38 
American Agriculturist, January 12, 1924 
The Broad Highway — By Jeffery Farnol 
“ XT ICE and fat, ain’t ’e?” said the man, touching the baby’s apple-like cheek with a grimy 
l\ finger. 
“Yes.” 
“ Ah—but you should see ’im eat, a alderman’s nothing to Lewis—I calls ’im Lewis, for’t were 
at Lewisham I found ’im, on a Christmas Eve.” 
“Don’t you find him a great trouble?” 
“Trouble!” exclaimed the man. “Lewis ain’t no trouble—not a bit—never was, and he’s 
great company, laming to talk a’ready.” 
“Now,” said I, when we had descended from the van, “I propose to return this purse to the 
owner, if he is to be found; if not, I shall hand it to the proper authorities.” 
“Well!” said he, glancing back toward his caravan, “what about me?” 
“You can go—for Lewis’s sake—if you will give me your word to live honestly henceforth.” 
“You have it, sir—I swear it.” 
“Then let us seek the owner of this purse.” So, coming to where the quack doctor was still 
holding forth—there, seated upon the shaft of the cart, was the venerable man. At sight of him 
the pickpocket stopped and caught my arm. 
“Come, master,” said he, “coni', you never mean to give up all that good money—there’s 
fifty guineas, and more, in that purse!” 
But shaking off the fellow, I approached, and saluted the venerable man. 
“Sir,” said I, “you have had your pocket 
picked.” 
He turned and regarded me, and blew a 
whiff of smoke slowly into the air. 
Sir,” he replied, “I found that out five 
minutes ago.” 
“The fact seems to trouble you very little,” 
said I. 
“There, sir, being oung and judging ex¬ 
teriorly, you are wrong. No man can lose 
fifty-odd guineas from his pocket and remain 
unaffected.” 
“Then, sir,” said I, “I am happy to be able 
to return your purse to you.” He took it, 
opened it, glanced over its contents, looked at 
me, took out two guineas, looked at me again, 
put the money back, closed the purse, and, 
dropping it into his pocket, bowed his acknowl¬ 
edgment. Having done which, he made room 
for me to sit beside him. 
“Sir,” said he, chuckling, “hark to that 
lovely rascal in the cart, yonder—hark to 
him!” 
“rpHERE ’S nothing like pills!” the Quack- 
1 salver was saying at the top of his voice; 
“place one upon the tip o’ the tongue, take a 
drink o’ water, swaller, and there you are. 
Oh, there’s nothing in the world like my Elixir 
Anthropos for coughs, colds, and the rheu¬ 
matics, for sore throats, sore eyes, sore backs— 
good for the croup, measles, and chicken-pox 
—a certain cure for dropsy, scurvy, and the 
king’s evil; there’s no disease or ailment, dis¬ 
covered or invented, as my pills won't soothe, 
heal, hameliorate, and; /.'harm away, and all I 
charge is one shilling a box. Hand ’em round, 
Jonas.” Whereupon the fellow in the clown’s 
dress, stepping down from the cart, began 
handing out the boxes of pills and taking in the 
shillings as fast as he conveniently could. 
“A thriving trade!” said my venerable 
companion. Here, puffing at his pipe, he 
looked at me in surprise. 
“Remarkable!” said he. 
“What is, sir?” 
“While I listened I have actually let my 
oipe go out.” As he spoke he thrust one hand 
into his pocket, when he glanced slowly all 
round, and back once more to me. 
“Remarkable!” said he again. 
“What now, sir?” 
“ My purse has gone again! ” 
“What!—gone!” I ejaculated. 
“Vanished!” said he. 
“Come with me,” said I, springing up, 
“there is yet a chance that we may recover 
it.” Forthwith I led him to where had stood 
a certain gayly-painted caravan, but it was 
gone. 
“Most annoying!” said he, shaking his 
venerable head. 
“My purse is entirely at your disposal, sir,” 
said I, “though, to be sure, a very—” But 
there I stopped, staring in my turn, blankly 
at him. 
“Ha?” he exclaimed, his eyes twinkling. 
“Yes,” I nodded, “the rascal made off with 
my purse also; we are companions in mis¬ 
fortune.” 
“Then as such, young sir, come and dine 
with me.” 
