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American Agriculturist, December 22, 1923 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
CHAPTER XXIX 
IN WHICH I FORSWEAR MYSELF AND AM ACCUSED OF POSSESSING THE “eVTLEYE” 
S MITHING is a sturdy, albeit a very black art; yet its black is a good, honest black, very 
easily washed off, which is more than can be said for many other trades, arts, and professions. 
Since old Tubal Cain first taught man how to work in brass and iron who ever heard of a 
sneaking, mean-spirited, cowardly blacksmith? Your true blacksmith is usually a strong man, 
a man slow of speech, bold of eye, kindly of thought, and, lastly—simple-hearted. Black 
George himself was no exception to his kind. I found him a man, strong, simple and lovable, and 
as such I honor him to this day. 
The Ancient, on the contrary, seemed to have set me in his “black books”; he would no'longer 
sit with me over a tankard outside “The Bull” of an evening. He seemed to shun my society, 
and, if I did meet him by chance, would treat me with frigid dignity. Thus, though I had 
once had the temerity to question him as to his altered treatment of me, the once had sufficed. 
He was sitting, I remember, on the bench before “The Bull,” his hands crossed upon his stick 
and his chin resting upon his hands. 
“Peter,” he had answered, regarding me 
with a terrible eye, “Peter, I be disapp’inted 
in ye!” Hereupon rising, he had rapped 
loudly upon his snuff-box and hobbled stiffly 
away. 
One day, however, as George and I were 
hard at work, I became aware of some one 
standing in the doorway behind me, but at 
first paid no heed for it was become the cus¬ 
tom for folk to come to look at the man who 
lived all alone in the haunted cottage. 
“Peter?” said a voice at last and, turning, 
I beheld the old man leaning upon his stick 
and regarding me beneath his lowered brows. 
“Peter,” said he, fixing me with his eye, 
“were it a Scotchman or were it not?” 
“Why, to be sure it was,” I answered, 
“a Scotch piper, as I told you, and—” 
“Peter,” said the Ancient, tapping his 
snuff-box, “it weren’t no ghost, then—ay or 
no?” 
“No,” said I, “nothing but a—” 
“Peter!” said the Ancient, nodding solemnly, 
“Peter, I ’ates ye!” and, turning sharp about, 
he tottered away upon his stick. 
“DO—that’s it!” said I, staring after the 
LJ old man’s retreating figure. 
1 “Why, ye see,” said George, somewhat 
diffidently, “ye see, Peter, Gaffer be so old!— 
and he’ve come to look on this ’ere ghost as 
belongin’ to ’im. Loves to sit an’ tell about it; 
and now you’ve been and gone and said as 
theer bean’t no ghost arter all, d’ye see?” 
“Ah, yes, I see,” I nodded. “But you don’t 
still believe in it, do you, George?” 
“Why, y’ see, Peter, we do know as a 
man ’ung ’isself theer, ’cause Gaffer found 
un—likewise I’ve heerd it scream—but since 
you say contrarywise—why, ’ow should I 
know?” 
“But why should I deny it, George; why 
should I tell you all of a Scotsman?” 
“Why, y’ see, Peter,” said George, in his 
heavy way, “you be such a strange sort o’ 
chap!” 
“George,” said I, “let us get back to work.” 
Yet, in a little while, I set aside the hammer, 
and turned to the door. 
“Peter, wheer be goin’?” 
“To try and make my peace with the 
Ancient,” I answered, and forthwith crossed 
the road to “The Bull.” But with my foot 
on the step I paused, arrested by the sound of 
voices and laughter within. 
“If I were only a bit younger!” the Ancient 
was saying. Now, peeping in through the 
casement, a glance at his dejected attitude, 
and the blatant bearing of the others, explained 
to me the situation. 
“Ah! but you ain’t,” retorted old Amos, 
“you’m a old, old man an’ gettin’ mazed-like 
wi’ years.” 
“Haw! haw!” laughed Job and the five 
or six others. 
“Oh, you—Job! if my b’y Simon was 
’ere ’e ’d pitch ’ee out into the road, so ’e 
would—same as Black Jarge done,” quavered 
the Ancient. 
“P’r’aps, Gaffer, p’raps!” returned Job, 
“but I sez again, I believe what Peter sez, 
an’ I don’t believe there never was no ghost 
at all.” 
