382 
American Agriculturist, December 1,1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
CHAPTER XXI 
IN WHICH I MEET WITH A LITERARY 
TINKER 
E VEN in that drowsy, semi-conscious 
state, which lies midway between 
sleeping and waking, I knew it could 
not be the woodpecker who lodged in 
the tree above me. No woodpecker that 
ever pecked could originate such sounds 
as these—two quick, light strokes, fol¬ 
lowed by another, and heavier, thus: 
Tap, tap—TAP; a pause, and then, tap, 
tap—TAP again, and so on. 
Whatever doubts I may have yet 
harbored on the subject, however, were 
presently dispelled by a fragrance 
sweeter, to the nostrils of a hungry 
man, than the breath of flowers, or all 
the vaunted perfumes of Arabia—in a 
word, the odor of frying bacon. 
Hereupon, I suddenly realized how ex¬ 
ceedingly keen was my appetite, and 
sighed, when a voice reached me from 
no great distance, a full, rich, sonorous 
voice, singing a song. And the words 
of the song were these: 
A tinker I am, O a tinker am i, 
A tinker I’ll live, and a tinker I’ll die; 
If the King in his crown would change places 
wi' me 
I’d laugh so I would, and I'd say unto he: 
‘A tinker I am, O a tinker am I, 
A tinker I’ll live, and a tinker I’ll die.’ 
It was a quaint air, with a shake at 
the end of the first two and last two 
lines, which, altogether, I thought very 
pleasing. I advanced, guided by the 
voice, until I came out into a grassy 
lane. Seated upon an artfully-con¬ 
trived folding stool, was a man. He 
was a very small man, who held a 
kettle between his knees, and a light 
hammer in his hand, while a little to 
one side of him there blazed a crackling 
fire of twigs upon which a hissing fry¬ 
ing-pan was balanced. But what chiefly 
drew and held my attention was the 
manjs face; narrow and peaked, with 
little, round, twinkling eyes set deep 
in his head, close black hair, grizzled 
at the temples, and a long, blue chin. 
“POOD MORNING!” said he, with a 
vJT bright nod, 
“So then you did n’t cut your throat 
in the Hollow Oak, after all?” said I. 
“Nor likely to either, master,” he 
answered, shaking his head. 
“But,” said I, “some day or so ago 
I met a p^dler of brooms.” 
“Gabbing Dick!” nodded the Tinker. 
“Who told me very seriously—” 
“That I’d been found in the big 
holler oak wi’ my throat cut,” nodded 
the Tinker. 
“But what did he mean by it?” 
“‘Why,, y’ see,” explained the Tink¬ 
er, leaning over to turn a frizzling 
bacon-rasher very dexterously with the 
blade of a jack-knife, “y’ see, ‘Gabbing’ 
Dick is oncomraon fond of murders, 
sooicides, and such like—it ’s just a 
way he ’s got.” 
“A very unpleasant way!” said I. 
“A leetle weak up here,” explained 
the Tinker, tapping his forehead with 
the handle of the jack-knife. 
“Poor fellow!” said I, while the 
Tinker began his tapping again. 
“Are you hungry?” he inquired sud¬ 
denly, glancing up at me. 
“Very hungry!” said I. Hereupon 
he set down his hammer, and, turning 
to a pack at his side, proceeded to ex¬ 
tract therefrom a loaf of bread, a small 
tin of butter, and a piece of bacon, 
from which last he cut sundry slices 
with the jack-knife. He now lifted the 
hissing rashers from the pan to a tin 
plate, which he set upon the grass at 
my feet, together with the bread and 
the butter; and, having produced a 
somewhat battered knife and fork, 
handed them to me with another nod. 
“You are very kind!” said I. 
“Why, I’m a man as is fond o’ com¬ 
pany, ’y see. I am—as you might say— 
a literary cove, being fond o’ books, 
nov-els, and such like.” And in a little 
while, the bacon being done to his lik¬ 
ing, we sat down together. 
“That was a strange song of yours,” 
said I, after a while. 
“I made the words myself,” said the 
Tinker. 
“And do you mean it?” 
