164 
American Agriculturist, February 16, 1924 
The Broad Highway —By Jeffery Farnol 
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1000 MILES AWAY 
R E-ENTERING the cottage, I closed 
the door, and waited the while she 
| lighted my candle. 
And, having taken the candle from her 
i hand, I bade her “Good-night/ but 
paused at the door of my chamber. 
‘You feel—quite safe here?” 
‘Quite safe!” 
‘You have no fear of—Peter Smith?’ 
‘None!” 
‘Because—he is neither fierce nor wild 
| nor masterful!” 
“Because he is neither fierce nor wild,” 
I she echoed. 
‘Nor masterful!” said I. 
“Nor masterful!” said Chairman, with 
I averted head. 
“Do you think I am so very—different 
-from him?” 
‘As different as day from night, as the 
I lamb from the wolf,” said she, without 
I looking at me. “ Good-night, Peter! ” _ 
“Good-night!” said I, and so, going 
into my room, I closed the door behind 
me. 
“A lamb!” said I, tearing off my neck¬ 
cloth, and sat for some time listening to 
her footstep and the soft rustle of her 
petticoats going to and fro. 
“A lamb!” said I again, and slowly 
drew off my coat. As I did so, a little 
cambric handkerchief fell to the floor, 
and I kicked it, forthwith, into a corner. 
But, at this moment, came a light tap 
upon the door. 
“Yes?” said I, without moving. ^ 
“Oh, how is your injured thumb?” 
“Thank you, it is as well as can be 
expected.” 
Does it pain you very much?” 
It is not unbearable! ” said I. 
“Good-night, Peter!” and I heard her 
move away. But presently she was back 
again. 
“Oh, Peter?” 
“Wen?” 
“Are you frowning?” 
“I—I think I was—why?” 
“When you frown, you are very like— 
him, and have the same square set of the 
mouth and chin, so don’t, please don’t 
frown, Peter. Good-night!” 
“Good-night, Charmian!” said I, and 
stooping, I picked up the little handker¬ 
chief and thrust it under my pUlow. 
CHAPTER X 
I AM SUSPECTED OF THE BLACK ART 
V IBART!” 
The word had been uttered close 
behind me, and very softly, yet I started, 
and stood for a moment with my hammer 
noised ere I turned and faced the speaker. 
He was a tall man with a stubbly growth 
of grizzled hair about his lank jaws, and 
le was leaning in at that window of the 
smithy which gave upon a grassy back 
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You spoke, I think!” said I. 
“I said, ‘Vibart!’” 
“And why should you say ‘Vibart?’” 
“And why should you start?” Be¬ 
neath the broad, flapping hat his eyes 
glowed with intensity. 
“It is familiar,” said I. 
“Ha! familiar?” he repeated, and his 
features were suddenly contorted as with 
a strong convulsion. 
My hammer was yet in my grasp, and 
my fingers tightened instinctively. 
"Familiar?” said he again. 
Yes,” I nodded; “like your face, for 
it would almost seem that I have seen 
you somewhere before, and I seldom 
forget fades.” 
I “Nor do I!” said the man. 
I Now, while we thus fronted each other, 
there came the sound of approaching foot¬ 
steps, and John Pringle, the Carrier, 
appeared, followed by the pessimistic 
Job. 
“Mamin’, Peter!—them ’orsehoes, 
began John, pausing just outside the 
smithy door, “you was to finish ’eAi 
’s arternoon.” Now, I was aware that 
both his and Job’s eyes had wandered 
from my bandaged thumb to my bare 
throat, and become fixed there. 
“Come in and sit down,” said I, 
nodding to each, as I blew up the fire, 
“come in.” For a moment they hesi¬ 
tated, then stepped gingerly into the 
smithy, and I saw each of them furtively 
cross his fingers. 
“Why do you do that, John Pringle?” 
said I. 
“Why, ye see, Peter,” said John, 
glancing in turn at the floor, the rafters, 
and the anvil, but never at me, “ye see, 
it be just a kind o’ way o’ mine.” 
“But why does Job do the same?” 
“An’ why do ’ee look at a man so 
sharp an’ suddenlike?” retorted Job 
sullenly; “dang me! if it are n’t enough to 
send cold shivers up a chap’s spine.” 
“Nonsense!” said I; “my eyes can’t 
hurt you.” 
“An’ W am I to know that, an’ you 
wi’ your throat all torn wi’ devil’s claws 
it bean’t nat’ral.” 
“Pure folly!” said I, plucking the iron 
from the fire, and beginning to beat and 
shape it with mv hammer, but presently, 
remembering the strange man, 1 looked 
up, and saw that he was gone. “Where 
is he?” said I involuntarily. 
“Where ’s who?” inquired John 
Pringle, glancing about uneasily. 
“The fellow who was talking to me as 
you came up?” 
“I did n’t see no fellow!” said Job, 
looking at John and edging nearer the 
door. 
“Nor me neither!” chimed in John 
Pringle. 
“Why, he was leaning in at the window 
here, not a minute ago,” said I, and, 
plunging the half-finished horse-shoe 
back into the fire, I stepped out into the 
road, but the man was nowhere to be 
seen. 
* “Very strange!” said I. 
* “"What might ’e ’ave been like, now?” 
inquired John. 
“He was tall and thin, and wore a big 
flapping hat.” 
J OHN PRINGLE coughed and 
scratched his chin. 
“What is it, John?” I inquired. 
