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American Agriculturist, December 15, 1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
T HE place was small, and comprised two rooms shut off from each other by a strong partition 
with a door midway. Lifting the candle, I glanced at the staple on which the builder of the 
cottage had choked out his life so many years ago, and, calling to mind the Ancient's fierce 
desire to outlast it, I even reached up my hand and gave it a shake. But, despite the rust of 
years, the iron felt as strong and rigid as ever. The second room appeared much the same size 
as the first, and like it in all respects, till, looking upwards, I noticed a square trap-door in a cor¬ 
ner, while underneath, against the wall, hung a rough ladder. This I proceeded to lift down, and, 
mounting, cautiously lifted the trap. 
Holding the candle above my head to survey this chamber, or rather garret, the first object my 
eye encountered was a small tin pannikin, and beyond that a stone jar, or demijohn, nearly full 
of water quite sweet and fresh to the taste, which, of itself, was sufficient evidence that some one 
had been here very lately. I now observed a bundle of hay in one corner, beside which were 
a cracked mug, a tin plate, a pair of shoes, and an object I took to be part of a flute or wind 
instrument. But what particularly excited my interest were the shoes, which had evidently seen 
long and hard service. Very big they were, and somewhat clumsy, thick-soled, and square of 
toe, and with a pair of enormous silver buckles. 
These evidences led me to believe that who¬ 
ever had been here before was likely to return, 
and, not doubting that this must be he who 
had played, the part of ghost so well, I deter¬ 
mined to be ready for him. 
So, leaving all things as I found them, I 
descended. 
In the first room was a rough fireplace and 
as the air struck somewhat damp and chill, I 
went out and gathered a quantity of twigs and 
dry wood, and had soon built a cheerful, crack¬ 
ling fire. I now set about collecting armfuls of 
dry leaves, which I piled against the wall for 
a bed. By the time this was completed to my 
satisfaction, the moon was peeping above the 
treetops, filling the Hollow with shadows. 
I NOW lay down upon my leafy couch, and 
fell to watching the fire and listening to the 
brook outside. In the opposite wall was a win¬ 
dow, the glass of which was long since gone, 
through which I could see a square of sky, and 
the glittering belt of Orion. Gradually my 
head grew heavier and heavier, until, at length, 
the stars became confused with the winking 
sparks upon the hearth. 
I must have slept for an hour, or nearer two 
(for the room was dark, save for a few glowing 
embers and the faint light of the stars) when 
I suddenly sat bolt upright, with every nerve 
tingling. From somewhere close outside the 
cottage, there rose a sudden cry — a long-drawn- 
out, bubbling scream (no other words can de¬ 
scribe it), that died slowly down to a wail only 
to rise again higher and higher. Then all at 
once it was gone, and silence rushed in upon 
me — a silence fraught with fear and horror 
unimaginable. 
I lay rigid, the blood in my veins jumping 
with every throb of my heart. And then the 
cry began again, deep and hoarse at first, but 
rising, rising until the air thrilled with a scream 
such as no earthly lips could utter. 
Now the light at the window grew stronger 
and stronger, and, all at once, a feeble shaft of 
moonlight crept across the floor. I was watch¬ 
ing this most welcome beam when it*was again 
obscured by something, which I gradually 
made out to be very like a human head peering 
in at me; but, if this was so, it seemed a head 
hideously mis-shapen — and there, sure enough, 
rising from the brow, was a long, pointed 
horn. 
A S I lay motionless, staring at this thing, my 
hand encountered the pistol in my pocket ; 
and, from the very depths of my soul, I poured 
benedictions upon the honest head of Simon the 
Innkeeper. With a single bound I was upon 
my feet, and had the weapon levelled at the 
window. 
“Speak!" said I, “speak, or I’ll shoot." 
There was a moment of tingling suspense, and 
then: 
“Oh, man, dinna do that!” said a voice. 
“Then come in and show yourself!” 
Herewith the head incontinently disap¬ 
peared, there was the sound of a heavy step, 
and a tall figure loomed in the doorway. 
“Wait!” said I, as, fumbling about, I 
presently found tinder-box and candle, having 
lighted which I turned and beheld an exceed¬ 
ingly tall man — clad in the full habit of' a Scot¬ 
tish Highlander. By his side hung a long, 
straight, basket-hilted sword, beneath one arm 
he carried a bagpipe, while upon his head was—- 
not a horn—but a Scot’s bonnet with a long 
eagle’s feather. 
