326 
American Agriculturist, November 10,1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol • 
“rpHE Lady Sophia Sefton of Cambourne?” said I. 
A. “And—the Lady Helen Dunstan,” he repeated. 
“Do you know the Lady Sophia Sefton?” 
“I have had the honor of dancing.with her frequently,” he answered. 
And is she so beautiful as they say?” 
“She is the handsomest woman in London, one of your black-browed deep¬ 
eyed goddesses, tall, and gracious, and most nobly shaped; though, sir for mv 
own part I prefer less fire and ice—a more gentle beauty.” 
“As, for instance, the Lady Helen Dunstan?” said I. 
“Exactly!” nodded Mr. Beverley. t 
Refeiring to the Laoy Sophia Sefton,” I pursued, “she is a reigning toast, 
I believe?” ■ ’ 
‘‘Gad, yes! her worshippers are legion, and chief among them his Ro V al 
Highness, and your cousin, Sir Maurice, who has actually had* the temerity to 
enter the field as the Prince’s avowed rival; no one but ‘Buck’ Vibart could 
be so madly rash!” 
“A most fortunate lady!” said I, 
“Mr. Vibart!” exclaimed my companion, cocking his battered hat and re¬ 
garding me with a smouldering eye, “Mr. Vibart, I object to your tone- the 
noble Sefton’s virtue is proud and high, and above even the breath of\ suspicion ” 
“It would almost seem,” said I, after 
a pause, “that, from what I have in¬ 
advertently learned, my cousin has 
some dirty work afoot, though exactly 
what, I cannot imagine.” 
“My dear Mr. Vibart, your excellent 
cousin is forever up to something or 
other, and has escaped the well-merited 
consequences, more than once, owing to 
the favor of his friend—” 
“George?” said I. 
“Exactly!” said my companion, rais¬ 
ing himself on his elbow, and nodding. 
“Have you ever heard mention of 
Tom Cragg, the Pugilist?” I inquired, 
blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. 
“A good fighter, but a rogue”— 
yawned my companion; “and a crea¬ 
ture of your excellent cousin’s.” 
“I guessed as much,” I nodded, and 
forthwith plunged into an account of 
my meeting with the “craggy one,” 
which seemed to amuse Mr. Beverley 
mightily, more especially when I re¬ 
lated Cragg’s mysterious disappear¬ 
ance. 
“Oh, gad!” cried Beverley, wiping 
his eyes on the tattered lapel of his 
coat, “the resemblance served you 
luckily there; your cousin gave him 
the thrashing of his life, and poor 
Tom evidently thought he was in for 
another. That was the last you saw 
of him, I’ll be bound.” 
“No, I met him afterwards beneath 
the gibbet on* River Hill, where he gave 
me to understand that he recognized me 
despite my disguise, assumed, as he sup¬ 
posed, on account of his having kid¬ 
napped some one or other, and ‘laid 
out’ a cei'tain Sir Jasper Trent in Wych 
Street according to my orders, or 
rather, my cousin’s orders, the author 
of which outrage Sir Jasper had. evi¬ 
dently found out--” 
“The devil!” exclaimed Mr. Beverley, 
and sat up with a jerk. 
“And furthermore,” I went on, “he 
informed me 'that the Prince himself 
had given him the word to leave Lon¬ 
don until the affair had blown over.” 
never knew how much I wanted her 
—how much I had wilfully tossed aside 
—till now! I never realized the full 
misery of it all—till now! I could 
have starved very well in time, and 
managed it as quietly as most other 
ruined fools. But now—to see the 
chance of- beginning again, of coming 
back to self-respect and—Helen!” And, 
of a sudden, he cast himself upon his- 
face, and so lay. Then, almost as sud¬ 
denly, he was upon his feet again, and 
had caught up his hat. “Sir,” said he 
somewhat shamefacedly, smoothing its 
ruffled nap with fingers that still quiv¬ 
ered, “pray forgive that little ebullition 
of feeling; it is over—quite over, but 
your tidings affected me.” 