“Why, then, you could n’t ’appen to 
notice—’im wearin’ ’is ’at—if ’e ’ad ever 
a pair o’ ’orns, Peter?” 
“Or even a—’oof,' now?” suggested 
Job. 
“ “Come,” said I, looking from one to 
the other, “what might you be driving 
at?” 
“Why, ye see, Peter,” answered John, 
“ye see, Peter, it are n’t nat’ral for a 
’uman bein’ to go a-vanish in’ away—if’t 
were a man as you was a-talkin’ to—” 
“Which I doubts!” muttered Job. 
“If’t were a man, Peter, then I axes 
you—where is that man?” 
Before I could answer this pointed 
question, old Joel Amos hobbled up, who 
paused on the threshold to address some 
one over his shoulder. 
“Come on, James, ’ere ’e be—come 
for’ard, James, like a man.” 
Thus adjured, another individual ap¬ 
peared: an individual with colorless hair 
and eyes, who seemed to exhale an air of 
apology. 
“Marnin’, Peter!” said Old Amos, 
“this yere is—Dutton.” 
“How do you do?” said I, “and what 
can I do for Mr. Dutton?” The latter 
took out a vivid belcher handkerchief, 
and apologetically mopped his face. 
“Lord!” exclaimed Dutton, “Lord! 
I du be that ’ot!—you speak for I, Amos, 
du.” 
“W’y, then, Peter,” began Amos, with 
great unction, “it’s ’is pigs!” 
“Pigs?” I exclaimed, staring. 
“Ah! pigs, Peter,” nodded Old Amos, 
“Dutton’s pigs; ’is sow farrowed last 
week—nine of ’em!” 
“Well?” said I, wondering more and 
more. 
"Well, Peter, they was a fine ’earty 
lot, an’ all a-doin’ well—till last Monday.” 
“Indeed!” said I. 
“Last Monday night, four on ’em 
sickened an’ died!” 
“Probably ate something that dis¬ 
agreed with them,” said I, picking up my 
hammer and laying it down again. Old 
Amos smiled and shook his head. 
“You know James Dutton’s pigsty, 
don’t ye, Peter?” 
“I really can’t say that I do.” 
“Yet you pass it every day on your 
way to the ’Oiler—it lays just be’ind 
Simon’s oast-’ouse, as James ’isself will 
tell ’ee.” 
“So it du,” interpolated Dutton._ 
“Now, one evenin’, Peter,” continued 
Old Amos, “one evenin’ you leaned over 
the fence an’ stood a-lookin’ at they pigs 
for, p’r’aps, ten minutes.” 
“Did I?” 
“Ay, that ye did—James Dutton see 
ye, an’ ’is wife, and I see ye.” 
“Then,” said I,” probably I did. 
Well?” . . 
“Well,” said the old man, bringing 
out each word with the greatest unction, 
“that theer evenin’ were last Monday 
evenin’ as ever was—the very same hour 
as Dutton’s pigs sickened an’ died!” 
Hereupon John Pringle and Job rose 
simultaneously, and retreated to the 
door. 
“Lord!” exclaimed John. 
“I might ha’ knowed it!” said Job, 
drawing a cross in the air with his finger. 
“An’ so James Dutton wants to ax ye 
to tak’ it off, Peter,” said Old Amos. 
“To take what off?” 
“Why, the spell, for sure.” Hereupon 
I gave free play to my amusement, and 
laughed, and laughed, while the others 
watched me with varying expressions. 
“And so you think that I bewitched 
Dutton’s pigs, do you?” said I, at last, 
glancing from Old Amos to the perspiring 
Apology. 
“W’y, Peter, ye bean t like ordinary 
folk; your eyes goes through an through 
a man. An’ then, Peter, I mind as you 
come a-walkin’ into Siss n urst one night 
from Lord knows wheer, all covered wi 
dust, an’ wi’ a pack on your back.” 
“You are wrong there, Amos,” said I, 
“it was afternoon when I came, and the 
Ancient was with me.” 
“Ah! an’ wheer did ’e find ye, Peter? 
“In the Hollow,” I answered. 
“An’ then, you lives all alone in that 
theer ghashlv ’Oiler—an’ you fights, an 
struggles wi’ devils an’ demons, all in the 
tearin’ tempest—an’ what ’s most of all 
—-you comes back—alive; an wi devil- 
marks upon ye. Old Gaffer be over- 
proud o’ findin’ ye, but old Gaffer be 
dodderin’ — ’e’d ha done much better to 
ha’ left ye alone. I ’ve heerd o’ folk 
sellin’ theirselves to the devil, I ve like¬ 
wise heerd o’ the ‘Evil Eye afore now. 
“Nonsense!” said I sternly. This 
( Continued on page 165 ) 
WHAT HAS HAPPENED IN “THE BROAD HIGHWAY” 
C HARMIAN “BROWN,” taking refuge from a pursuing gallant in Peter 
Vibart’s lonely cottage, tells him she is alone in the world and penniless. So he 
unwillingly allows her to stay in the cottage. , Q Q e fton 
Peter has left London, being disinherited unless he marry Lady Sophia betton, 
whom he has never seen He has had several unpleasant adventures, including an 
attack on his life, because of his resemblance to ^ bThis 
After knocking Charmian’s pursuer unconscious, Peter discovers him t 
d °Peter has found employment-with George, the blacksmith, who misunderstands 
his he5^s interest £ P Pme, George’s sweetheart. A furious outburst on the part 
of the hS-?empered blacksmith forces him into hiding, vowing vengeance on Peter, 
his former friend. 