“Oh, man,” said he, eyeing me with a some¬ 
what wry smile, “ye’re no’ afeared o’ bogles, 
whateffer!” 
CHAPTER XXVII 
THE HIGHLAND PIPER 
W HO are you?” said I, in no very gentle 
tone. 
“Donal’s my name, sir, an’ if ye had an e’e 
for the tartan, ye’d ken I was a Stuart.” 
“And what do you want here, Donald 
I'-yiart?” 
“The verra question I’d be askin’ — wha’ 
gars ye tae come here?” 
“It is my intention’ to live here, for the 
future,” said I. 
The Highlander smiled his wry smile, and 
taking out a snuff-box, inhaled a pinch, re¬ 
garding me the while. 
“Ye’re the first as ever stayed — after they’d 
heard the first bit squeakie.” 
“But how in the world did you make such 
awful sounds?” 
“Oh, it’s juist the pipes!” he answered, 
patting them affectionately, “will I show ye 
the noo?” 
“Pray do,” said I. Hereupon he set the 
mouthpiece to his lips, inflated the bag, 
stopped the vents with his fingers, and im¬ 
mediately the air vibrated with the bubbling 
scream. 
“Oh, man!” he exclaimed, laying the still 
groaning instrument gently aside, “oh, man! 
is it no juist won’erful?” 
“But what has been your object in terrifying 
people out of their wits in this manner?” 
T HE Piper smiled, then, and, unwinding the 
plaid from his shoulder, spread it upon the 
floor, and sat down. 
“Ye maun ken,” he began, “that I hae 
muckle love for the snuff, and snuff is unco 
expenseeve.” 
“Well?” said I. 
“Ye maun ken, that ma brither Alan canna’ 
abide the snuff.”. 
“Go on,” said I, “I’m listening.” 
“Weel, I’m a braw, bonnie piper, an’ ma 
brither Alan, he’s a bonnie piper too. Aweel, 
I fell in love wi’ af lassie, which wad ha’ been 
a richt if ma brither Alan hadna’ fallen in love 
wi’ her too, so that she, puir lassie, didna’ ken 
which tae tak’. ‘Then, Alan,’ says I, ‘we’ll 
juist play for her.’ Which I think ye ll own 
was a graund idee, only the lassie couldna’ mak’ 
up her mind which o’ us piped the best. So the 
end of it was we agreed, ma brither Alan an’ I, 
to pipe oor way through England for a year, 
an’ the man wha came back wi’ the maist siller 
should wed the lassie.” 
“And a very fair proposal,” said I, “but — ” 
“Wheest, man! juist here’s where we come 
to t he .snuff, for, look ye, every time I bought 
a paper o’ snuff I minded me that ma brither 
Alan, not takkin’ it himself, was so much siller 
tae the gude — an’ — oh, man! it used tae grieve 
me sair — till, one day, I lighted on this bit. 
hoosie.” 
“Well?” said I. 
“Eh, man! ma brither Alan he -must hae 
a bed o’ nights, an’ pay for it too, ye ken. An’ 
many’s the nicht I’ve slept the sweeter for 
thinkin’ o’ that saxpence or shillin’ that Alan’s 
apartin’ wi’ for a bed. So wishfu’ tae keep 
this bit hoosie tae rilyself, I juist kep’ up the 
illusion. Eh! but’t was fair graund tae see ’em 
rinnin’ awa’ as if the de’il were after them, an’ 
a’ by reason of a bit squeakie o’ the pipes, 
here.” 
I now proceeded to build and relight the fire, 
during which the Scot drew a packet of bread 
and cheese from his sporran, and I, following 
his example, took out the edibles Simon had 
provided. 
“An’ ye’re minded tae bide here, ye tell me? ” 
he inquired after a while. 
“Yes,” I nodded, “but that need not inter¬ 
fere with you. Now that I have had a good 
look at you, I think we might get along very 
well together.” 
“Sir,” said he solemnly, “my race is royal — 
here’s a Stuart’s hand,” and he reached it out 
to me across the hearth. 
“How do you find life in these parts?” I 
inquired. 
“Indeefferent, sir! Tae be sure, at fairs I’ve 
often had as much as ten shillin’ in ma bonnet 
at a time; but it’s juist the kilties that draw 
’em; they hae no real love for the pipes, what¬ 
effer!” 
