542 
American Agriculturist, June 7, 1924 
The Broad High W ciy— By Jeffery Farnol 
C For synopsis of preceding installments, sec. page 543) 
“ OTAND back, you chaps,” he growled. 
^ “Stand back—or I'll 'urt some on 
ye.” And then, turning to me, “What 
be the matter wi’ the fools, Peter?” 
“Matter?” cried the Postilion; “mur¬ 
der be the matter—my master be mur¬ 
dered—an’ there stands the man as 
done it!” 
“Murder?” cried George, in an altered 
voice. Now, as he spoke, the crowd 
parted, and four ostlers appeared, bearing 
a hurdle between them, and on the hurdle 
lay an elegant figure whose head and face 
were still muffled in my neckerchief. I saw 
George start, and his glance came round 
to my bare throat, and dismay was in his 
eyes. 
“Peter—?” he murmured; then he 
laughed suddenly and clapped his hand 
down upon my shoulder. “Look ’ee, you 
chaps,” he cried, facing the crowd, “this 
is my friend, an honest man and no mur¬ 
derer; this is my friend as I’d go bail for 
wi’ my life to be a true man; speak up, 
Peter, an’ tell ’em as you ’m an honest 
man an’ no murderer.” But I shook my 
head. 
“Not here, George,” I answered; “it 
would be of no avail—besides, I can say 
nothing to clear myself.” 
“Nothin’, Peter?” 
“Nothing, George. This man was shot 
and killed in the Hollow—I found him 
lying dead—I found the empty pistol, and 
the Postilion, yonder, found me standing 
over the body. That is all I have to tell.” 
“Peter,” said he, speaking hurriedly be¬ 
neath his breath, “oh, Peter!—let’s run 
for it—’twould be main easy for the likes 
o’ you an’ me—” 
“No, George,” I answered; “it would 
be worse than useless. But one thing 
I do ask of you—and it is, that you will 
bid me good-by, and—take my hand once 
more, George—before all these that look 
upon me as a murderer.” 
Before I had finished he had my hand 
in both of his—nay, had thrown one 
great arm protectingly about me. 
“Why, Peter—” he began, in a 
strangely cracked voice, “never think as 
I’d believe their lies, an’—such fighters as 
you an’ me!—-let’s make a bolt for it—I 
want to hit somebody! They’d go over 
like skittles—like skittles, Peter—” 
The crowd surged, opened, and a man 
on horseback pushed his way toward me. 
Rough hands were now laid upon me; 
I saw George’s fist raised threateningly, 
but caught it in my grasp. 
“Good-by,” said I; “good-by, George, 
and don’t look so downcast, man.” But 
we were forced apart, and I was pushed 
and pulled and hustled ^iway, along pan¬ 
elled passageways, and into a long, dim 
room, where sat the gentleman I had seen 
on the horse, to whom I delivered up the 
pistol, and answered divers questions as 
well as I might and by whom, after much 
jotting of notes. I was delivered over to 
four burly fellows, who, with a grip much 
tighter than was necessary, once more led 
me out into the moonlit street, where 
were people who pressed forward to stare 
into my face, and people who leaned out of 
windows to stare down upon my head, and 
many more who followed at my heels. 
And thus, in much estate, I ascended 
a flight of worn stone steps into the 
churchyard, and so—by a way of tombs 
and graves—came at’ last to the great 
square church-tower, into which I was 
incontinently thrust, and there very 
securely locked up. 
CHAPTER XLIV 
THE BOW STREET RUNNERS 
TT was toward evening of the next day 
-*■ that the door of my prison was opened, 
and two men entered. The first was a tall, 
cadaverous-looking individual of a mel¬ 
ancholy cast of feature, who was wrapped 
in a long coat reaching almost to his heels, 
from the pocket of which projected a short 
staff, or truncheon. He came forward 
with his hands in his pockets, looking at 
me under the brim of a somewhat 
weather-beaten hat—that is to say, he 
looked at my feet and my hands and my 
throat and my chin, but never seemed to 
get any higher. 
His companion, on the contrary, bus¬ 
tled forward, and, tapping me familiarly 
on the shoulder, looked me over with a 
bright, appraising eye. 
“S’elp me, Jeremy!” said he, addressing 
his saturnine friend, “s’elp me, if I ever see 
a pore misfort’nate cove more to my mind 
an’ fancy—nice an’ tall an’ straight¬ 
legged—a five-foot drop now—or say 
five foot six, an’ ’e ’ll go off as sweet as a 
bird; ah! you’ll never feel it, my covey— 
a leetle tightish round the windpipe, 
p’r'aps—but. Lord, it’s soon over.” 