“Thank you, sir, but I am half expecting to 
meet with certain good friends of mine, though 
I am none the Jess honored by your offer.” 
“So be it, young sir; then permit me to wish 
you a very ‘Good day!’” and, touching the 
brim of his hat with the long stem of his pipe, 
t he Venerable Man turned and left me. 
B ENDING my steps homeward, I came to a 
part of the Fair where drinking-booths had 
been set up, and where they were preparing 
to roast an ox whole. Two or three times I was 
rudely jostled as I made my way along, so 
that my temper was already something the 
worse, when I came full upon two fellows who 
held a struggling girl between them—to each 
of whom I reached out a hand, and, gripping 
them firmly by their collars, brought their two 
heads together with a sounding crack—and 
then I saw that the girl was Prudence. Next 
moment we were running, hand in hand, with 
the two fellows in pursuit. But Prudence was 
wonderfully fleet and light of foot, wherefore, 
doubling and turning among carts, tents, and 
boqths, we had soon outstripped our pursuers. 
In spite of which Prudence still ran on till, 
catching her foot in some obstacle, she tripped, 
and would have fallen but for my arm. 
And looking down into her flushed face, 
glowing through the sweet disorder of her 
glossy curls, I could not but think how lovely 
she was. But, as I watched, the color fled 
from her cheeks, her eyes dilated* and she 
started away from me. 
Now, turning hastily, I saw that we were 
standing close by a certain small, dirty tent, 
the canvas of which had been slit with a knife— 
and my movement had been quick enough to 
enable me to see a face vanish through the 
canvas. And, fleeting though the glimpse had 
been, yet, in the lowering brow, the glare of the 
eye, and the set of the great jaw, I had seen— 
Death. 
And, after we had walked on a while to¬ 
gether, I noticed that Prue trembled. 
“Oh, Mr. Peter,” she whispered, glancing 
back, “did ye see?” 
“Yes, Prudence, I saw.” And I also glanced 
back toward the villainous little tent, and 
though the face appeared no more, I was 
aware, nevertheless, of a sudden foreboding of 
evil to come; for in those features, disfigured 
with black rage and passion, I had recognized 
the face of Black George. 
BOOK TWO 
CHAPTER I 
OF STORM, AND TEMPEST, AND OF THE COMING 
OF CHARMIAN 
“ H ARM IAN!” 
I started up in bed, broad awake, and 
listening; yet the tumult was all about me 
still—the hiss and beat of rain, and the sound 
of a rushing, mighty wind, a wind that screamed 
about me, and filled the woods, near and 
far, with a deep booming, pierced, now and 
then, by the splintering crash of snapping 
bough or falling tree. And yet, somewhere in 
this frightful pandemonium of sound, it seemed 
to me that the cry still faintly echoed: 
“Charmian!” 
So appalling was all this to my newly- 
awakened senses, that I remained, for a time, 
staring into the darkness as one dazed. Pres¬ 
ently, however, I rose, and, donning some 
clothes, mended the fire which still smouldered 
upon the hearth, and, having filled and lighted 
my pipe, sat down to listen to the awful voices 
of the storm. 
Now, in a while, becoming conscious that my 
pipe was smoked out and cold, I reached up 
my hand to my tobacco-box upon the mantel- 
s elf. Yet even as my fingers closed upon it, 
above the wailing of the storm, above the hiss 
and patter of driven rain, there rose a long- 
drawn cry: 
“Charmian!” 
So I sat there with my face screwed round to 
the casement behind me, that, : s I watched! 
shook and rattled beneath each wind-gust, as if 
some hand strove to pluck it open. 
How long I remain d thus, I am unable to 
say, but, all at on e, the door of the cottage 
burst open with a crash, and immediately the 
quiet room was full of rioting wind and tempest; 
such a wind as stopped my breath, and sent 
up a swirl of smoke and sparks from the fire. 
And, borne upon this wind, like some spirit of 
the storm, was a woman with flying draperies 
and long, streaming hair, who turned, and, 
with knee and shoulder, forced to the door, and 
so leaned there, panting. 
Tall she was, and nobly shaped, for her wet 
gown clung, disclosing the sinuous lines. Her 
dress, too, had been wrenched and torn at the 
neck, and, through the shadow of her fallen 
hair, I caught the ivory gleam of her shoulder. 