“That is a question open to argument, 
Donald,” said I; “can any'one play real music 
on a bagpipe?” 
“ OIR,” returned the Scot, setting down the 
kj empty flask and frowning darkly at the 
fire, “the pipes is the king of a’ instruments, 
’t is the sweetest, the truest, the oldest, what¬ 
effer!” 
“True, it is very old,” said I thoughtfully; 
“it was known, I believe, to the Greeks. Yes, 
it is certainly a very old, and, I think, a very 
barbarous instrument.” 
“Hoot toot! the man talks like a muckle 
fule,” said Donald. “Hae ye ever heard the 
pipes? 
“Why, yes, but long ago.” 
“Then,” said Donald, “ye shall juist hear 
’em again,” So saying, he took up his instru¬ 
ment, and began slowly inflating it. 
Then, all at once, from drones and chanter 
there rushed forth such a flood of melody as 
seemed to sweep me away upon its tide. 
First I seemed to hear a roar of wind through 
desolate glens, a moan of trees, and a rush of 
sounding waters; yet softly, softly there rises 
above the flood of sound a little rippling melody 
which comes and goes. And now, the swing of 
marching feet, the tread of a mighty host whose 
step is strong and free; and lo! they are singing, 
as they march, and the song is bold and wild. 
Once again the theme changes, and it is battle, 
and death, sudden, and sharp; there is the rush 
and shock of charging ranks, above whose 
thunder, loud and clear and shrill, like some 
battle-cry, the melody swells. 
But. the thunder rolls away, distant and more 
distant—the day is lost, and won; but, sudden 
and clear, the melody rings out once more, 
fuller now, richer, and complete. And yet, 
what sorrow, what anguish unspeakable rings 
through it, the weeping and wailing of a nation! 
So the melody sinks slowly, to die away in one 
long-drawn, minor note, and Donald is looking 
across at me with his grave smile, and I will 
admit both his face and figure are sadly blurred. 
“Donald,” said I, after a little, “Donald, 
I will never speak against the pipes again; they 
are indeed the king of all instruments—played 
as you play them.” 
“Ou ay. I’m a bonnie piper. I’ll no deny it!” 
he answered. “ ’T is a bit pibroch I made tae 
Wullie Wallace. Aweel! he was murdered afore 
your time or mine—so—gude-nicht tae ye, 
Southeron!” Saying which, be rose, and 
stalked majestically to bed. 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
HOW BLACK GEORGE AND I SHOOK HANDS 
T HE world was full of sunshine, and the 
blithe song of birds, as I rose next morning, 
and, coming to the stream, *threw myself down 
beside it, plunged my hands and arms and head 
into the limpid water. 
In a little while I rose, with the water drip¬ 
ping from me, and having made shift to dry 
myself upon my neckcloth, nothing else being 
available, returned to the cottage. 
Above my head I could hear a gentle sound 
rising and falling with a rhythmic measure, 
that told me Donald still slept; so, clapping on 
my hat and coat, I started out to my first 
day’s work at the forge. 
Long before I reached the smithy I could 
hear the ring of Black George's hammer, 
though the village was not yet astir, and it was 
with some trepidation that 1 approached the 
open doorway. 
There he stood, busy at his anvil, goodly to 
look upon in his bare-armed might. He might 
have been some hero, or demigod, rather than 
a village blacksmith, and a very sulky one at 
that: for though he must have been aware of 
my presence, he never glanced up. 
N OW, as I watched, I noticed a certain slow¬ 
ness—a heaviness in all his movements— 
together with a listless, slipshod air which, I 
judged, was very foreign to him. 
“George!” George went on hammering. 
George! ’ ’ said I again. He raised the hammer 
for another stroke, hesitated, then lifted his 
head with a jerk. 
“What do ’ee want wi’ me?” 
“I have come for two reasons,” said I; “one 
is to begin work—” 
“Then ye’d best go away again,” he broke 
in; “ye'll get no work here.” 
“And the second,” I went on, “is to offer you 
my hand. Will you take it, George, and let 
bygones be bygones?” 