“Indeed,” said I, “you seemed 
strangely perturbed.” 
“Mr. Vibart,” said he, staring very 
hard at the battered hat, and turning 
it round and round, “Mi*. Vibart, the 
devil is surprisingly strong in some of 
us 
‘True,” said I. 
N OW while I ‘ spoke, Mr. Beverley 
had been regarding me with a very 
strange expression. 
“Mr. Beverley,” said' I, “what ails 
you?” 
For a moment he did not speak, 
then answered, with the same strange 
look : 
“Sir Jasper Trent—is my cousin, 
sir 
“Indeed!” said I. 
. “Cun you not see what this means, 
sir?” he went on hurriedly. “Jasper 
will fight.” 
“Indeed,” said I again, “I fear so.” 
“Jasper was always a bit of a fish, 
and with no particular affection for 
his graceless kinsman, but I am his 
only relative; and—and he hardly 
knows one end of a pistol from the 
other, while your cousin is a dead 
shot.” 
“My cousin!” I exclaimed; “then it 
was he —to be sure I saw only his 
back.” 
“Sir Jasper is 'unmarried—has no 
relations but myself,” my companion re¬ 
peated, with the same fixed intentness 
of look; “can you appreciate, I wonder, 
what this would mean to me?” 
“Rank, and fortune, and London,” 
said I. 
“No, no!” He sprang to his feet, 
and threw wide his ragged arms with a 
swift, passionate gesture. “It means- 
Life—and Helen. My God!” he went 
on, speaking almost in a whisper, “I 
AND for a moment, Mr. Vibart, I 
xx was tempted to sit down in the 
ditch again, and let things take their 
course. The devil, I repeat, is remark¬ 
ably strong in some of us.” 
. “Then what is your present inten¬ 
tion?” 
“I am going to London to find Sir 
Maurice Vibart—to stop this duel.” 
“Impossible!” said I. 
“But you see, sir, it so happens that 
1 am possessed of certain intelligence 
which might make Sir Maurice’s exist¬ 
ence in England positively untenable ” 
“Nevertheless,” said I, “it is impos¬ 
sible.” 
“That remains to be seen, Mr. 
Vibart,” said he, and speaking, turned 
upon his heel. 
“One moment,” said I, “was not your 
cousin, Sir Jasper, of middle height, 
slim-built and fair-haired, with a habit 
of plucking at his lips when nervous?” 
“Exactly; you know him, sir?” 
No,” I answered, “but I have seen 
him, very lately, and I say again to 
stop this duel is an impossibility.” 
“Do you mean—” he began and 
paused. Now, as his eyes met mine, the 
battered hat escaped his fingers, and 
lay all unheeded. 
“Yes,” said I, “I mean that you are 
too late. Sir Jasper was killed at a 
place called Deepdene Wood, no longer 
since than to-day at half-past seven in 
the morning.” 
For a long moment Mr. Beverley 
stood silent with bent head, then, ap¬ 
parently becoming aware of the hat 
at his feet, he sent it flying with a 
sudden kick. Which done, he walked 
after it, and returned, brushing it very 
carefully with his ragged cuff. 
“ And —you are sure—quite sure, Mr. 
Vibart?” he inquired, smoothing the 
broken brim with the greatest solicitude. 
“I stood behind a hedge, and watched 
it done,” said I. • - 
“Then—I am Sir Peregrine Beverley! 
Jasper—dead! A knight banneret of 
Kent, and Justice of the Peace! How 
preposterous it all sounds! But to-day 
I begin life anew, ah, yes, a new life! 
lo-day all things are possible again! 
But come, said he in a more natural 
tone, “let us get back to our ditch, and 
while you tell me the particulars, if you 
don’t object I should much like to try 
a whiff at that pipe of yours.” 
So, while I recounted the affair as 
briefly as I might, he sat puffing at my 
pipe, and staring away into the dis¬ 
tance. But gradually his head sank 
lower and lower, until his face was 
quite hidden from me, and for a long 
moment after I had ended my narra¬ 
tion, there was silence. 
