American Agriculturist, April 26,1924 
The Broad Highway-sy 
423 
Jeffery Farnol 
(For synopsis see page 425) 
“Bless ’ee, Peter—bless ’ee, lad!—an’ 
a old man’s blessin’ be no light thing—• 
’specially such a old, old man as I be—an’ 
it bean’t often as I feels in a blessin’ 
sperrit— but oh, Peter! ’t were me as 
found ye, weren’t it?” 
“ Why, to be sure it was, Ancient, very 
nearly five months ago.” 
“An’ I be alius ready wi’ some noos for 
ye, bean’t I?” 
“Yes, indeed!” 
“Well, I got more noos for ’ee, Peter— 
gert noos!” 
“And what is it this time?” 
“Why, first of all, Peter, jest reach me 
my snuff-box, will ’ee?—in my back ’ind 
pocket— thankee!” Hereupon he knocked 
upon the lid with a bony knuckle. “I du 
be that full o’ noos this marnin’ that my 
innards be all of a quake, Peter!” he 
nodded, saying which, he sat down close 
beside me. 
“ Some day—when that theer old stapil 
be all rusted away, an’ these old bones is 
a-restin’ in the churchyard—you’ll think, 
sometimes, o’ the very old man as was 
always so full o’ noos, won’t ’ee, Peter?” 
“Surely, Ancient, I shall never forget 
you,” said I, and sighed. 
“An’ now, Peter,” said the old man, 
extracting a pinch of snuff, “now for the 
noos— ’bout Black Jarge, it be.” 
“What of him, Ancient?” The old 
man shook his head. 
“It took eight on ’em to du it, Peter, 
an’ now four on ’em’s a-layin’ in their 
beds, an* four on ’em’s ’obblin’ on crutches 
—an’ all over a couple o’ rabbits.” 
“Why —what do you mean?” 
“Why, ye see, Peter, Black Jarge be 
such a gert, strong man (I were much such 
another when I were young)—like a lion, 
in ’is wrath, ’e be — ah! An’ they keepers 
come an’ found ’im under a tree, fast 
asleep —like David in the Cave of Adul- 
lam, Peter, wi’ a couple o’ rabbits as ’e’d 
snared. An’ when they keepers tried to 
tak’ ’im, ’e rose up, ’e did, an’ throwed 
some on ’em this way an’ some on ’em 
that way—’t were like Samson an’ the 
Philistines.” 
“Do you mean that George is taken 
a prisoner 
S” 
HP HE Ancient nodded, and inhaled his 
* pinch of snuff with evident relish. 
“It be gert noos, bean’t it, Peter?” 
“What have they done with him? 
Where is he. Ancient?” But, before the 
old man could answer, Simon appeared. 
“Ah, Peter!” said he, shaking his head, 
“the Gaffer’s been tellin’ ye ’ow they’ve 
took Jarge for poachin’, I suppose—” 
“Simon!” cried the Ancient, “shut thy 
mouth, lad—hold thy gab an’ give thy 
poor old feyther a chance—I be tellin’ 
im so fast as I can! As I was a-sayin’, 
Peter— like a fur’us lion were Jarge wi’ 
they keepers—eight on ’em, Peter—like 
dogs, a-growlin’, an’ leapin’, an’ worryin’ 
all round ’im—ah! — like a lion ’e were—” 
“Waitin’ for a chance to use ’is ‘right,’ 
d’ ye see, Peter!” added Simon. 
Ancient. Wi’ ’is eyes a-rollin’ an’ 
flamin’, Peter, an’ ’is mane all bristlin’— 
Simon. Cool as any cucumber, Peter— 
Ancient. Leapin’ in the air, rollin’ in 
the grass, wi’ they keepers dingin’ to ’im 
like leeches—ah! leeches— 
Simon. And every time they rushed, 
tap ’ud go ’is “left,” and bang ’ud go ’is 
“right” — 
Ancient. An’ up ’e’d get, like Samson 
again, Peter, an’ give ’isself a shake; 
bellerin’ —like a bull o’ Bashan— 
But, at this juncture, Old Amos hove 
in view, followed by the Apologetic Dut¬ 
ton, with Job and sundry others, on their 
way to work, and, as they came, they 
talked together, with much solemn wag¬ 
ging of heads. Having reached the door 
of “The Bull,” they paused and greeted 
us, and I thought Old Amos’s habitual 
grin a trifle more pronounced than usual. 
“So poor Jarge ’as been an’ gone an’ 
done for ’isself at last, eh? Oh, my soul! 
think o’ that, now!” sighed Old Amos. 
“Alius knowed as ’e would!” added 
Job; “many’s the time I’ve said as ’e 
would, an’ you know it—-all on you.” 
“It do wring my ’eart—ah, that it do! 
to think o’ pore Jarge a convic’ at Bot’ny 
Bay!” said Old Amos, “a-workin’, an’ 
diggin’, an’ slavin’ wi’ irons on ’is legs an’ 
arms, a-jinglin’, an’ a-janglin’ when ’e 
walks.” 