“No,” he burst out vehemently. “No, I 
tell ’ee. Ye think to come ’ere an’ crow o’er 
me, because ye beat me, by a trick, and because 
ye heerd — her — ” His voice broke, and, drop¬ 
ping his hammer, he turned his back upon 
me. “Called me ‘coward’! she did,” he went 
on after a little while. “I’ve been a danged 
fule!” he said, more speaking his thoughts 
aloud than addressing me, “but a man can’t 
help lovin’ a lass — like Prue, and when ’e 
loves 'e can’t help hopin’. I’ve hoped these 
three years an’ more, and last night — she 
called me—coward.” 
Again there fell a silence wherein came the 
tap tapping of a stick upon the hard road; 
whereupon George seized -the handle of the 
bellows and fell to blowing the fire vigorously. 
A moment after the Ancient appeared, a 
quaint, befrocked figure, framed in the yawn¬ 
ing doorway. He stood a while to peer about, 
his old eyes still dazzled by the sunlight, owing 
to which he failed to see me in the shadow of 
the forge. 
“Marnin’, Jarge!” said he, with his quick, 
bright nod. The smith’s scowl was blacker and 
his deep voice gruffer than usual as he returned 
the greeting; but the old man seemed to heed 
it not at all, but, taking his snuff-box from the 
lining of his tall, broad-brimmed hat (its usual 
abiding place), he opened it, with his most 
important air. 
“Jarge,” said he, “I’m thinkin’ ye’d better 
tak’ Job back if you’m goin’ to mend t.’ owd 
screen.” 
“What d’ye mean?” growled Black George. 
“Because,” continued the old man, with 
great deliberation, “because Jarge, the young 
feller as beat ye at the throwin’—’im as was 
to ’ave worked for ye—be dead.” 
“What!” cried Black George, starting. 
“Dead!” nodded the old man, “a corp’ ’e 
be — eh! such a fine, promisin’ young chap, an’ 
now—a corp’.” Here the Ancient nodded 
solemnly again, and inhaled his pinch of snuff 
with great apparent enjoyment. 
“Why—” began the amazed George, 
“what — ” and broke off to stare, open- 
mouthed. 
“Last night, as ever was,” continued the old 
man, “ ’e went down to th’ ’aunted cottage — 
’tweren’t no manner o’ use tryin’ to turn ’im, 
no, not if I’d gone down to ’im on my marrer- 
bones. Off he goes to sleep in th’ ’aunted cot - 
tage—so now I'm a-goin’ down to find ’is 
corp’ —” 
He had reached thus far, when his eye, 
accustomed to the shadows, chancing to meet 
mine, he uttered a gasp, and stood staring at me. 
“Peter!” he stammered at last. “Peter—be 
that you, Peter?” 
“To be sure it is,” said I. 
“Bean’t ye—dead, then?” 
“ I never felt more full of life.” 
“But ye slep’ in th’ ’aunted cottage last 
night.” 
“Yes.” 
“Why then I can't go down and find ye corp’ 
arter all?” ’ 
“I fear not. Ancient.” 
The old man slowly closed his snuff-box, 
shaking his head as he did so. 
“Ah, well! I won’t blame ye, Peter,” said he 
magnanimously; “it bean’t your fault, lad, 
no- — but what’s come to the ghost!” 
“The ghost,” I answered, “is nothing more 
dreadful than a wandering Scotsman!” 
“Scotsman!” exclaimed the Ancient. 
“Yes, Ancient,” said I. “Those shrieks and 
howls he made with his bagpipe.” 
The Ancient, propped upon his stick, sur¬ 
veyed me with an expression that was not 
exactly anger, nor contempt, nor sorrow, and 
yet something of all three. At length he 
sighed, and shook his head at me mournfully. 
“Peter, I seen Scotchmen afore now,” said 
he, with a reproachful look, “ah! that I ’ave, 
an’ Scotchmen don’t go about wi’ ’orns on 
their ’eads. An’, Peter, I know what a bag¬ 
pipe is; I’ve heerd ’em often an’ often — squeak 
they do, yes, but a squeak bean’t a scream, 
Peter, nor yet a groan — no.” Having de¬ 
livered himself of which, the Ancient shook his 
(Continued on page 415) 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN THE STORY 
"DETER VIBART, after many adventures on the broad highway, comes to a vil- 
lage where he makes friends with an ancient man and wins in a contest of 
hammer-throwing with the local blacksmith. As this means that “Black Jarge,” 
the smith, will hire him as a helper, Peter sets out for a near-by empty cottage he has 
seen, which he means to make his home. He persists in going there although his 
new friends warn him it is haunted. 
i 