“Poor Jasper!” said he at last, with¬ 
out raising his head, “poor old Jasper!” 
“I congratulate you, Sir Peregrine,” 
said I. 
“And I used to pummel him so, when 
we were boys together at Eton—poor 
old Jasper!” And, presently, he handed 
me my pipe, and rose. “Mr. Vibart,” 
said he,, “it would seem that by no 
virtue of my own, I am to win free of 
this howling desolation, after all; be¬ 
lieve me, I would gladly take you with 
me. Had I not met with you it is—- 
rather more than probable—thht I— 
should never have seen another dawn; 
so if ever I can be of—use to you, pray 
honor me so far; you can always hear 
of me at Burnham Hall, Pembry. Good- 
by, Mr. Vibart, I am going to her—in 
all my rags—for I am a man again.” 
So I bade him good-by, and, sitting 
m thfe ditch, watched him stride away 
to his* new life. Presently, reaching 
the brow of the hill (there are hills 
everywhere in the South country), I 
saw him turn to flourish the battered 
hat ere he disappeared from my sight. 
CHAPTER XV 
IN WHICH I MEET WITH A PEDLER BY 
name op “gabbing” dick 
“YOU won’t be wantin’ ever a broom 
-L now?” ’ 
I sat up, sleepily, and rubbed my 
eyes. The sun was gone, and the blue 
sky had changed to a deep purple, set 
here and there with a quivering star. 
Yet the light was still strong enough 
to enable me to distinguish the speaker 
—a short, thick-set man. Upon his 
shoulder he carried a bundle of brooms, 
a pack was slung to his back, while 
round his neck there dangled a hetero¬ 
geneous collection of articles—ribbons, 
laces, tawdry neck chains, and the like. 
You won’t be wantin’ ever a broom, 
now?” he repeated, in a somewhat 
melancholy tone. 
“No,” said I. 
“A belt, now,” he suggested mourn¬ 
fully a fine leather belt wi’ a steel 
buckle made in Brummagem as ever 
was, and all for a shillin’; what d’ ve 
say to a fine belt?” 
That I have no need of one, thank 
you.” 
“Ah, well!” said the man, spitting 
dejectedly at a patch of shadow, “I 
thought as much; you aren’t got the 
look of a buyer.” 
“Then why ask me?” 
“HinsUnet!” said he, “it ’s jest hin- 
stmet — it comes as nat’ral to me as 
eatin , or walkin’ these ’ere roads.” 
“Have you come far to-day?” 
Twenty mile, maybe,” he answered, 
setting down his bundle of brooms. 
“And how is trade?” 
“Could n’t be worse!” % 
,1 perceive you are a pessimist,” 
said I. 
“No,” said he, “I’m a pedler—bap¬ 
tism! name Richard, commonly known 
as ‘Gabbin’ Dick.’ ” 
“At least yours is a fine healthy 
trade,” said I. 
“ ’Ow so?” 
“A life of constant exercise, and 
fresh air; to-day for instance—” 
“Ah! an’ with dust enough to choke 
a man! And then there ’s the loneli¬ 
ness o’ these ’ere roads.” ^ 
“Loneliness?” said I. 
That ’s the word; sometimes it gets 
so bad as I ’m minded to do away wi’ 
myself—” 
“Strange!” I began. 
“Not a bit,” said he; “when you ’ve 
been a-wajkin’ an’ a-walkin’ all day 
past ’edge and ’edge, and tree and tree, 
it ’s bad enough, but it ’s worse when 
the sun ’s gone out an’ you toiler the 
glimmer'o’ the road on and on, past 
’edges as ain’t ’edges, and trees as ain’t 
trees, but things as touch you as you 
pass, and reach out arter you in the 
dark, behind.” 
“Do you mean that you are afraid?” 
I inquired. 
“No, not afeared exactly; it ’s jest 
the loneliness—the lonely quietness. 
