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American Agriculturist, November 3,1923 
Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
CHAPTER XII 
THE ONE-LEGGED SOLDIER/ 
F OLLOWING the high road, I came, in a little, to where the ways divided, the 
one leading straight before me, the other turning to the left. 
And at the parting of the ways was a finger-post with the words: “To London. 
To Tonbridge Wells. To Pembry.” Now as I stood debating which road I 
should take, I was aware of the sound of wheels, and, glancing about, saw a car¬ 
rier’s cart approaching. The driver was a fine, tall, ruddy-faced fellow, who 
held himself with shoulders squared and bolt upright, and who shouted a cheery 
greeting to me. 
“If so be you are for Pembry, or thereabouts, sir,” said he, bringing his horses 
to a standstill, “why, jump up, sir—that is, if you be so minded.” 
“Thanks!” said I. 
i So I climbed upon the seat beside him, and then I saw that he had a wooden 
leg, and straightway understood his smart bearing. 
“You have been a soldier?” said I. 
“And my name’s Tom, and I could tell you a sight about them Spanishers, and 
Frenchies—that is, if — you be so minded?” 
“I am so minded; fire away, Tom.” 
“Well,” he began, fixing his eyes on the “wheeler’s” ears, “Frenchies ain’t so 
bad as is thought, though they do eat frogs, but what I say is—if they be so 
minded, why frogs let it be!” 
“And where did you lose your leg, 
Tom?” 
“Vittoria—-I ’appened to be carrying 
my off’eer, Ensign Standish his name, 
barely eighteen year old. Shot through 
the lung be were, the fire being uncom¬ 
monly ’ot there, you ’ll understand, sir, 
and be were trying to tell me to drop 
him and run for it, when all at once 
I feels a sort of a shock, and there I 
was on my back and him atop o’ me; 
and when I went to get up—there was 
my leg gone below the knee.” 
“And afterward?” 
“Arterwards,” he repeated. “Why, 
that were the end o’ my sojerin’, ye see; 
we lay in the same ’ospital, side by side, 
and be swore as I’d saved his life— 
which I ’ad n’t and likewise swore as he 
’d never forget it. And he never ’as 
either, for here am I wi’ my own horse 
and cart, Tom Price by name, carrier 
by trade, an’ very much at your service, 
sir, I ’m sure.” 
Thus we climbed the hill of Pembry, 
by tree and hedge, and lonely cottage, 
by rolling meadow, and twilit wood, 
Tom the Soldier and I. 
Much he told me of lonely night 
watches, of long, weary marches, and 
stricken fields, of the bloody doings of 
the Spanish Guerrillas. And in my ears 
was the roar of guns, .and before my 
eyes the gleam and twinkle of bayonets. 
By the side of Tom the Soldier I 
waited the thunderous charge of French 
Dragoons, saw their stern, set faces, 
and the flash of their brandished steel 
as they swept down upon our devoted 
square, swept down to break in red 
confusion before our bristling bayonets 
By the side of Tom the' Soldier f 
stormed through many a reeking 
breach, swept by fire, and slippery with 
blood; and all for love of it, the munifi¬ 
cent sum of eightpence per day, and 
that which we call “Glory.” Bravo, 
Tom the Soldier! 
AND presently I became aware that 
xxhe had stopped his horses, and was 
regarding me smilingly. 
“Tom,” said I, “you are a wonderful 
talker!” 
“And you, sir,” said he, “are a better 
listener, and, look you, a good listener 
is mighty hard to come by. Howsom- 
ever, here’s the end o’ my journey, 
more’s the pity, but if you—-—” 
“Tom,” said I suddenly, “you never 
heard of Tom Cragg, did you?” 
“Can’t say as I have,” he answered, 
stroking his chin thoughtfully. 
“And you don’t know who ‘George’ 
is, of course?” I continued musingly. 
“Why, I’ve knowed a many Georges 
in my time,” said he, “and then there’s 
George, Prince o’ Wales, the Prince Re¬ 
gent, as they calls him now.” 
“George, Prince of Wales!” said I, 
staring; “by heavens, Tom, I believe 
you’ve hit it!” And, with the word, I 
sprang down from the cart. 
“My cottage is near by, sir, and I 
should be proud for you to eat supper 
wi’ me—that is—if you be so minded?” 
“Many thanks,” said I, “but I am not 
so minded, and so, good-by, Tom!” And, 
with the words, I wrung the soldier’s 
honest hand in mine, and went upon my 
way. 
“George, Prince of*Wales!” said I to 
myself; “Then who had tjiey supposed 
me?” Hereupon, as I walked, I fell 
into a profound meditation, in which I 
presently remembered how that Tom 
Cragg had also mentioned the Prince, 
giving me to understand that his High¬ 
ness had actually ordered him (Tom 
Cragg) to leave London; and why? 
“Arter that theer kidnappin’, an’ me 
’avin’ laid out Sir Jarsper Trent— ac¬ 
cordin’ to yer order.” 
Sir Jasper Trent! I stopped stock 
still in the road. Sir Jasper Trent! 
At last I remembered the name that 
had eluded me so persistently. 
