356 
The Broad Highway 
\ American Agriculturist, April 5 ,1934 
By Jeffery Farnol 
(For syno_psis of preceding 
CHAPTER XXIII 
HOW GABBING DICK, THE PEDLER, SET 
A HAMMER GOING IN MY HEAD 
H AVING finished my bars, with four 
strong brackets to hold them, I put 
away my tools, and donned hat and coat. 
It was yet early, and there was, besides, 
much work waiting to be done, but I felt 
anwontedly tired and out of sorts, where¬ 
fore, with my bars and brackets beneath 
my arm, I set out for the Hollow. 
From the hedges, on either side of me, 
came the sweet perfume of the honey¬ 
suckle, and beyond the hedges the fields 
stood high with ripening corn. I stood 
a while to listen to its whisper as the 
gentle wind swept over it, and to look 
down the long green alleys of the hop¬ 
gardens beyond; and at the end of one of 
these straight arched vistas there shone 
a solitary, great star. 
Now, as I stood thus, I heard a voice 
hailing me, and, glancing about, espied 
one, who sat beneath the hedge, whom, 
upon approaching, I recognized as Gab¬ 
bing Dick, the Pedler. 
He nodded and grinned as I came up, 
but in both there was a vague unpleas¬ 
antness. 
“You’ve stood a-lookin’ up into the 
sky for a good ten minutes!” said he. 
“And what if I have?” 
“Nothin’,” said the Pedler, “nothin' at 
all—though love-sick folk always stares 
at the moon. Don’t frown, young cove, 
for it’s true; wot’s caused more sorrer an’ 
blood than them Eves? Oceans of good 
blood’s been spilt along o’ women, from 
the Eve as tricked old Adam to the Eve as 
tricks, say—yourself.” Here he regarded 
me with so evil a leer that I turned my 
back in disgust. 
“Don’t go, young cove; I got somm’at 
to tell ye.” 
“Then tell it!” said I, stopping again, 
“and tell it quickly.” 
“You’re a fine, up-standin’ young cove, 
and may be chock-full o’ taking ways 
(which, though not noticin’, I won’t go 
for to deny)—but a Eve’s a Eve, and 
always will be—you'll mind as I warned 
you again’ ’em last time I see ye?” 
“Well?” said I impatiently. 
“Well,” nodded the Pedler, and his 
eyes twinkled malevolently. “I warns 
you again. You’re a civil-spoke young 
cove, and quiet (though I don't like the 
cock o’ your eye), and, mind, I don't bear 
you no ill-will—though you did turn me 
from your door on a cold, dark night—” 
“TT was neither a cold nor a dark 
-*■ night!” said I. 
“Well, it might ha’ been, mightn’t it?— 
very well then! Still, I don’t,” said the 
Pedler, spitting dejectedly into the ditch. 
“I don’t bear you no ’ard feelin’s for it, 
no’ow—it might ha’ been cold, and dark, 
wi’ ice and snow, and I might ha’ froze 
to death—but we won’t say no more 
about it.” 
“You’ve said pretty well, I think,” 
said I; “supposing you tell me what you 
have to tell me, otherwise—good night!” 
“Very well then!” said the Pedler; 
“still livin' in the ’Oiler, I suppose?” 
“Yes.” 
“Ah, well! I come through there to¬ 
day,” said he, grinning, and again his eyes 
grew malevolent. “A paradise you might 
call it—ah! a paradise or a—garden of 
Eden, wi’ Eve and the serpent and all!” 
and he broke out into a cackling laugh. 
And, in the look anti the laugh, there was 
something so repellent that I was minded 
to kick him into the ditch, yet the leering 
triumph in his eyes held me. 
“Yes?” said I. 
“And, bein’ so near, I ’appened to 
glance in at the cottage winder, and there, 
sure enough, I see, as you might say, Eve 
in the gardin. And a fine figure of a Eve 
she be, and ’andsome wi’ it.” 
“Well?” 
“Well, just as I ’appened to look in at 
the winder, she ’appened to be standin’ 
installments, see page 357) 
wi’ an open book in ’er ’and—a old, 
leather book wi’ a broken cover.” 
“Yes?” said I. 
“And. she ■was a-laughin’—and a pretty, 
soft, Eve’s laugh it were, too.” 
“Yes?” said I. 