“Mean what?” asked the Tinker. 
“That you would rather be a tinker 
than a king?” 
“Why, to be sure I would,” he re¬ 
joined. “Bein’ a literary cove I know 
summat o’ history, and a king’s life 
were n’t all lavender.” 
“Yet there ’s much to be said for a 
king.” 
“Very little, I think,” said the Tinker. 
“There have been some great and 
noble kings.” 
“But a great many more bad ’uns!” 
said the Tinker. “And then, look how 
often they got theirselves pisoned, or 
stabbed, or ’ad their ’eads chopped 
off!” 
“Then you are contented?” 
“Not quite,” he answered, his face 
falling; “me being a literary cove (as 
I think I’ve mentioned afore), it has 
always been my wish to be a scholar.” 
“Far better be a tinker,” said I. 
“XTOUNG fellow,” said the Tinker, 
JL shaking his head reprovingly, 
“you’re off the mark there—knowledge 
is power; why, Lord love my eyes and 
limbs! what ’s finer than to be able to 
read in the Greek and Latin?” 
“To possess the capacity of earning 
ail honest livelihood,” said I. 
“Why, I tell you,” continued the 
Tinker, unheeding my remark, “I’d 
give this here left hand o’ mine to be 
able to read the very words of such 
men as Plato, Aristotle, Epictetus, 
Xenophon, and all the rest of ’em.” 
“There are numerous translations,” 
said I. 
“You ’ve read Epictetus, perhaps?” 
inquired the Tinker. 
“I have,” 
“Not in the Greek, of course.” 
“Yes,” said I, smiling, “though by 
dint of much labor.” 
The Tinker stopped chewing to stare 
at me wide-eyed. 
“Lord love me!” he exclaimed, “and 
you so young, too!” 
“But I can’t make a kettle, or, even 
mend one, for that matter,” said I. 
“But you are a scholar, and it ’s a 
fine thing to be a scholar!” 
“And I tell you again, it is better to 
be a tinker,” said I. 
“That, I don’t believe,” said the 
Tinker. 
“Nevertheless,” said I, “speaking for 
myself, I have, in the course of my 
twenty-five years, earned but ten shil¬ 
lings, and that—but by the sale of 
my waistcoat.” 
“Lord love me!” exclaimed the 
Tinker, staring. 
“A man,” I pursued, “may be a far 
better _ scholar than I—may be full of 
the wisdom of the Ancients, and yet 
starve to death—indeed frequently 
does; but who ever heard of a starving 
Tinker?” 
“You are a rather strange young 
man, I think,” said the Tinker, as, hav¬ 
ing duly wiped knife, and fork, and 
plate upon a handful of grass, I 
handed them back. 
“Yet you are a stranger tinker.” 
“How so?” 
“Why, who ever heard of a tinker 
who wrote verses, and worked with a 
copy of Epictetus at his elbow?” 
T HE Tinker slowly wiped his clasp- 
knife upon the leg of his breeches, 
closed it, and slipped it into his pocket. 
“Nevertheless,” said he at last, “I 
am convinced that you are a very 
strange young man.” 
“Be that as it may,” said I, “the 
bacon was delicious. I have never en¬ 
joyed a meal so much—except once at 
an inn called ‘The Old Cock.’ ” 
“I know it,” nodded the Tinker; “a 
very poor house.” 
“But the ham and eggs are beyond 
praise,” said I; “still, my meal here 
under the trees with you will long re¬ 
main a pleasant memory.” 
“Good-by, then,” said the Tinker. 
“Good-by, young man, and I wish you 
happiness.” 
“What is happiness?” said I. The 
Tinker removed his hat, and, having 
scratched his head, put it on again. 
“Happiness,” said he, “happiness is 
the state of being content with one’s 
self, the world, and everything in gen¬ 
eral.” 
“Then,” said If “I fear I can never 
be happy.” 
“And why not?” 
“Because, supposing I ever became 
contented with the world, and every¬ 
thing in general, which is highly im¬ 
probable, I shall never, never be con¬ 
tented with myself.” 