According to my orders, or rather, 
the orders of the man for whom he (in 
common with the two gentlemen at 
“The Chequers”) had mistaken me. 
Put who was that man? Of him I 
knew, that he was much like me in 
person, and had formerly worn, or pos¬ 
sibly still wore, whiskers. And beyond 
these two facts I could get no farther, 
so I presently shrugged my ^shoulders, 
and banishing it from my thoughts for 
the time being, set forward at a good 
pace. 
CHAPTER XIII 
IN WHICH I FIND AN ANSWER*TO MY 
RIDDLE 
T HE sun was already westering when 
I came to a pump beside the way; 
and seizing the handle I worked it vig¬ 
orously, then, drank and pumped, al¬ 
ternately, until I had quenched my 
thirst. I now found myself prodigious¬ 
ly hungry, and remembering the bread 
and cheese in my knapsack, looked 
about for an inviting spot. 
On one side of the road was a thick 
hedge, and, beneath this hedge, a deep 
dry, grassy ditch; and here, I sat down, 
took out the loaf and the cheese, and 
opening my clasp-knife, prepared to 
fall to. 
At this moment I was interrupted 
in a rather singular fashion, for hear¬ 
ing a rustling close by, I looked up, and 
into a face that was protruded through 
a gap in the hedge above me. 
It needed but a glance at the battered 
hat with its jaunty brim, and great 
silver buckle, and the haggard, devil- 
may-care face below, to recognize the 
individual whom I had seen thrown out 
of the tavern the morning before. 
It was a very thin face, as I have 
said, pale and hollow-eyed and framed 
in black curly hair, whose very black¬ 
ness did 'but accentuate the extreme 
pallor of the skin. Yet, as I looked at 
this face, in the glance of the hollow 
eyes, in the line of the clean-cut mouth 
I saw that mysterious something which 
marks a man, what we call for want of 
a better word, a gentleman. 
“Good evening!” said he, and lifted 
the battered hat. 
“Good evening!” I returned. 
“Pardon me,” said he, “but I was 
saluting the bread‘and cheese.” 
“Indeed!” said I. 
“Indeed!” he rejoined, “it is the first 
edible I have been on speaking terms 
with, so to speak, for rather more than 
three days, sir.” 
“Then, if you care to eat with me in 
the ditch here, you are heartily wel¬ 
come,” said I. 
“With all the pleasure in life!” said 
he, vaulting- very nimbly through the 
hedge; “you shall not ask me twice! 
Believe me, I — ” Here he stopped, 
very suddenly, and stood looking at me. 
. “Ah!” said he gently, and with a ris¬ 
ing inflection, letting the ejaculation 
escape in a long-drawn breath. 
“Well?” I inquired. Now as I looked 
up at him, the whole aspect of the 
man, from the toes of his broken boots 
to the crown of the battered hat, 
seemed to undergo a change, as though 
a sudden, fierce anger had leapt into 
life. 
“On my life and soul, now!” said 
he, falling back a step, and eyeing me 
with a vaguely unpleasant smile, “this 
is a most unexpected—a most unlooked 
for pleasure; it is— I vow it is.” 
“You flatter me,” said I. 
“No, sir, no; to meet you again— 
some day — somewhere — alone — quite 
alone, sir, is a pleasure I have frequent¬ 
ly dwelt upon, but never hoped to 
realize. As it is, sir, having no chance 
of procuring better weapons than my 
fists, allow me to suggest that they are 
entirely at your service; do me the in¬ 
finite kindness to stand up.” 
“Sir,” I answered, cutting a slice 
from the loaf, “you are the third per¬ 
son within the last forty-eight hours 
who has mistaken me for another; it 
really gets quite wearisome.” 
“Come, come,” said he, advancing 
upon me threateningly, “enough of this 
foolery!” 
“By all means,” said I, “sit down, 
like a sensible fellow, and tell me for 
whom you mistake me.” 
“Sir, with all the pleasure in life!” 
said he, clenching his fists. “I take you 
for the greatest rogue, the most gentle¬ 
manly rascal but one, in all England!” 
“Yes,” said I, “and my name?” 
“Sir Maurice Vibart!” 
“Sir Maurice Vibart?” I sprang to 
my feet, staring at him in amazement. 
“Sir Maurice Vibart is my cousin,” 
said I. 
And so we stood, for a long minute, 
immobile and silent, eyeing each other 
above the bread and cheese. 
CHAPTER XIV 
FURTHER CONCERNING THE GENTLEMAN 
IN THE BATTERED HAT 
“OIR,” said my companion at last, 
O lifting the battered hat, “I tender 
you my apology, and I shall be de¬ 
lighted to eat with you in the ditch, 
if you are in the same mind about it?” 
“Then you believe^me?” 
“Indubitably, sir,” he answered with 
a faint smile; “had you indeed been Sir 
Maurice, either he or I, and most prob¬ 
ably I, would be lying flat in the road, 
by this.” 
So, without more ado, we sat down 
in the ditch together, side by side, and 
began to eat. And now I noticed that 
when he thought my eye was upon 
him, ray companion ate with due de¬ 
liberation, and when he thought it was 
off, with a voracity that was painful 
to witness. . And after we had eaten 
a while in silence, he turned to me with 
a sigh. 