“And— 'e were a-lookin’ at the book— 
over ’er shoulder!” The irons slipped 
from my grasp, and fell with a harsh 
clang. 
“Ketches ye, does it?” said the Pedler, 
but, meeting my eye, he scrambled hastily 
to his feet, and, catching up his pack, 
retreated some little way down the road. 
“Ketches ye, does it, my cove?” he 
repeated; “turn me away from your door 
on a cold, dark night, would ye? But I 
says to you, I says—look out!—a fine 
’andsome lass she be, wi’ the eyes and lips 
of a Eve; and Eve tricked Adam, didn’t 
she?” Saying which, he spat once more 
into the ditch, and, shouldering his pack, 
strode away. 
iknd, after some while, I took up my 
iron bars, and trudged on towards the 
cottage. As I went, I repeated to myself, 
over and over again, the word “Liar.” 
Yet my step was very slow and heavy, 
and, somewhere in my head, a small 
hammer had begun to beat, soft and slow 
and regular, beating, beating upon my 
brain. 
Now the upper cover of my Virgil hook 
was broken’. 
CHAPTER XXIV 
THE VIRGIL BOOK 
A MAN was leaning in the shadow of 
a tree, looking down into the Hollow. 
I could not see him very distinctly be¬ 
cause, though evening had scarcely fallen, 
the shadows, where he stood, w r ere very 
dense, but he was gazing down into the 
Hollow in the attitude of one who waits. 
Very cautiously I began creeping nearer 
the passive figure, while the hammer in 
my brain beat so loud that it seemed he 
must hear it where he stood: a shortish, 
broad-shouldered figure, clad in a blue 
coat. He held his hat in his hand, and he 
leaned carelessly against the tree. 
A stick snapped sharp and loud beneath 
my tread, the lounging back stiffened and 
grew rigid, the face showed lop an instant 
over the shoulder, and, with a spring, he 
had vanished into the bushes. 
It was a vain hope to find a man in such 
a dense tangle of boughs and under¬ 
brush, yet I ran forward, nevertheless; 
but, though I sought eagerly upon all 
sides, he had made good his escape. So, 
after a while, I retraced my steps to where 
I had left my irons and brackets, and 
taking them up, turned aside to that 
precipitous path w 7 hich leads down into 
the Hollow 7 . 
Now, -as I w r ent, whom should I meet 
but Charmian, coming gayly through the 
green, and singing as she came. At sight 
of me she stopped, and the song died upon 
her lip. 
“Why—why, Peter—you look dread¬ 
fully pale—” 
“Thank you, I am very well!” said I. 
“Your eyes are wild—and fierce, 
Peter.” 
“Were you coming to—to—meet me, 
Charmian?” 
“Yes, Peter.” Now’ it almost seemed 
that her color had changed, and that her 
eyes avoided mine. 
“But I—am much before my usual 
time, to-night, Charmian.” 
“Then there will be no waiting for 
supper, and I am ravenous, Peter!” 
B EING come to the cottage, I set down 
my bars and brackets, w r ith a clang. 
“These,” said I, in answ r er to her look, 
“are the bars I promised to make for the 
door.” 
“Do vou always keep your promises, 
Peter?”" 
“I hope so.” 
“Then,” said she, coming to look at the 
great bars, with a fork in her hand, for she 
was in the middle of dishing up, “then, if 
you promise me always to come home by 
the road, and never through the coppice— 
you will do so, won’t you?” 
“Why should I?” I inquired, turning 
sharply to look at her. 
“Because the coppice is so dark and 
lonely, and if—I say, if I should take it 
into my head to come and meet you some¬ 
times, there would be no chance of my 
missing you.” And so she looked at me 
and smiled, and, going back to her cook¬ 
ing, fell once more a-singing, the while I 
sat and watched her. 
Surely, surely no woman whose heart 
was full of deceit could sing so blithely 
and happily, or look at one with such 
sweet candor in her eyes? 
And yet the supper was a very ghost of 
a meal, for when I remembered the man 
w 7 ho had watched and waited, the very 
food grew nauseous and seemed to 
choke me. 
“Peter, you eat nothing.” 
“Yes, indeed!” said I, staring unsee- 
ingly dowm at my plate. 
“Peter—look at me.” 
I looked up obediently. 
