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American Agriculturist, February 2, 192' 
The Broad Highway —By Jeffery Farnol 
“T KNOWED it!” he quavered. Twere the devil flyin’ off wi’ Peter,’ says I, an’ 
-*• they fules laughed at me, Peter, ay, but they won’t laugh at the old man no more— 
not they; not when they see your face an’ I tell ’em.” Here he paused to fumble for 
his snuff-box, and, opening it, held it towards me. 
“Tak’ a pinch wi’ me, Peter.” 
“No, thank you. Ancient.” 
“Come, ’t would be a wonnerful thing to tell as I'd took snuff out o’ my very own 
box wi’ a man as ad’ fou’t wi’ the devil—come—tak’ a pinch, Peter,” he pleaded. 
Whereupon, to please him, I did so, and immediately fell most violently a-sneezing. 
“And,” pursued the old man when the paroxysm was over, “did ye see ’is ’orns, 
Peter, an’ ’is—•” 
“Why, no, Ancient; you see, he happened to be wearing a bell-crowned hat and 
a long coat.” 
“To be sure, the Scripters say as ’e goeth up an’ down like a ravening lion seekin’ 
whom ’e may devour.” 
“Yes,” said I, “but more often, I think, like a fine gentleman!” 
“I never heerd tell o’ the devil in a bell-crowned ’at afore, but p’r’aps you ’m 
right, Peter—tak’ another pinch o’ snuff.” 
“One pinch is more than enough, Ancient.” 
“Oh, Peter, ’t is a wonderful thing as 
you should be alive this day!” 
“And yet, Ancient, many a man has 
fought the devil before now and lived.” 
“Maybe, Peter, but not on sech a 
tur-ble wild night as last night was.” 
Saying which, the old man nodded em¬ 
phatically and, rising, hobbled to the 
door; yet there he turned and came back 
again. “I nigh forgot, Peter, I have 
noos for ye.” 
“News?” 
“Noos as ’ll surprise ye, Peter.” 
“Well?” I inquired. 
“Black Jarge be took again.” 
“What?” I exclaimed. 
“Oh! I knowed ’t would come—I 
knowed ’e couldn’t last much longer.” 
“How did it happen, Ancient?” 
“Got tur’ble drunk, ’e did, over to 
Cranbrook—throwed Mr. Scrope, the 
Beadle, over the churchyard wall— 
knocked down Jeremy Tullinger, the 
Watchman, an’ then—went to sleep. 
While ’e were asleep they managed, 
cautious-like, to tie ’is legs an’ arms, an’ 
locked ’im up in the vestry. ’Ows’ever, 
when ’e]woke up ’e broke the door'open, an’ 
walked out, an’ nobody tried to stop ’im.” 
“And where is he now?” 
“Nobody knows, but theer’s them as 
says they see ’im makin’ for Sefton 
Woods.” Hereupon, breakfast done, I 
rose, and took my hat. 
“Wheer away, Peter?” 
“To the forge; there is much work to be 
done, Ancient.” 
“Why then, if you’m go in’. I’ll go wi’ 
ye, Peter.” So we presently set out 
together. 
A LL about us, as we walked, were mute 
evidences of jthe fury of last night’s 
storm: trees had been uprooted, and 
great branches torn from others as if by 
the hands of angry giants; and the brook 
was a raging torrent. 
“Trees be very like men,” said the 
Ancient, nodding to one that lay prone 
beside the path, “’ere to-day an’ gone 
to-morrer, Peter—gone to-morrer. Ye 
see, Peter, trees be such companionable 
things; it’s very seldom as you see a tree 
growin’ all by itself, an’ when you do, if 
you look at it you can’t ’elp but notice 
"ow lonely it do look. I knowed three 
on ’em once—elm-trees—growin’ all close 
together, so close that their branches used 
to touch each other when the wind blew. 
Well, one day, along comes a storm and 
blows one on ’em down—kills it dead, 
Peter; an’ a little while later, they cuts 
down another, an’ theer was the last one, 
all alone an’ solitary. Now, I used to 
watch that theer tree—an’ here’s the 
cur’us thing, Peter—day by day I see 
that tree a-droopin’ an’ a-witherin’ an’ 
a-pinin’ for them other two—brothers 
you might say—till one day I come by, 
an’ theer it were, Peter, dead! Ay, 
Peter, an’ never put forth another leaf, 
an’ never will, Peter. Yes, trees is very 
like men, an’ the older you grow the more 
you’ll see it.” 
It was thus we talked, or rather, the 
Ancient talked and I listened, until we 
reached Sissinghurst. At the door of 
the smithy we stopped. 
“Peter,” said the old man, staring 
very hard at a button on my coat. 
“What about that theer—poor, old, rusty 
—stapil?” 