CHAPTER XXII 
WHICH INTRODUCES THE READER TO THE 
ANCIENT 
T HE sun was high when I came to 
a place where the ways divided, and 
I heard the cool plash and murmur of 
a brook at no great distance. Where¬ 
fore, being hot and thirsty, I scrambled 
through the hedge, and, coming to the 
brook, threw myself face down beside 
it, and catching up the sweet pure water 
in my hands, drank my fill; which done, 
I bathed my feet, and hands, and face. 
Now because I have ever loved the 
noise of running waters, in a little 
while, I rose and walked on beside the 
stream, listening to its blithesome 
melody. I came at length to a sudden 
declivity down which the water plunged 
in a miniature cascade, sparkling in the 
sun, and gleaming with a thousand 
rainbow hues. On I went, climbing 
down as best I might, until I found 
myself in a sort of green basin, very 
cool after the heat and glare of the 
roads. And there, screened by leaves, 
shut in among the green, stood a small 
cottage or hut. My second glance 
showed it to be tenantless, for the 
thatch was partly gone, the windows 
were broken, and the door had long 
since fallen from its hinges. Yet, de¬ 
spite its forlornness and desolation, 
there was something in the air of the 
place that drew me strangely. 
“A man might do worse than live 
here,” thought I, “with the birds for 
neighbors, and the brook to sing him 
to sleep at night.” 
I was still looking at the hut, with 
this in my mind ;when I was startled 
by hearing a thin, quavering voice 
behind me: 
“Be you ’m a-lookin’ at t’ cottage, 
master?” 
T URNING sharp round, I beheld a 
very ancient man in a smock frock, 
who carried a basket on one arm, and 
leaned upon a stick. 
“Yes,” I answered; “I was wonder¬ 
ing how* it came to be built in such 
an out-of-the-world spot.” 
“Why, ’t were built by a wanderin’ 
man o’ the roads.” 
“It ’s very lonely!” said I. 
“Ye may well say so, sir—haunted 
it be, tu.” 
“Haunted?” said I. 
“Haunted as ever was!” answered 
the old man, with a sprightly nod 
strangely contrasting with his wrinkled 
face and tremulous limbs. “No one 
ventur’s nigh the place arter dark, 
an’ few enough in the daytime.” 
“On account of the ghost?” 
“Ah!” nodded the Ancient, “moans 
’e du, an’ likewise groans.” 
“Then nobody has lived here of 
late?” 
“Bless ’ee, no. Nobody ’s come a- 
nigh the place, you may say, since 
’t were built by the wanderin’ man. 
Lived ’ere all alone, ’e did—killed ’isself 
’ere likewise.” 
“Killed himself!” said I. 
“Ah—! ’ung ’isself—be’ind th’ door 
yonder, sixty an’ six year ago come 
August, an’ ’t were me as found ’im. 
Ye see,” said the old man, seating him¬ 
self with great nicety on the moss- 
grown doorstep, “ye see, ’t were a 
tur’ble storm that night—rain, and 
wind, wi’ every now an’ then a gert, 
cracklin’ flame o’ lightnin’. Well, I 
were cornin’ ’ome, and what wi’ one 
thing an’ another, I lost my way. An’ 
presently, as I were stumblin’ along in 
the dark, comes another crackle o’ 
lightnin’, an’ lookin’ up, what should 
I see but this ’ere cottage. ’T were 
newer-lookin’ then, wi’ a door an’ 
winders, but the door was shut an’ 
the winders was dark—so theer I 
stood in the rain, not likin’ to dis¬ 
turb the stranger, for ’e were a gert, 
fierce, unfriendly kind o’ chap. Hows’- 
ever, arter a while, up I goes to th’ 
door, an’ knocks (for I were a strong, 
strapping figure o’ a man myself, in 
those days, an’ could give a good buf¬ 
fet an’ tak one tu), so up I goes to 
th’ door, an’ knocks wi’ my fist clenched, 
all ready—but Lord! nobody answered, 
so, at last, I lifted the latch.” Here 
the Ancient paused to draw a snuff-box 
from his pocket, with great deliberation. 