Here I reached down my tobacco-box and 
mechanically began to fill my pipe, watching 
her the while. 
Suddenly she started, and seemed to listen. 
Then, with a swift, stealthy movement, she 
slipped from before the door, and I noticed 
that she hid one hand behind her. 
“Charmian!” 
The woman crouched back against the wall, 
with her eyes toward the door, and always 
her right hand was hidden in the folds of her 
petticoat. So we remained, she watching the 
door, and I, her. 
“Charmian!’ 
T HE voice was very near now, and, almost 
immediately after, a heavy fist pounded 
upon the door. 
“Oh, Charmian, you’re there—inside—I 
know you are. I swore you should never 
escape me, and you sha’n’t! ” A hand fumbled 
upon the latch, the door swung open, and a 
man entered. As he did so I leapt forward, 
and caught the woman’s wrist. There was a 
blinding flash, a loud report, and a bullet 
buried itself somewhere in the rafters over¬ 
head. With a strange, repressed cry, she 
turned upon me so fiercely that I fell back 
before her. 
The newcomer, meantime, had closed the 
door, latching it very carefully, and now, 
standing before it, folded his arms. He was a 
very tall man, with a rain-sodden hat crushed 
low upon his brows, and wrapped in a long, 
many-caped overcoat, the skirts of which were 
woefully mired and torn. All at once he 
laughed, very softly and musically. 
“So, you would have killed me, would you, 
Charmian—shot me—like a dog?” His tone 
was soft as his laugh and equally musical, and 
yet neither was good to hear. “ So you thought 
you had lost me, did you, when you gave me 
the slip, a while ago? Escape me? Why, I 
tell you, I would search for you day and night 
—hunt the world over until I foimd you, 
Charmian,” said he, speaking almost in a 
whisper. 
They stood facing each other, like two 
adversaries, each measuring the other’s 
strength, without appearing to be conscious of 
my presence; indeed, the man had not so much 
as looked toward me eyen when I had struck up 
the pistol. 
Now with every minute I was becoming 
more curious to see this man’s face, hidden as 
it was in the shadow of his dripping hat brim. 
Yet the fire had burned low. 
“You always were a spitfire, were n’t you, 
Charmian?” he went on in the same gentle 
voice; “hot, and fierce, and proud—the flame 
beneath the ice—I knew that, and loved you 
the better for it; and so I determined to win 
you, Charmian—whether you would or no.” 
His voice had sunk to a murmur again, and 
he drew a slow step nearer to her. 
“How wonderful you are, Charmian! I 
have always loved you. And to-night—” 
He paused, and I felt, rather than saw, that 
he was smiling. “And to-night you would have 
killed me, Charmian—shot me—like a dog! 
You have flouted, coquetted, scorned, and 
mocked me—for three years, Charmian, and 
to-night you would have killed me—and I— 
would not have it otherwise, for surely you 
can see that this of itself must make your 
final surrender—even sweeter.” 
With a gesture utterly at variance with his 
voice, so sudden, fierce, and passionate was it, 
he sprang toward her with outstretched arms. 
But, quick as lie, she eluded him, and, before 
he could reach her, I stepped between them. 
S IR,” said I, “a word with you.” 
“Out of my way, bumpkin!” he re¬ 
torted, and, brushing me aside, made after her. 
I caught him by the skirts of his loose, long coat, 
but, with a dexterous twist, he had left it in 
my grasp. Yet the check, momentary though 
it was, enabled her to slip through the door of 
that room which had once been Donald’s, and, 
before he could reach it, I stood upon the 
threshold. He regarded me for a moment 
beneath his hat brim, and seemed undecided 
how to act. 
“My good fellow,” said he at last, “I will 
buy your cottage of you—for to-night—name 
your price.” 
I shook my head. Hereupon he drew a thick 
purse from his pocket, and tossed it, chinking, 
to my feet. 
“There are two hundred guineas, bumpkin, 
maybe more—pick them up, and—go,” and 
turning, he flung open the door. 
Obediently I stooped, and, taking up the 
purse, rolled it in the coat which I still held, 
and tossed both out of the cottage. 
“Sir,” said I, “be so very obliging as to 
follow your property.” 