“This is very excellent cheese!” said 
he. “I never tasted one of a finer 
flavor!” 
“Hunger is a fine sauce,” said I, “and 
you are probably hungry?” 
“Hungry!” he repeated, bolting a 
mouthful. “Egad, Mr. Vibart! so would 
you be—so would any man be who has 
lived on an occasional meal of turnips 
in the digging of which I am become 
astonishingly expert—and unripe black¬ 
berries, which latter I have proved to 
be a very trying diet in many ways.” 
And after a while, when there" noth¬ 
ing remained of loaf or cheese save a 
few scattered crumbs, my companion 
leaned back, and gave another sigh. 
“Six-,” said he, with an aii-y wave of 
the hand, “in me you behold a highly 
promising young gentleman ruined by 
a most implacable enemy—himself, sir. 
In the first 'place you must know my 
name is Bevex-ley—” 
“Beverley!” I repeated. 
“Beverley,” he nodded, “Peregrine 
Beverley late of Beverley Place, Sur¬ 
rey, now of Nowhere-in-Particular.” 
“Beverley,” said I again, “I have 
heard that name before.” 
“It is highly probable, Mr. Vibart; a 
fool of that name lost houses, land, and 
money in a single night’s play. I am 
that fool, sir, though you have doubt¬ 
less heard particulars ere now?” 
“Not a word!” said I. Mr. Beverley 
glanced at me with a faint mingling 
of pity and surprise. “My life,” I ex¬ 
plained, “has been altogether a studious 
one, with the x-esult that I also am 
bound for Nowhere-in-Particular with 
just eight shillings and sixpence in my 
pocket. ” 
“ A ND mine, as I tell you,” said he, 
XX“has- been an altogeether riotous 
one. Thus, each of us, though by widely 
separate roads—you by the narrow and 
difficult path of Virtue, and I • by the 
broad and easy road of Folly—have 
managed to find our way into Destitu¬ 
tion. Then how does your path of 
vii-tue better my road of evil?” 
“For my own achievements, hitherto,” 
I continued, “I have won the High 
Jump, and Throwing the Hammer, also 
translated the works of Quintilian, and 
the'Life, and Memoirs of the Seigneur 
de Brantome, which last, as you are 
probably aware, has never before been 
done into the English.” 
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Beverley, sitting- 
up suddenly, with his ill-used hat very 
much over one eye, “there we have it! 
Who ever heard of Old Quin—What’s- 
his-name, or cared, except, perhaps, 
a few bald-headed bookworms? While 
you were dreaming of life, I was living 
it. In my career, brief though it was, 
I have met and talked with all the wits, 
and celebrated men, have drunk good 
wine, and worshipped beautiful women 
Mr. Vibart.” 
“And what has it all taught you?” 
said I. 
“That there are an infernal number 
ot rogues and rascals in the world, 
for one thing-—and that is worth know¬ 
ing.” 
“Yes,” said I. 
“That, though money can buy any¬ 
thing, from the love of a woman to 
the death of an enemy, it can only be 
spent once—and that is worth knowing 
also.” 
“Yes,” said I. 
“And that I am a most preposterous 
ass!—and that last, look you, is more 
valuable than all the others. Solomon, 
I think, says something about a wise 
man being truly wise who knoweth him¬ 
self a fool, doesn’t he?” 
“Something of the sort.” 
“Then,” said he, flinging his hat down 
upon the grass beside him, “what argu¬ 
ment can you advance in favor of your 
‘Narrow and Thorny’?” 
“The sum of eight shillings and six¬ 
pence, a loaf of bread, and a slice of 
noble cheese, now no more,” said I. 
Egad!” said he, “the ai-gument is 
unanswerable, more especially the 
cheese part.” Having remarked which, 
he lay flat on his back ag-ain, staring- 
up at the leaves, while I filled my pipe 
and forthwith began to smoke. 
And, presently, as I sat alternately 
watching the blue wreaths of my pipe 
and the bedraggled figure extended be¬ 
side me, he suddenly rolled over on his 
arm, and so lay, watching me. 
. “On my soul!” he exclaimed at length, 
“it is positively marvellous.” 
( Continued, on page 308) 
THE STORY AS IT HAS PROGRESSED SO FAR 
AFTER seeing- a penniless young gentleman thrown from a tavern 
* ^ te1 ' encountering a prize-fighter, Tom Cragg, who seems strangely 
an aid of him, and after witnessing a duel in which one Sir Jasper Trent 
is killed, Peter Vibart stops at an Inn to rest. Here an accidental en¬ 
counter with two “dandies” almost leads to a quarrel until they, too 
seem to recognize in Peter someone whom they greatly fear. 
After buying some food, he takes again to the Broad Highway ponder¬ 
ing on the resemblance they all seem to see, on a mysterious “George” 
they mention, and on his own ill fortune in being disinherited by liis 
uncles will, unless he marries Lady Sophia Sefton, whom he has 
nevei- seen. 