“Why, it is still above the door, 
Ancient; you must have seen it this 
morning.” 
“Oh, ah! I seed it, Peter, I seed it,” 
answered the old man. “I give it a 
glimp’ over, Peter, but what do ’ee think 
of it?” 
“Well,” said I, aware of the wistful 
note in his voice, “it is certainly older and 
rustier than it was.” 
“Rustier, Peter?” 
“Much rustier!” A smile dawned on 
the wrinkled old face. 
“Eh, lad! but I be glad o’ that—though 
I be a wonnerful man for my age, an’ 
so strong as a cart-’orse, Peter, still, I du 
sometimes feel like I be growin’ rustier, 
an’ ’t is a comfort to know as that theer 
stapil ’s a-growin’ rustier along wi’ me. 
I be waitin’ for the day when it shall 
rust itself away altogether; an’ when that 
day comes, then I’ll say, like the patriach 
in the Bible: ‘Lord now lettest thou thy 
servant depart in peace!’ Amen, Peter!” 
“Amen!” said I. And so, having 
watched the old man totter across to 
“The Bull,” I turned into the smithy 
and set about lighting the fire. 
CHAPTER VI 
IN WHICH I LEARN OF AN IMPENDING 
DANGER 
I AM at the forge, watching the deepen¬ 
ing glow of the coals as I ply the bel¬ 
lows; and, listening to their hoarse, not 
unmusical drone, it seems like a voice 
albeit a somewhat wheezy one, speaking 
to me in gasps, something in this wise: 
“Charmian Brown—desires to thank— 
Mr. Smith—but because thanks—are so 
poor and small—and his service so great— 
needs must she remember him—” 
“Remember me!” said I aloud, and, 
letting go the shaft of the bellows to think 
this over, it naturally followed that the 
bellow r s grew suddenly dumb, whereupon 
I seized the handle and recommenced 
blowing with a will. 
“—remember him as a gentleman,” 
wheezed the voice. 
“Psha!” I exclaimed. 
“—yet oftener as a smith—” 
“Hum!” said I. 
“—and most of all—as a man.” 
“As a man!” said I, and, turning my 
back upon the bellows, I sat down upon 
the anvil. 
“As a man?” said I to myself again, 
and so fell a-dreaming of this Charmian. 
And, in my mind, I saw her, not as she 
had first appeared, tall and fierce and 
wild, but as she had been when she 
stooped to bind up the hurt in my brow— 
with her deep eyes brimful of tenderness, 
and her mouth sweet and compassionate. 
Beautiful eyes she had, though whether 
they were blue or brown or black, I 
could not for the life of me remember; 
only I knew I could never forget the look 
they had held when she gave that final 
pat to the bandage. And here I found 
that I was turning round and round in 
my fingers a little, old-fashioned, heart- 
shaped locket with its quaint inscription: 
“Hee who myne heart would keepe for long 
Shall be a gentil man and strong,” 
I was sitting thus, plunged in a reverie, 
when a shadow fell across the floor, and 
looking up I beheld Prudence, and 
straightway, slipping the locket back into 
the bosom of my shirt, I rose to my feet. 
Her face was troubled, and her eyes 
red, while in her hand she held a crumpled 
paper. 
“Mr. Peter—” she began, and then 
stopped, staring at me. 
“Well, Prudence?” ' 
“You—you’ve seen him!” 
“Him—whom do you mean?” 
“Black Jarge!” 
“No; what should make you think so?” 
“Your face be all cut—you’ve been 
fightin’!” 
“And supposing I have—that is none 
of George’s doing; why should we 
quarrel?” 
“Then—then it were n’t Jarge?” 
“No—I have not seen him since 
Saturday.” 
“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “But 
you must go,” she went on breathlessly. 
“Oh, Mr. Peter! you might meet each 
other any time, so—so you must go 
away.” 
“Prudence,” said I, “what do you 
t pOR answer, she held out the crumpled 
paper, and, scrawled in great, straggl¬ 
ing characters, I read these words: 
“Prudence, —“I’m going away, I 
shall kill him else, but I shall come back. 
Tell him not to cross my path, or God 
help him, and you, and me. George.” 
“What does it all mean. Prudence?” 
said I, like a fool. 
Now, as I spoke, glancing at her I saw 
her cheeks grow suddenly scarlet, and, 
meeting my eyes, she hid her face in 
her hands. Then, seeing her distress, 
I found the answer to my question, and 
so stood, turning poor George’s letter 
over and over, more like a fool than ever. 
“You must go away—you must go 
away!” she repeated. 
“Hum!” said I. 
“He means it, I—I’ve seen death in 
his face,” she said, shuddering; “go to¬ 
day—the longer you stay here the worse 
for all of us.” 
“Prudence!” said I. “You always 
loved Black George, didn’t you?” 
“Yes, Mr. Peter.” 