“Ay, lad, but I tell ’ee theer was—I seed 
un!” cried the old man eagerly, “seed un wi’ 
these two eyes, many ’s the time. You, Joel 
Amos—you’ve ’eerd un a-moanin’ an’ a- 
groanin’—you believe as I seed un, don’t ee 
now — come? ” 
“He! he!” chuckled Old Amos, “I don’t 
know if I du. Gaffer — ye see you’m gettin’ 
that old—” 
“Haw! haw!” laughed Job and the others, 
while Old Amos chuckled shrilly again. 
“But I tell ’ee I did se un, I — I see’d un 
plain as plain,” quavered the Ancient, in 
sudden distress. “Old Nick it were, wi’ 
’orns, an a tail.” 
“Why, Peter told us’t were only a Scottish 
man wi’ a bagpipe,” returned Job. 
“Oh! you chaps, you as I’ve seen grow 
up from babbies—aren’t theer one o’ ye to tak’ 
the old man’s word an’ believe as I seen un?” 
The cracked old voice sounded more broken 
than usual, and I saw a tear crawling slowly 
down the Ancient’s furrowed cheek. Nobody 
answered, and there.fell a silence broken only 
by the shuffle and scrape of heavy boots and the 
setting down of tankards. 
“Why, ye see. Gaffer,” said Job at last, 
“theer’s been a lot o’ talk o’ this ’ere ghost, an’ 
some as said as they ’eerd it, but nobody’s 
never laid eyes on it but you, so—” 
“rjMHERE you are wrong,” said I, stepping 
J. in. “I also have seen it.” 
“You?” exclaimed Job, while half-a-dozen 
pairs of eyes stared at me. 
“Certainly I have.” 
“But you said as it were a Scotchman, wi’ 
a bagpipe, I heerd ye—we all did.” 
“And believed it—like fools!” 
“Peter!” cried the Ancient, rising up out of 
his chair, “Peter, do ’ee mean it?” 
“To be sure I do.” 
“Do ’ee mean it were a ghost, Peter?” 
“Why, of course it was,” I nodded, “a 
ghost, or the devil himself, hoof, horns, tail, 
and all—to say nothing of the fire and brim¬ 
stone.” 
“Peter,” said the Ancient, straightening 
his bent old back proudly, “oh, Peter!—tell 
’em I’m a man o’ truth.” 
“They know that,” said I; “without my 
telling them. Ancient.” 
“But,” said Job, staring at me aghast, 
“do ’ee mean to say as you live in a place 
as is ’aunted by the—devil ’isself?” 
“Oh, Lord bless ’ee!” cried the old man, 
laying his hand upon my arm, “Peter don’t 
mind Old Nick no more ’n I do. ’Cause why? 
’Cause ’e ’ave a clean ’eart, ’ave Peter. You 
don’t mind Old Nick, do ’ee, lad?” 
“Not in the least,” said I, whereupon those 
nearest shrank farther from me, while Old 
Amos shuffled towards the door. 
“I’ve heerd o’ folk sellin’ theirselves to the 
devil afore now!” said he. 
“You be a danged fule, Joel Amos!” ex¬ 
claimed the Ancient angrily. 
“Fule or no—I never see a chap wi’ such a 
tur’ble dark-lookin’ face afore, an’ wi’ such 
eyes—so black, an’ sharp, an’ piercin’ as 
needles, they be—ah! goes through a man like 
two gimblets, they do!” Now, as he spoke. 
Old Amos stretched out one arm towards me 
with his first and second fingers crossed; 
which fingers he now opened wide apart, 
making what I believe is called “the horns.” 
“It’s the ‘Evil Eye,’” said he in a half 
whisper, and betook himself away. 
One by one the others followed, and, as 
they passed me, each man averted his eyes and 
I saw that each had his fingers crossed. 
So it came to pass that I was, thence 
forward, regarded askance, if not openly 
avoided, by the whole village, with the ex¬ 
ception of Simon and the Ancient, as one in 
league with the devil, and possessed of the 
“Evil Eye.” 
CHAPTER XXX 
IN WHICH DONALD BIDS ME FAREWELL 
H ALCYON days! happy, care-free days! 
To waken to the glory of a summer’s 
morning, and shaking off dull sleep, to 
stride out into a world all green and gold. 
To plunge within the clear, cool waters of the 
brook whose magic seemed to fill one’s blood 
with added life and lust of living. Anon, to 
sit and eat until even Donald would fall a- 
marvelling; and so, through shady coppice and 
sunny meadow, betimes to work. 