“Yes, you are frightfully pale—are you 
ill again—is it your head; Peter—wdiat 
is it?” and, with a sudden, half-shy ges¬ 
ture, she stretched her hand to me across 
the table. And as I looked from the mute 
pity of her eyes to that w r ould-be com¬ 
forting hand, I had a great impulse to 
clasp it close in mine, to speak, and tell 
her all my base and unw r orthy suspicions, 
and, once more, to entreat her pardon and 
forgiveness. The words w r ere upon my 
•&KE YOUR PENCIL AND BLOT OUT ALL THE UNNECESSARY LlNEhS 
OW J V L< 
Hqs 
There were eighteen tulips in last week’s Blot-Out. Another on this page next 
week, with the answer to the question “How many Lambs has Mary ? ” 
lips, but I checked them, madman that I A 
was, and shook my head. ' 
“It is nothing,” I answered, “unless it 
be that I have not yet recovered from 
Black George’s fist; it is nothing!” And 
so the meal drew to an end, and though 
feeling my thoughts base, I sat with my 
head on my hand and my eyes upon the 
cloth, yet I knew she watched me, and 
more than once I heard her sigh. 
Supper being over and done, Charmian 
must needs take my coat, despite my 
protests, and fall to work, mending a great 
rent in the sleeve. And, watching her, 
noting the high mould of her features, the 
proud poise of her head, the slender ele¬ 
gance of her hands, I w r as struck sharply 
by her contrast to the rough, bare walls 
that were my home, and the toil-worn, 
unlovely garment beneath her fingers. 
“That is the fourth time, Peter.” 
“What, Charmian?” 
“That is the fourth time you have 
sighed since you lighted your pipe, and it 
is out, and you never noticed it!” 
“Yes,” said I, and laid the pipe upon 
the table and sighed again, before I could 
stop myself. Charmian raised her head, 
and looked at me with a laugh in her eyes. 
“Oh, most philosophical, dreamy black¬ 
smith! where be your thoughts?” 
“I was thinking how old and w r orn and 
disreputable my coat looked.” 
“Indeed, sir,” said Charmian, holding 
it up and regarding it wdth a little frown, 
“forsooth it is ancient, and hath seen 
better days.” 
“Like its wearer!'’ said I, and sighed 
again. 
“Hark to this ancient man!” she 
laughed, “this hoary-headed blacksmith 
of ours, who sighs, and forever sighs; if it 
could possibly be that he had met any 
one sufficiently worthy—I should think 
that he had fallen— philosophicalh/ — in 
love; how think you, Sir Knight of the 
Rueful Countenance?” 
“No,” I answered; “no, I think I have 
done with dreaming.” 
“And I have done with this, thy coat, 
for behold! it is finished,” and rising, she 
folded it over the back of my chair. 
N OW, as she stood thus behind me, her 
hand fell and, for a moment, rested ' 
lightly upon my shoulder. 
“Peter.” 
“Yes, Charmian.” 
“I wish, yes, I do wish that you were 
either much younger or very much older.” 
“Why?” 
“Because you wouldn't be quite so- 
so cryptic. Sometimes I think I under¬ 
stand you better than you do yourself, 
and sometimes I am utterly lost; now, if 
you were younger I could read you easily, 
and, if you were older, you would read 
yourself for me.” 
“I was never very young!” said I. 
“No, you were alw'ays too repressed, 
Peter.” 
“Yes, perhaps I w 7 as.” 
“Repression is good up to a certain 
point, but beyond that it is dangerous, ’ 
said she, with a portentous shake of the 
head. “Heigho! w r as it a week or a year 
ago that you avowed yourself happy 7 , and 
couldn’t tell why?” 
“I was the greater fool!” said I. “For 
thinking myself happy 7 !” 
And, sighing, I rose, and taking mv 
hammer from its place above my book¬ 
shelf, set to work upon my r brackets, 
driving them deep into the heavy 7 frame¬ 
work of the door. All at once I stopped, 
and, for no reason in the world, looked 
back at Charmian, over my shoulder; 
to find her watching me with eyes that j 
were (if it could w 7 ell be) puzzled, wistful, I 
shy, and glad at one and the same time, 
eyes that veiled themselves swiftly 7 before 
my look, yet that shot one last glance, 
between their lashes, in which w 7 ere only 
joy and laughter. 
“Yes?” said I, answering the look. But 
she only stooped her head and went on sew - 
ing; yet the color was bright in her cheeks j 
(Continued on page 357) 
