The Broad Highway 
Aiucijw»u agutuuunsi, rcuiuar^ 
By Jeffery Farnol 
(For synopsis of preceding installments, see page 195) 
A ND, after we had gone on some little way, I spoke. 
k “Was that whv you—came to meet me?” 
“Yes.” “ * 
“And—kept so close beside me.” 
“Yes.” 
“Ah, yes, to be sure!” said I, and walked on in silence; and now I noticed that she 
kept as far from me as the path would allow. 
“Are vou thinking me very—unmaidenly again, sir?” 
“No,” I answered; “no.” 
“You see, I had no other way. Had I told you that there was a man hidden in the 
hedge you would have gone to look, and then—something dreadful would have 
happened.” 
“How came you to know he was there?” 
“Why, after I had prepared supper I climbed that steep path which leads to the 
road and sat down upon the fallen tree that lies there, to watch for you, and, as I sat 
there, I saw a man come hurrying down the road.” 
“A very big man?” 
“Yes, very tall he seemed, and, as I watched, he crept in behind the hedge. While 
I was wondering at this, I heard your step on the road.” 
“Did you, Charmian?” 
“And then I saw you coming, and the man saw you too, for he crouched suddenly; 
I could only see him dimly in the shadow of the hedge, but he looked murderous, and 
so-” 
“You came to meet me.” 
“Yes.” 
“And walked close beside me, so that 
you were between me and the shadow in 
the hedge?” 
“Yes.” 
“And I thought—” I began, and 
stopped. 
“Well, Peter?” Here she gave me a 
swift glance. 
“—that it was because—you were— 
perhaps—rather glad to see me.” Char¬ 
mian did not speak; indeed I would have 
given much to have seen her face just 
then, but the light was very dim; more¬ 
over she had turned her shoulder towards 
me. “But I am grateful to you,” I went 
on, “very grateful, and—it was very 
brave of you!” 
“Thank you, sir,” she answered in a 
very small voice, and I more than sus¬ 
pected that she was laughing at me. 
“Not,” I therefore continued, “that 
there was any real danger.” 
“What do you mean?” she asked 
quickly. 
“I mean that, in all probability, the 
man you saw was Black George, a very 
good friend of mine, who, though he may 
imagine he has a grudge against me, is too 
much of a man to lie in wait to do me hurt.” 
“Then why should he hide in the 
hedge?” 
“Because he committed the mistake of 
throwing the town Beadle over the 
churchyard wall, and is, consequently, 
in hiding, for the present.” 
“He has an ill-sounding name.” 
“And is the manliest, gentlest, truest 
fellow that ever wore the leather apron.” 
Seeing how perseveringly she kept the 
whole breadth of the path between us, I 
presently fell back and walked behind 
her; thus I could not but remark the little 
curls of hair upon her neck, whose sole 
object seemed to be to make the white 
skin more white by contrast. 
“Peter,” said she suddenly, over her 
shoulder, “of what are you thinking?” 
“Of a certain steak pasty that was 
promised for my supper,” I answered, 
mendaciously. 
“Oh!” 
“And what,” I inquired, “what were 
you thinking?” 
“I was thinking, Peter, that the— 
shadow in the hedge may not have been 
Black George, after all.” 
CHAPTER XH 
WHO COMES? 
T HIS table wobbles!” said Charmian. 
“It does,” said I, “but then I 
notice that the block is misplaced again.” 
“Then why use a block?” 
“A book is so clumsy—” I began. 
“Why not cut down the long legs to 
match the short one?” 
“That is really an excellent idea.” 
“Then why did n’t you before?” 
“Because, to be frank with you, it 
never occurred to me.” 
“I suppose you are better as a black¬ 
smith than a carpenter, are n’t you, 
Peter?” And, seeing I could find no 
answer, she laughed, and, sitting down, 
watched me while I took my saw, forth¬ 
with, and shortened the three long legs as 
she had suggested. Having done which, 
to our common satisfaction, we went and 
sat down on the bench beside the cottage 
door. 
“And—are you a very good black¬ 
smith?” she pursued, turning to regard 
me, chin in hand. 
“I can swing a hammer or shoe a horse 
with any smith in Kent—except Black 
George, and he is the best in all the South 
Country.” 
“Are you quite satisfied to be able to 
shoe horses well, sir?” 
“It is far better to be a good blacksmith 
than a bad poet or an incompetent prime 
minister.” 
“Meaning that you would rather 
succeed in the little thing than fail in the 
great? ” 
“Success is very sweet, Charmian, 
even in the smallest thing; for instance,” 
said I, pointing to the cottage door that 
stood open beside her, “when I built that 
door, and saw it swing on its hinges, I 
was as proud of it as though it had 
been— ” 
“A really good door,” interpolated 
Charmian.” 
“Is it a bad one, Charmian?” 
“It is a very clumsy door, and has 
neither bolt nor lock.” 
“There are no thieves hereabouts, and, 
even if there were, they would not dare to 
set foot in the Hollow after dark.” 
“Still, it can hardly be called a very 
good door, can it, Peter?” Here I 
lighted my pipe without answering. “I 
suppose you make horseshoes much 
better than you make doors?” I puffed 
at my pipe in silence. “You are not 
angry are you, Peter?” 
“Angry?” said I; “not in the least.” 
“Are you never angry, Peter?” 
“Seldom, I hope.” 
“I should like to see you so—just 
once.” Finding nothing to say in 
answer to this, I smoked my negro-head 
pipe and stared at the moon. 
“Referring to horseshoes,” said Char¬ 
mian at last, “are you content to be a 
blacksmith all your days?” 