And then, the labor done, the fire dead — 
Black George to his lonely cottage, and I to 
“The Bull” — -there to sit between Simon and 
the Ancient, waited upon by the dexterous 
hands of sweet-eyed Prudence. What mighty 
rounds of juicy beef, what pies and puddings, 
prepared by those same slender, dexterous 
hands! And later, pipe in mouth, what grave 
discussions upon men and things—peace and 
war — and Simon’s new litter of pigs! At last, 
the “Good nights” being said — homeward 
through the twilit lanes. 
B UT let it not be thought my leisure hours 
were passed in idle dreaming and luxurious 
ease; on the contrary, I had, with much ado, 
rethatched the broken roof of my cottage as 
well as I might, mended the chimney, fitted 
glass to the casements and a new door upon 
its hinges. This last was somewhat clumsily 
contrived, I grant you, and of a vasty strength 
quite unnecessary, yet a very excellent door I 
considered it. 
Having thus rendered my cottage weather¬ 
proof, I next turned my attention to furnishing 
it. To which end I, with infinite labor, con¬ 
structed a bedstead, two elbow-chairs, and a 
table; all to the profound disgust of Donald, 
who could by no means abide the rasp of my 
saw, so that, reaching for his pipes, he would 
fill the air with eldrich shrieks and groans, or 
drown me in, a torrent of martial melody. 
It was about this time—that is to say, my 
second bedstead was nearing completion, and 
I was seriously considering the building of a 
press with cupboards to hold my crockery, also 
a shelf for my books—when, chancing to 
return home somewhat earlier than usual, 
I was surprised to see Donald sitting upon the 
bench I had set up beside the door, polishing 
the buckles of his square-toed shoes. 
“Man, Peter,” said he, “I maun juist be 
gangin’.” 
“Going!” I repeated; “going where?” 
“Back tae Glenure—the year is a’most up, 
an’ I wadna’ hae ma brither Alan afore me wi’ 
the lassie.” 
“Heaven knows I shall be sorry to lose 
you, Donald.” 
“Eh, Peter, man! if it wasna’ for the lassie, 
I’d no hae the heart tae leave ye. Ye’ll no be 
forgettin’ the ‘Wullie Wallace Lament’?” 
“Never!” said I. 
“Oh, man! it’s in my mind ye’ll no hear sic 
pipin’ again. But I’ll aye think o’ ye when I 
play the ‘Wullie Wallace’ bit tune—I’ll aye 
think o’ ye, Peter, man.” 
K 
\ FTER this we stood awhile, staring past 
A each other in to the deepening shadow. 
“Peter,” said he at last, “it’s no a vera 
genteel present tae be makin’ ye, I doot,” and 
he held up the battered shoes. “They’re 
worn, an’ wi’ a clout here an’ there, ye’ll 
notice, but the buckles are guid siller, an’ I 
hae naething else to gi’e ye. Ay, man! but it’s 
many a weary mile I’ve marched in these; 
tak’ ’em, Peter, tae mind ye o’ Donal’ 
Stuart. A.n’ now—gi’e us a grup o’ ye hand. 
Gude keep ye, Peter, man!” 
So saying, he thrust the brogues upon me, 
caught and squeezed my hand, and turning 
sharp about, strode away through the shadows. 
And, presently, I sat me down upon the 
bench beside the door, with the war-worn 
shoes upon my knee. As I sat there, faint and 
fainter with distance, and unutterably sad. 
came the slow, sweet music of the “Wallace 
Lament.” Softly the melody rose and fell, 
until it died away in one long-drawn, wailing 
note. 
Now, as it ended, I rose, and uncovered my 
head, for I knew this was Donald’s last farewell. 
CHAPTER XXXI 
THE ANCIENT DISCOURSES OF xUARRIAGE 
Strike! ding! ding! 
The iron glows, 
And loveth good blows 
As fire doth bellows. 
Strike! ding! ding! 
B UT beyond the smithy door a solitary 
star twinkles low down in the night sky, 
like some great jewel; but we have no time for 
star-gazing. Black George and I, for to-night 
we are at work on the old church screen, which 
must be finished to-morrow. 
And so the bellows roar, the hammers clang, 
and the sparks fly. In the corner, perched out 
of reach of stray sparks, sits the Ancient, 
snuff-box in hand. 
I stand, feet well apart, and swing the 
great “sledge” to whose diapason George’s 
hand-hammer beats a tinkling melody, coming 
in after each stroke with a ring and clash exact 
and true, as is, and has been, the way of 
masters of the smithing craft from time im¬ 
memorial. 