“Well, but it’s Justice, aren’t it?” 
demanded Job—“a poacher’s a thief, an’ 
a thief’s a convic’—or should be!” 
“I’ve ’eerd,” said Old Amos, shaking 
his head, “I’ve ’eerd as they ties they 
convic’s up to posts, an’ lashes an’ lashes 
’em wi’ the cat-o’-nine-tails!” 
“They generally mostly deserves it!” 
nodded Job. 
“But ’tis ’ard to think o’ pore Jarge 
tied up to one o’ them floggin’-posts, wi’ 
’is back all raw an’ bleedin’!” pursued 
Old Amos; “crool ’ard it be, an’ ’im such 
a fine, strappin’ young chap.” 
“ ’E were alius a sight too fond o’ 
pitchin’ into folk, Jarge were!” said Job; 
“it be a mercy as my back weren’t broke 
more nor once.” 
“Ah!” nodded the Ancient, “you must 
be amazin’ strong in the back, Job! The 
way I’ve seed ’ee come a-rollin’ an’ 
a-wallerin’ out o’ that theer smithy’s 
wonnerful, wonnerful. Lord ! Job— 
’ow you did roll!” 
“Well, ’e won’t never do it no more,” 
said Job, glowering; “what wi’ poachin’ 
’is game, an’ knockin’ ’is keepers about, 
’t aren’t likely as Squire Beverley ’ll let 
’im off very easy—” 
W HO?” said I, looking up, and 
speaking for the first time. 
Squire Beverley o’ Burn’am ’All.” 
Sir Peregrine Beverley? ” 
Ay, for sure.” 
“And how far is it to Burnham Hall?” 
“’Ow fur?” repeated Job, staring; 
“why, it lays ’t other side o’ Horsmon- 
den—” 
“It be a matter o’ eight mile, Peter,” 
said the Ancient. 
“Then I had better start now,” said I, 
and rose. 
“What—you?” exclaimed Job; “d’ye 
think Squire’ll see you?” 
“I think so; yes.” 
“Well, ’e won’t—they’ll never let the 
likes o’ you or me beyond the gates.” 
“That remains to be seen,” said I. 
“All right!” nodded Job, “if they sets 
the dogs on ye, or chucks you into the 
road—don’t go blamin’ it on to me, that’s 
all!” 
“What—be ye really a-goin’, Peter?” 
“I really am, Ancient!” 
“Then—by the Lord!—I’ll go wi’ ye.” 
“It’s a long walk!” 
“Nay—Simon shall drive us in the 
cart.” 
“That I will!” nodded the Innkeeper. 
“Ay, lad,” cried the Ancient, laying 
« j 
<£ 
his hand upon my arm, “we’ll up an’ see 
Squire, you an’ me—shall us, Peter? 
There be some fules,” said he, looking 
round upon the staring company, “some 
fules as talks o’ Bot’ny Bay, an’ irons, an’ 
whippin’-posts—all 1 says is—let ’em, 
Peter, let ’em! You an’ me’ll up an’ see 
Squire, Peter, sha’n’t us?” So saying, 
the old man led me into the kitchen of 
“The Bull,” while Simon went to have 
the horses put to. 
CHAPTER XXXI 
in which the ancient is surprised 
A CHEERY place, at all times, is the 
* kitchen of an English inn, a com¬ 
fortable place to eat in, to talk in, or to 
doze in. And what inn kitchen, in all 
broad England, was ever brighter, neater, 
and more comfortable than this kitchen 
of “The Bull,” where sweet Prue held 
supreme sway, with such grave dignity, 
and with her two white-capped maids to do 
her bidding and behests?—surely none. 
And surely in no inn, tavern, or hostelry 
soever, great or small, was there ever seen 
a daintier, prettier, sweeter hostess than 
this same Prue of ours. 
But to-day Prue’s eyes were red, and 
her lips were all a-droop, the which, 
though her smile was brave and ready, 
the Ancient was quick to notice. 
“Why, Prue, lass, you’ve been weep- 
in’!” 
“Yes, grandfer.” 
“Your pretty eyes be all swole—red 
they be; what’s the trouble?” 
“Oh! ’t is nothing, dear, ’t is just a 
maid’s fulishness—never mind me, dear.” 
“Ah! but I love ’ee, Prue—come, kiss 
me—theer now, tell me all about it—all 
about it, Prue.” 
“Oh, grandfer!” said she, from the 
hollow of his shoulder, “’t is just—Jarge! ” 
The old man grew very still, his mouth 
opened slowly, and closed with a snap. 
“Did ’ee—did ’ee say—Jarge, Prue? 
Is it—breekin’ your ’eart ye be for that 
theer poachin’ Black Jarge? To think— 
as my Prue should come down to a 
poachin’—” 
Prudence slipped from his encircling 
arm and stood up very straight and proud 
—there were tears thick upon her lashes, 
but she did not attempt to wipe them 
away. 