“Yes, I think I am.” 
“Were you never ambitious, then?” 
“Ambition is like rain, breaking itself 
upon what it falls on—at least, so Bacon 
says, and-” 
“Oh, bother Bacon! Were you never 
ambitious, Peter?” 
“I was a great dreamer.” 
“A dreamer!” she exclaimed with fine 
scorn; “are dreamers ever ambitious?” 
“Indeed, they are the most truly 
ambitious,” I retorted; “their dreams 
are so vast, so infinite, that they, per¬ 
force, must remain dreamers always. 
Epictetus himself—” 
“I wish,” sighed Charmian, “I do 
wish—” 
“What do you wish?” 
“That you were not—such a pedant!” 
“Pedant!” said I, somewhat discon¬ 
certed. 
“And you are so dreadfully precise and 
serious,” she continued. 
“Am I, Charmian?” 
“And so very solemn and austere, and 
so ponderous, and egotistical, and calm— 
yes, you are hatefully calm and placid, 
are n’t you, Peter?” 
And, after I had smoked thoughtfully 
awhile, I sighed. 
“Yes, I fear I may seem so.” 
“Though you need n't be so annoy¬ 
ingly humble about it,” said she, and 
frowned, and, even while she frowned, 
laughed and shook her head. 
“And pray, why do you laugh?” 
“Because—oh, Peter, you are such a— 
boy!” 
“So you told me once before,” said I, 
biting my pipe-stem viciously. 
“Did I, Peter?” and she began to 
laugh again, but stopped all at once and 
rose to her feet. 
“Peter!” said she, with a startled note 
in her voice, “ don’t you hear something? ” 
“Yes,” said I. 
“Some one is coming!” 
“Yes.” 
H ere is the first Blot-out, an entertaining and amusing feature for the 
youngsters. 
You see the idea—the picture explains itself. There are a certain number of 
kittens concealed in the drawing. Take your blackest pencil and blot out the 
unnecessary lines. Then you can see the pussies very clearly! 
How many are there? See how many you can find. Then look in the 
Home Department next week for the answer, and see whether you get it right. 
The week after that, we will print another clever “Blot-out” to try your skill. 
“Oh—how can you sit there so quietly? 
Do you think— ” she began, and stopped 
staring into the shadows with wide eyes, 
“I think,” said I, knocking the ashes 
from my pipe, and laying it on the bench 
beside me, “that all things considered 
you were wiser to go into the cottage for a 
while.” 
“And I much prefer staying where [ 
am. 
Then I must ask you to go inside 
Charmian.” 
“No, indeed, my mind is made up.” 
“Then I insist, Charmian.” 
“Mr. Vibart!” she exclaimed, throwing 
up her head, “you forget yourself, I 
think. I permit no one to order my going 
and coming, and I obey no man’s com¬ 
mand.” 
“Then—I beg of you.” 
“And I refuse, sir—my mind is made 
up.” 
“And mine also!” said I, rising. 
“Why, what—what are you going to 
do?” she cried, retreating as I advanced 
towards her. 
“I am going to carry you into the 
cottage.” 
“You would not dare!” 
“If you refuse to walk, how else can 
you get there? ” said I. 
Anger, amazement, indignation, all 
these I saw in her eyes as she faced me, 
but anger most of all. 
And now her glance wavered beneath 
mine, her head drooped, and, with a 
strange little sound that was neither a 
laugh nor a sob, and yet something of 
each, she turned upon her heel, ran into 
the cottage, and slammed the door 
behind her. 
CHAPTER XDI 
A PEDLER IN ARCADIA 
T HE cottage, as I have said, was en 
tirely hidden from the chance observer 
by reason of the foliage: but, upon one 
side, there was a little grassy glade, or 
clearing rather, some ten yards square, 
and it was towards this that my eyes were 
directed. 
Though the shadows were too deep for 
my eyes to serve me, yet I could follow 
the newcomer's approach quite easily 
by the sound he made; indeed, I was par¬ 
ticularly struck by the prodigious rustling 
of leaves. Whoever it was must be big 
and bulky, I thought, and clad, probably, 
in a long, trailing garment. 
I remained there very still, only my 
fists clenched themselves as I sat listening 
and waiting—and that minute was an 
hour. 
“You won’t be wantin’ ever a broom, 
now: 
The relief was so sudden and intense 
that I had much ado to keep from laugh¬ 
ing outright. 
“No,” I answered, “nor yet a fine 
leather belt with a steel buckle made in 
Brummagem.” 
“Oh, it's you, is it?” said the Pedler, 
and forthwith Gabbing Dick stepped out 
out of the shadows, brooms on shoulder 
and bulging pack upon his back, at sight 
of which the leafy tumult was imme¬ 
diately accounted for. 
“Yes,” I answered, “but*what brings 
you here?” 
“I be goin’ to sleep ’ere, my chap.' 
“Oh! — you don’t mind the ghost, 
then?” 
“Oh, Lord, no! Theer be only two 
things as I can’t abide—trees as ain't 
trees, an’ women.” 
“Women?” 
•‘Trees as ain’t trees is bad enough, 
Lord knows! — but women’s worse,” said 
the Pedler, shaking his head. “Ye see, 
trees ain't got tongues, an’ a tree never 
told a lie—or ate a apple, did it?” 
“ What do you mean by * ate an apple' ? 
“Eve ate a apple, didn’t she? ” 
“The Scriptures say so,” I nodded. 
“An' told a lie arterwards, didn’t she? 
“So we are given to understand." 
(Continued on page 195) 