“George,” said I, during a momentary 
lull, “you don’t sing.” 
“I think, Peter.” 
“What’s your trouble, George?” 
“No trouble, Peter,” said he, above the roar 
of the bellows. 
“Then sing, George.” 
“Ay, Jarge, sing,” nodded the Ancient; 
“’t is a poor ’eart as never rejices, an’ that’s 
in the Scripters.” 
G EORGE did not answer, but, with a turn 
of his mightyjwrist, drew the glowing iron 
from the fire. And once more the sparks fly, 
the air is full of the clink of hammers, and the 
deep-throated Song of the Anvil, in which-even 
the Ancient joins, in a voice somewhat quavery, 
and generally a note or two behind, but with 
great gusto and good-will notwithstanding: 
Strike! ding! ding! 
Strike! ding! ding! 
in the middle of which I was aware of one 
entering, and, turning round, espied Prudence 
with a great basket on her arm. Hereupon 
hammers were thrown aside, for in that basket 
was our supper. 
Very fair and sweet Prudence looked, with 
her shining black hair curling into little tight 
rings about her ears, and with great, shy eyes, 
and red, red mouth. Surely a man might seek 
very far ere he found such another maid as 
this black-eyed village beauty. 
“Good evening, Mr. Peter!” said she, 
dropping me a curtesy, but as for poor George, 
she did not even notice him, neither did he 
glance toward her. 
“You come just when you are most needed. 
Prudence,” said I, relieving her of the heavy 
basket, for here be two hungry men.” 
“Three!” broke in the Ancient; “so ’ungry 
as a lion, I be!” 
“Three hungry men. Prudence, who have 
been hearkening for your step this half-hour 
and more.” , 
Quoth Prudence shyly: “For the sake of my 
basket?” 
“No,” said I, shaking my head, “basket or 
no basket, you are equally welcome, Prudence 
—how say you, George?” But George only 
mumbled in his beard. The Ancient and I now 
set to work putting up an extemporized table, 
but George stood staring down moodily into 
the glowing embers. 
Having put up the table, I crossed to where 
Prudence was busy unpacking her basket. 
“Prudence,” said I,‘ “are you still at odds 
with George?” Prudence nodded. 
“But,” said I, “he is such a splendid fellow! 
Surely you can forgive him. Prudence.” 
“There be more nor that betwixt us, Mr. 
Peter,” sighed Prue. “’T is his drinkin’; six 
months ago he promised me never to touch 
another drop—an’ he broke his word wi’ me.” 
“But surely good ale, in moderation, will 
harm no man.” 
“But Jarge bean’t like other men, Mr 
Peter!” 
“No; he is much bigger, and stronger!” said 
“Yes,” nodded the girl, “so strong as a 
giant, an’so weak as a little child!” - ' 
“Indeed, Prudence,” said I, leaning nearer 
to her in my earnestness, “I think you are 
unjust. So far as I know him, George is any¬ 
thing but weak-minded, or liable to be led.” 
Hearing the Ancient chuckle, I glanced up 
to find him nodding and winking to Black 
George, who stood watching us from beneath 
his brows, and, as his eyes met mine, I thought 
they gleamed strangely in the firelight. 
“Come, Prue,” said the Ancient, bustling 
forward, “table’s ready—let’s sit down an’ eat 
—faintin’ an’ famishin’ away, I be!” 
And after a while, our hunger being ap¬ 
peased, I took out my pipe, as did the Ancient 
and George theirs likewise, and we filled them, 
slowly and carefully, while Prudence folded a 
long, paper spill wherewith to light them. 
Now, while she was lighting mine, Black George 
(Continued on page 431) 
THE STORY AS IT HAS PROGRESSED SO FAR 
A FTEf? numerous adventures along the Broad Highway, Peter Vibart, a penniless 
young London gallant, comes to a quiet English village where he decides to 
stay. He wins employment through a contest of strength with the village black¬ 
smith, “Black George,” a man of quick temper but great skill. Peter makes his 
ho‘me in a tumbledown cottage where his friend “the Ancient” has found a dead 
man many years before and which is reputed to be haunted. Peter finds that 
another tenant, a Scotch bagpipe player, is the “ghost.” 
Between George and Prudence, the Ancient’s granddaughter, a quarrel has arisen 
and Peter unwittingly adds to the blacksmith’s shame by overhearing some of it. 
