 
the old man, eyeing me beneath his 
hoary brows as I set down my tankard. 
“Yes,” said I. 
“Well, think o’ that now—I’ve been 
a-goin’ to Lunnon this five an’ forty 
year—started out twice, I did, but I 
never got no furder nor Sevenoaks!” 
“How was that?” I inquired. 
“Why, theer’s ‘The White Hart’ at 
Sevenoaks, an’ they brews fine ale at 
‘The White Hart,’ d’ye see, an’ one 
glass begets another.” 
“And they sent ye back in the car¬ 
rier’s cart!” said the fat man, smiling 
broader than ever. 
At this juncture the door was 
thrown noisily open, and two gentle¬ 
men entered. The first was a very tall 
man with black hair that curled be¬ 
neath his hat-brim, and so luxuriant 
a growth of whisker that it left little 
of his florid countenance exposed. The 
second was more slightly built, with a 
pale, hairless face, wherein were set 
small, very bright eyes, separated by a 
high, thin nose with nostrils that worked 
and quivered when he spoke, a face 
whose most potent feature was the 
mouth, coarse and red, yet supported 
by a square, determined chin below— 
a sensual mouth with more than a sus¬ 
picion of cuelty. 
T HEY were dressed in that mixture 
of ultra-fashionable styles peculiar 
to the “Corinthian,” or “Buck” of the 
period, and there was in their air an 
overbearing yet lazy insolence that 
greatly annoyed me. 
“Fifteen thousand a year, by gad!” 
exclaimed the taller of the two, giving 
a supercilious sniff to the brandy he 
had just poured out. 
“Yes, ha! ha!—and a pretty filly 
ihto the bargain!” 
“And what of Beverley—poor dey- 
vil?” inquired the first. 
“Beverley!” repeated the other; “had 
he possessed any spirit he would have 
blown his brains out, like a gentleman; 
as it was, he preferred merely to dis¬ 
appear,” and herewith the speaker 
shrugged his shoulders. 
“And a—pretty filly, you say?” 
“Oh, I believe you! Country bred, 
but devilish well-blooded—trust Bever¬ 
ley for that.” 
“Egad, yes—Beverley had a true eye 
for beauty or breed, poor dey-vil!” 
This expression of pity seemed to afford 
each of them much subtle enjoyment. 
All this I heard as they lolled within 
a yard of me, manifesting a lofty and 
contemptuous disregard for all, waited 
upon deferentially by the smiling fat 
fellow, and stared at by the aged man. 
But now they leaned their heads to¬ 
gether and spoke in lowered tones, but 
something in the leering eyes of the one, 
and the smiling lips of the other, told 
me that it was not of horses that they 
spoke. 
“. . . Bring her to reason, by gad!” 
said the slighter of the two, setting 
down his empty glass with a bang, “oh, 
trust me to know their pretty, skittish 
ways.” 
My ale being finished, I took up my 
staff, a heavy, knotted affair, and 
turned to go. Now, as I did so, my 
foot, by accident, came in contact with 
the gold-mounted cane, and sent it 
clattering to the floor. I was on the 
point of stooping for it, when a rough 
hand gripped my shoulder from behind, 
twisting me savagely about, and I thus 
found myself staring upon two rows 
of sharp, white teeth. 
“Pick it up!” said he, motioning im¬ 
periously to the cane on the floor be¬ 
tween us. 
“Heaven forbid, sir,” said I. 
“I told you to pick it up,” he re¬ 
peated, “are you going to do so, or 
must I make you?” 
F OR answer I raised my foot and sent 
the cane spinning across the room. 
Somebody laughed, and next moment 
my hat was knocked from my head. 
Before he could strike again, however, 
I raised my staff, but suddenly I al¬ 
tered the direction of the blow, and 
thrust it strongly into the very middle 
of his gayly flowered waistcoat. 
“Come, come,” said I, holding him 
off on the end of my staff, “be calm 
now, and let us reason together. I 
knocked down your cane by accident, 
and you, my hat by intent; very well 
then, be so good as to return me my 
property, from the corner yonder, and 
we will call ‘quits.’ ” 
“No, by gad!” gasped my antagonist, 
bending almost double, “wait—only 
wait until I get—my wind—I’ll choke 
—the infernal life out of you—only 
wait, by gad!” 
“Willingly,” said I, “but whatever 
else you do, you will certainly reach 
me my hat, otherwise, just so soon as 
you find yourself sufficiently recovered, 
I shall endeavor to throw you after it.” 
Saying which, I laid aside my staff, and 
buttoned up my coat. 
“Why,” he began, “you infernally 
low, dusty, ditch-trotting blackguard 
—” But his companion, who had been 
regarding me very closely, twitched him 
by the sleeve, and whispered something 
in his ear. Whatever it was it affected 
my antagonist, who grew suddenly 
very red, and then very white, and 
abruptly turned his back upon me. 
“Are you sure, Mostyn?” said he in 
an undertone. 
“Certain.” 
“Well, I’d fight him were he the devil 
himself! Pistols perhaps would be—” 
“Don’t be a fool, Harry,” cried the 
other, and drew him farther away, and, 
though they lowered their voices, I 
caught such fragments as “What of 
George?” “ruin your chances at the 
start,” “dead shot.” 
“Sir,” said I, “my hat.” 
A LMOST to my surprise, the taller of 
. the two crossed the room, followed 
by his friend, stooped, picked up my 
hat, and, while the other stood scowling, 
approached, and handed it to me with a 
bow. 
“That my friend, Sir Harry Morti¬ 
mer,' lost his temper, is regretted both 
by him and myself,” said he, “but he 
has been a long time from London, 
while I labored under a—a disadvant¬ 
age, sir—until your hat was off.” 
Now, as he spoke, his left eyelid 
flickered twice in rapid succession. 
“I beg you won’t mention it,” said I, 
putting on my hat; “but, sir, why do 
you wink at me?” 
“No, no,” cried he, laughing and 
shaking his head, “ha! ha!—deyvilish 
good! By the way, they tell me George 
himself is in these parts—incog, of 
course—” 
“George?” said I, staring. 
“Cursed rich, on my life and soul!” 
cried the tall gentleman, shaking his 
head and laughing again. “Mum’s the 
word, of course, and I swear a shaven 
face becomes you most deyvilishly!” 
Now all at once there recurred to me 
the memory of Tom Cragg, the Pugi¬ 
list; of how he too had winked at me, 
and of his incomprehensible manner 
afterwards beneath the gibbet on River 
Hill. 
“Sir,” said I, “do you happen to know 
a pugilist, Tom Cragg by name?” 
(Continued on page 288) 
TO REMIND YOU OF WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE 
"DETER VIBART, brought up to riches and a scholar’s life, is disin- 
herited. His uncle leaves him a fortune if he marries Lady Sophia 
Sefton, a reigning beauty, while his dissolute cousin Sir Maurice, whom 
he has never seen, may win it on the same terms. Peter, sooner than 
meet the lady, takes to the Broad Highway to earn an honest living. 
He is robbed by a highwayman, and in a nearby inn is accosted by 
Tom Cragg, a prize-fighter, who seems to know and fear him. Going on, 
Peter encounters a group evidently bent on a duel and the name of one, 
Sir Jasper Trent, sounds familiar. He follows them. 