“Ah!” he murmured, “very pretty, on my 
soul!” And, in that same moment, his 
knuckles caught me fairly between the eyes, 
and he was upon me swift, and fierce, and lithe 
as a panther. 
I remember the glint of his eyes and the 
flash of his bared teeth, as we swayed to and 
fro, overturning the chairs, and crashing into 
unseen obstacles. In that dim and narrow 
place it was blind, brutal work, fierce, and 
grim, and silent. Once he staggered and fel,’| 
heavily, carrying the table crashing with him,’! 
and I saw him wipe blood from his face as he 
rose; and once I was beaten to my knees, but 
was up before he could reach me again, though 
the fire upon the hearth spun giddily round 
and round, and the floor heaved oddly beneath 
my feet. 
Up and down the room we staggered, grim 
and voiceless—out through the open door- 
out into the whirling blackness of the storm. 
And there, amid the tempest, lashed by driving 
rain and deafened by the roaring rush of wind, 
we fought. 
I beat him with my fists, but his head was 
down between his arms; I tore at his wrists, 
but he gripped my throat the tighter; and now 
we were down, rolling upon the sodden grass, ! 
and now we were up, stumbling and slipping, 
but ever the gripping fingers sank the deeper, 
choking the strength and life out of me. Then 
■—something clutched and dragged us by the 
feet, we tottered, swayed helplessly, and 
plunged down together. But, as we fell, the 
THE STORY SO FAR 
T seems as though Peter Vibart, 
disinherited young gallant, had 
come to the end of his quest for 
a place to live and earn an honest 
living. He has made habitable an 
old “haunted” cottage, and works by 
day for Black George, the village 
blacksmith. Among his friends are 
Prue, once George’s sweetheart, Si¬ 
mon, the Innkeeper, and the Ancient, 
a quaint old man. Peter has gone to 
the Fair, and discovering a pickpocket 
is about to turn him in, when the man 
shows him a sleeping baby in a neatly 
kept van. 
deadly, gripping fingers slackened for a 
moment, and in that moment I had broken 
free, and, rolling clear, stumbled up to my 
feet. Yet even then I was still encumbered, 
and, stooping down, found the overcoat twisted 
tightly about my foot and ankle. As I loosed 
it, I inwardly blessed that tattered garment, 
for it seemed that to it I owed my life. 
I remember a blind groping in the dark, a 
wild hurly-burly of random blows, a sudden 
sharp pain in my right hand—a groan, and I 
was standing with the swish of the rain about 
me, and the moaning of the wind. 
H OW long I remained thus I cannot tell, but 
the cool rain upon my face refreshed me, 
and the strong, clean wind in my nostrils was 
wonderfully grateful. Presently, I brushed 
the wet hair from my eyes, and stared round 
me into the pitchy darkness. 
“Where are you?” said I at last, and this 
was the first word uttered during the struggle; 
“where are you?” 
Receiving no answer, I advanced cautiously 
(for it was, as I have said, black dark), and so, 
presently, touched something yielding with 
my foot. 
“Come—get up!” said I, stooping to lay a 
hand upon him, “get up, I say.” But he 
never moved; he was lying upon his face, and, 
as I raised his head, my fingers encountered a 
smooth, round stone, buried in the grass, and 
the touch of that stone thrilled me from head 
to foot with sudden dread. Hastily I tore 
open waistcoat and shirt, and pressed my hand 
above his heart, then breathed a sigh of relief, 
and, rising, took him beneath the arms and 
began to half drag, half carry him toward the 
cottage. 
I had proceeded thus but some dozen yards 
or so when, during a momentary lull in the 
storm, I thought I heard a faint “Hallo,” and 
looking about, saw a twinkling light that 
hovered to and fro, coming and going, yet 
growing brighter each moment. Setting dow n 
my burden, therefore, I hollowed my hands 
about my mouth, and shouted. 4 
“This way!” i called; “this way!” 
“Be that you, sir?” cried a man’s voice at 
no great distance. 
“This way!” I called again. The words 
seemed to reassure the fellow, for the light 
advanced once more, and as he came up, I 
made him out to be a postilion, and the light 
he carried was the lanthorn of a chaise. 
l“ Why—sir!” he began, looking me up and 
down, bythe light of his lanthorn, “strike 
(Continued on page 41 ) 