“Grandfer,” she said very gently, “you 
mustn’t speak of Jarge to me like that— 
ye mustn’t—because I—love him, and if 
—he ever—comes back—I’ll marry him 
if—if he will only ax me; and if he— 
never comes back, then—I think—I 
shall—die!” The Ancient took out his 
snuff-box, opened it, glanced inside, and 
—shut it up again. 
“Did ’ee tell me as you love Black 
Jarge, Prue?” 
WBT\ 
(gfMANyiHM 
^gCAN YOU 
fk FIND jA 
Hwmi 
[AKE YOUR PENCIL AND 0LOT-OUT ALL THE UNNECESSARY LINES 
The animals in last week’s picture were: mouse, cat, fox, bear, donkef, pig, 
elephant, cow, rabbit and squirrel. This puzzle will be answered next week. 
“Yes, grandfer, I always have and 
always shall!” 
“Loves Black Jarge!” he repeated; 
“alius ’as—alius will! Oh, Lord! what 
’ave I done?” Now, very slowly, a tear 
crept down his wrinkled cheek, at sight 
of which Prue gave a little cry, and, kneel¬ 
ing beside his chair, took him in her arms. 
“Oh, my lass!—my little Prue—’tis 
all my doin’. I thought— Oh, Prue, ’t 
were me as parted you! I thought—•” 
The quivering voice broke off. 
“’Tis all right, grandfer, never think of 
it—see—there, I be smilin’!” and she 
kissed him many times. 
“A danged fule I be!” said the old man, 
shaking his head. 
“No, no, grandfer!” 
“That’s what I be, Prue—a danged 
fule! If I do go afore that theer old, 
rusty stapil, ’t will serve me right—• 
a danged fule I be! Alius loved ’im—alius 
will, an’wishful towed wi’ ’im! Why, 
then,” said the Ancient, swallowing two 
or three times, “so ’ee shall, my sweet, 
sure as sure, so come an’ kiss me, an’ for¬ 
give the old man as loves ’ee so.” 
“What do ’ee mean, grandfer?” said 
Prue between two kisses. 
“A fine, strappin’ chap be Jarge; arter 
all, Peter, you bean’t a patch on Jarge for 
looks, be you?” 
“No, indeed, Ancient!” 
“Wishful to wed ’im, she is, an’ so she 
shall. LordyLord! Kiss me again, Prue, 
for I be goin’ to see Squire—ay, I be goin’ 
to up an’ speak wi’ Squire for Jarge— 
an’ Peter be cornin’ too.” | 
“Oh, Mr. Peter!” faltered Prudence, 
“be this true?” and in her eyes was the 
light of a sudden hope. 
“Yes,” I nodded. % 
“D’ you think Squire’ll see you—'listen 
to you?” she cried breathlessly. j 
“I think he will. Prudence,” said I.' 
But now came the sound of wheels and 
the voice of Simon, calling, wherefore I 
took my hat and followed the Ancient to 
the door, but there Prudence stopped me. 
“Last time you met wi’ Jarge—he tried 
to kill you. Oh, I know, and now—you 
be goin’ to—” 
“Nonsense, Prue!” said I. But, as I 
spoke, she stooped and would have kissed 
my hand, but I raised her and kissed her 
upon the cheek, instead. “For good luck, 
Prue,” said I, and so turned and left her. 
In the porch sat Job, with Old Amos 
and the rest, who watched with gloomy 
brows as I swung myself up beside the 
Ancient in the cart. 
“A fule’s journey!” remarked Old 
Amos sententiously. 
The Ancient cast an observing eye up at 
the cloudless sky and nodded solemnly. 
“Theer be some fules in this world, 
Peter, as mixes up honest men—like 
Jarge—wi’ thieves, an’ lazy waggabones 
—like Job—but we’ll show ’em, Peter, 
we’ll show ’em—dang ’em! Drive on, 
Simon, my bye!” 
So, with this Parthian shot, feathered 
with the one strong word the Ancient 
kept for such occasions, we drove away 
from the silenced group. But the last 
thing I saw was the light in Prue’s sweet 
eyes as she watched us from the open 
lattice. 
CHAPTER XXXn 
HOW WE SET OUT FOR BURNHAM HALL 
P ETER,” said the Ancient, after we 
had gone a little way, “Peter, I do 
’opes as you aren’t been an’ gone an’ 
rose my Prue’s ’opes only to dash ’em 
down again.” 
“I can but do my best, Ancient.” 
“Old Un,” said Simon, “’t weren’t 
Peter as rose ’er ’opes, ’t were you; Peter 
never said nowt about bringin’ Jarge 
’ome—” 
“Simon,” commanded the Ancient, 
“hold thy tongue. I says again, if Peter’s 
been an’ rose Prue’s ’opes only to dash 
’em’t will be a bad day for Prue, you mark 
my words; Prue’s a lass as don’t love 
easy, an’ don’t forget easy.” 
(Continued on page 4S5) 