Why, Lord! you are n’t got no notion 
o the tricks the trees and ’edges gets 
up to a’ nights—nobody ’as but us 
as tramps the roads. Bill Nye knowed, 
same as I know, but Bill Nye ’s dead; 
cut is throat, ’e did, wi’ one o’ ’is own 
razors—under a ’edge.” 
‘‘ And what for?” I inquired, as the 
Pedler paused to spit lugubriously into 
the road again. 
“Nobody knowed but me. William 
Nye ’e were a tinker, and a rare, merry 
un ’e were—a little man always up to 
is jokin’ and laughin’. ‘Dick,’ ’e used to 
say ‘d’ ye know that theer big oak-tree 
—the big, ’oiler oak as stands at the 
crossroads a mile and a ’alf out o’ 
Cranbrook? A man might do tor ’isself 
very nice, and quiet, tucked away inside 
of it, Dick,’ says ’e; ‘it ’s such a nice, 
quiet place, so snug and dark, I wonder 
as nobody does.’ Well, one day, sure 
enough, poor Bill Nye disappeai’ed— 
nobody knowed wheer. At last, one 
evenin’ I ’appened to pass the big oak— 
the oiler oak, and mindin’ Bill’s words, 
$h. iaks I—’ere ’s. to see if’t is empty as 
•Dill said. Coin* up to it I got down on 
my ands and knees, and, strikin’ a 
light, looked inside; and there, sure 
enough, whs poor Bill-Nye hunched up 
inside of it wi’ a razor in ’is ’and, and 
is ead nigh cut off—and what wi’ one 
thing and another, a very unpleasant 
sight he were.” 
“And why—why did he do it 9 ” I 
asked. 
Because ’e ’ad to, o’ course—-it ’s 
jest the loneliness. They’ll find me 
some day, danglin’—I never could abide 
blood myself—danglin’ to the thing as 
looks like a oaktree in the daytime.” 
“What do you mean?” said I. 
The Pedler sighed, shook his head, 
and shouldered his brooms. 
“It ’s jest the loneliness!” said he, 
and, spitting over his shoulder, trudged 
upon his way. 
CHAPTER XVI 
HOW I HEARD THE STEPS OF ONE WI 
DOGGED ME IN THE SHADOWS 
A ND, in a little while, I rose, ai 
■ buckled on my knapsack. T1 
shadows were creeping on apace, bi 
the sky was wonderfully clear, whil 
low down upon the horizon, I saw tl 
full orbed moon, very broad and bi 
It would be a brilliant night later, ar 
tins knowledge rejoiced me not a littl 
Before me stretched a succession ( 
hills, over which the dim road dippe^ 
and. wound, with, on either hand 
roiling country, dark with wood, full ( 
mystery. The wind had quite fallei 
but from the hedges came sudde 
rustlings and soft, unaccountabl 
noises. 
And, as I walked, I bethought me c 
poor Bill Nye, the Tinker. I coul 
picture him tramping upon this ver 
road, his jingling load upon his bad 
and the “loneliness” upon and aroun 
him. A small man, he would be, wit 
a peaked face, little, round, twinklin 
eyes, grizzled hair, and a long, blu 
chin. How I came to know all thi 
1 cannot tell, only it seemed he mus 
be so. On he went through the shadow* 
(Continued on page 329) 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED SO FAR 
pETER VIBART finds that his striking resemblance to his cousin Sir 
Maurice, causes strangers to mistake him for that notorious rascal 
Among them are a prize-fighter, two “dandies” of the period and a fat' 
tered young gentleman who offers to fight him, but who shkres Peter's 
nimble meal when he discovers his mistake. The conversation turns to 
the gay doings of London society, and young Beverlev mentions 
Sophia Sefton as a famous beauty. Peter’s unelf having left him a foidune 
on condition he marry this lady, whom he has nevef seen he' has me 
f erred to take, penniless, to the Broad Highway ’ aS pie ' 