“Well?” I inquired. 
“Well,” he continued slowly, “I 
lifted th’ latch, and’ give a push to the 
door, but it would only open a little way 
—an inch, p’r’aps, an’ stuck.” Here he 
tapped, and opened his snuff-box. 
“Well?” I inquired again. 
“Well,” he went on, “I give it a 
gert, big push wi’ my shoulder, an’, 
just as it flew open, comes another 
flash o’ lightnin,’ an’ the fust thing I 
seen was—a boot.” 
“Go on,” said I, “go on.” 
“Oh!—it’s a fine story, a fine story!” 
he chuckled. “Theer bean’t many men 
o’ my age as ’as fund a ’ung man in 
a thunderstorm! Well, as I tell ye, I 
seen a boot, likewise a leg, an’ theer 
were this ’ere wanderin’ man o’ the 
roads a-danglin’ be’ind th’ door from a 
stapil—look, ye!” he exclaimed, rising 
with some little difficulty, and hobbling 
into the hut, “theer be th’ very stapil, 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED 
"DETER VIBART, rather than 
■*“ win a fortune by marrying a 
famous beauty whom he has never 
seen, takes to the Broad Highway. 
His remarkable resemblance to 
his rascally cousin, Sir Maurice, 
is responsible for several ad¬ 
ventures. including an attack 
upon his life. He rescues a lady 
in distress returns her to her 
home, and continues on his way 
in search of honest employment. 
0 
so it be!” and he pointed up to a rusty 
iron staple driven deep into the beam 
above the door. 
“And why,” said I, “why did he hang 
himself?” 
“Seein’ e’ ’ad no friends, and never 
told nobody—nobody never knowed,” 
answered the old man, shaking his 
head, “but on that theer stapil I fund 
’im, sixty and six year ago.” 
“Sixty and six years is an age,” 
said I. 
“So it be,” nodded the *Ancient. “I 
were a fine young chap in those days, 
tall I were, an’ straight as a arrer. I 
be a bit different now.” 
“Why, you are getting old,” said I. 
“So ’s t’ stapil yonder, but t’ stapil 
looks nigh as good as ever.” 
“Iron generally wears better than 
flesh and blood,” said I; “it ’s only 
natural.” 
“Ay, but ’e can’t last forever,” said 
the Ancient, frowning, and shaking his 
head at the rusty staple. “I’ve watched 
un, month in an’ month out, all these 
years, an’ seen un growin’ rustier an’ 
rustier. ‘I ’ll last ’ee out yet,’ I’ve said 
tu un—’e knows it—’e ’ve heerd me 
many an’ many a time. ‘I ’ll last ’ee 
out yet!’ I’ ve said, an’ so I will, tu— 
’e can’t last forever an’ I be a vig’rus 
man—a mortal vig’rus man—bean’t I?” 
“Wonderfully!” said I. 
“An’ t’ stapil can’t last much longer 
—eh, maister?” 
“One would hardly think so.” 
“I knowed it—I knowed it,” he 
chuckled, feebly, “such a poor old stapil 
as’t is, all eat up wi’ rust. Every time 
I come ’ere a-gatherin’ watercress, I 
come in an’ give un a look, an’ watch 
un rustin’ away; I ’ll see un go fust, 
arter all, so I will!” and, with another 
nod at the staple, he turned, and hob¬ 
bled out into the sunshine. 
And seeing how, despite his brave 
showing, he labored to carry the heavy 
basket, I presently took it from him, 
disregarding his protests, and set off 
by his side; yet, as we went, I turned 
once to look back at the deserted hut. 
“You ’m thinkin’ ’t is a tur’ble bad 
place at night?” said the old man. 
“On the contrary,” I answered, “I 
was thinking it might suit a homeless 
man like me very well indeed.” 
“D’ ye mean—to live there?” ex¬ 
claimed the Ancient. 
“Yes,” said I. 
“P’r’aps you be one o’ they fules as 
think theer bean’t no ghosts?” 
“As to that,” I answered, “I don’t 
know, but I don’t think I should be 
much afraid, and it is a great blessing 