‘‘And you love him still, don’t you?” 
A moment’s silence, then: 
“Yes, Mr. Peter.” 
“Excellent!” said I. Her head was 
raised a trifle, and one tearful eye looked 
at me over her fingers. “I had always 
hoped you did,” I continued, “and in 
my way, a very blundering way as it 
seems now, I have tried to bring you two 
together.” Prudence only sobbed. “But 
things are not hopeless yet. I think 
I can see a means of straightening out this 
tangle.” 
“Oh, if we only could!” sobbed Pru¬ 
dence. “Ye see, I were very cruel to 
him, Mr. Peter!” 
“Just a little, perhaps,” said I, and, 
while she dabbled at her pretty eyes with 
her snowy apron, I took pen and ink from 
the shelf, which together with George’s 
letter, I set upon the anvil. “Now,’ 
said I, “write down just here, belov 
where George signed his name, what yoi 
told me a moment ago.” 
“You mean, that I—” 
“That you love him, yes.” 
“Oh, Mr. Peter!” 
“Prudence,” said I, “it is the only waj 
of saving George from himself; and n< 
sweet, pure maid need be ashamed to tel 
her love, especially to such a man as this 
who worships the very ground that littli 
shoe of yours has once pressed.” 
QHE glanced up at me, under her we 
lashes, as I said this, and a soft ligh 
beamed in her eyes, and a smile hoverec 
upon her red lips. 
“Do ye—really, Mr. Peter?” 
“Indeed he does, Prudence, thougl 
I think you know that without my telling 
you.” So blushing a little, and sighing 
a little, and crying a little, and, witl 
fingers that trembled somewhat, sin 
wrote these four words: 
“George, I love you.” 
“What now 7 , Mr. Peter?” she inquired 
seeing me begin to unbuckle, my leathei 
apron. 
“Now,” I answered, “I am going t( 
look for Black George.” 
“No!—no!” she cried, laying her handi 
upon my arm, “no! if ’ee do meet him 
he—he’ll kill ’ee!” 
“I don’t think he will,” said I. 
“Oh, don’t go!” she pleaded, “he b< 
so strong and wild and quick—he’l 
give ’ee no chance to speak — ’t will b< 
murder!” 
“Prudence,” said I, “my mind is se 
on it. I am going—for your sake, i'oi 
his sake, and my own;” saying which 
I loosed her hands gently and took dowi 
my coat from its peg. 
“Dear God!” she exclaimed, staring 
down at the floor with wide eyes, “if h« 
were to kill ’ee—!” 
“Well,” said I, “my search would b< 
ended and I should be a deal wiser thar 
I am to-day.” 
“And he—would be hanged!” sai( 
Prudence, shuddering. 
“Probably—poor fellow!” said I. Al 
this she glanced quickly up, and oncf 
again the crimson dyed her cheeks. 
“Oh, Mr. Peter, forgive me! I— 
w T ere only thinkin’ of Jarge, and—” 
“And quite right too. Prudence,” 
nodded; “let it be your duty to think o 
him, and for him, henceforth.” 
“Wait!” said she, “wait!” And turn 
ing, she fled through the doorway am 
across the road, swift and graceful as anv 
bird, and presently was back again, w itl 
something hidden in her apron. 
“He be a strong man, and terrible ii 
his wrath,” said she, “and I—love him 
but—take this w 7 i’ you, and if it—must 
be — use it, because I do love him.” Now 
as she said this, she drew 7 from her aproi 
that same brass-bound pistol that hat 
served me so well against the “ghost” ant 
thrust it into my hand. “Take it, Mr, 
Peter—take it, but—oh!”—here a great 
sob choked her voice—“don’t—don’t ust 
it—if—if you can help it, for my sake." 
“Why, Prue!” said I, touching hei 
bowed head very tenderly, “how 7 can 
you think I would go up against my frient 
with death in my hand—Heaven forbid!” 
So I laid aside the weapon and, clapping 
on my hat, strode out into the glory oi 
(Continued on page 112) 
THE STORY AS IT HAS UNFOLDED SO FAR 
"DETER VIBART, disinherited unless he marry a beauty he has never seen, 
takes to the broad highway. After adventures which include an attack on 
his life because of his resemblance to his dissolute cousin, Sir Maurice, whom also 
he has never seen, he settles in a quiet village, helping George, the blacksmith, and 
living alone in a “haunted” cottage. 
One stormy night, a woman breaks in his door, pursued by a man who calls her 
“Charmian”. Peter struggles with the man, who is finally knocked unconscious 
and the lantern shows his face to be identical with Peter’s. Charmian disappears, 
after binding Peter’s wounds, and in the morning, the Ancient comes to find 
Peter, who humors the old man in believing that the scars came in a fight with 
“Old Nick.” I 