Here he produced from the depths of a 
capacious pocket something that glit¬ 
tered beneath his agile fingers. “And ’ow 
might be your general ’ealth, young 
cove?” he went on affably, “bobbish, I 
’ope—fair an’ bobbish?” As he spoke, 
with a sudden, dexterous motion, he had 
snapped something upon m3 7 wrists, so 
quickly that, at the contact of the cold 
steel, I started, and as I did so, some¬ 
thing jingled faintly. 
“There!” he exclaimed, clapping me on 
the shoulder again, but at the same time 
casting a sharp glance at my shackled 
wrists—“there—now we’re all ’appy an’ 
comfortable! I see as you're a cove as 
takes things nice an’ quiet. Lord!—the 
way 7 I've seen misfort’nate coves take on 
at sight o’ them ‘bracelets’ is something 
out-rageous!” 
“Ain’t we never a-goin’ to start?” in¬ 
quired Jeremy, staring out of the window. 
“And where,” said I, “where might 3 T ou 
be taking me?” 
“ Why, since you ax, m3 7 cove3 7 , we’m 
a-takin’ 3 T ou where 3 7 ou’ll be took good 
care on, and ’ave justice done on you. 
Though, to be sure, I'm sorry 7 to take you 
from such proper quarters as these ’ere— 
nice and airy 7 —eh, Jeremy 7 ?” 
“Ah!—an’ wi’ a fine view o’ the 
graves!” growled Jeremy, leading the 
way 7 out. 
I N the street stood a chaise and four, 
surrounded by a pushing, jostling 
throng of men, women, and children, who, 
catching sight of me between the Bow 
Street Runners, stared at me with ever3 r 
e3 7 e they possessed, until I was hidden in 
the chaise. 
“Right away!” growled Jeremy 7 , shut¬ 
ting the door with a bang. 
“Whoa!” roared a voice, and a great, 
shaggy golden head was thrust in at the 
window, and a hand reached down and 
grasped mine. 
“A pipe an’ ’baccy, Peter—from me; a 
flask o’ rum—Simon’s best, from Simon; 
an’ chicken sang-widges, from m3 7 Prue.” 
This as he passed in each article through 
the window. “There were a lot more, but 
I’ve forgot it all, only, Peter, me an’ 
Simon be goin’ to get a lawyer chap for 
’ee, an’—oh, man, Peter, say the word, 
an’ I’ll have ’ee out o’ this in a twinklin’— 
an’ we’ll run for it—” 
But, even as I shook m3 7 head, the 
postboy’s whip cracked, and the horses 
plunged forward. 
“Good-by, George!” I cried; “good-by, 
dear fellow!” and the last I saw of him 
was as he stood rubbing his tears away 
with one fist and shaking the other after 
the chaise. 
CHAPTER XLV 
WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF, AMONG OTHER 
MATTERS, WITH THE BOOTS OF THE SATUR¬ 
NINE JEREMY 
A BOTTLE o’ rum!” said the man 
Bob, and he removed the cork, took 
a gulp, and handed it over to his com¬ 
panion, who also sniffed at, and tasted it. 
“And what d’3 7 e make o’ that, Jeremy?” 
“Tasted better afore now!” growled 
Jerem3 7 , and immediately took another 
pull. 
“Sang-widges, too!” pursued the man 
Bob, “an’ I always was partial to 
chicken!” and forthwith he helped him¬ 
self, and his companion also. 
“I’ve eat wuss!” rumbled Jeremy, 
munching. 
“Young cove, the3 7 does you credit,” 
said the man Bob, nodding to me with 
great urbanity, “great credit—there ain’t 
many misfort’nates as can per-jooce such 
sang-widges as them—’old ’ard there, 
Jeremy—■” But, indeed, the sandwiches 
were already only a memory, wherefore 
his brow grew black, and he glared at the 
still munching Jeremy. 
“A pipe and ’bacca!” mused the man 
Bob, after we had ridden some while in 
silence, and, with the same serene uncon¬ 
sciousness, he took the pipe, filled it, 
lighted it, and puffed with an air of 
dreamy content. 
“Jeremy is a good-ish sort,” he began, 
with a complacent flourish of the pipe, 
“but cross-grained—and ’cause why?— 
’cause ’e don’t smoke—(go eas3 7 wi’ the 
rum, Jeremy!) there’s nothin’ like a pipe 
o’ ’bacca to soothe such things away 7 — 
(I got m3 7 eye on 3 7 e, Jeremy!)—no, there’s 
nothin’ like a pipe o’ ’bacca.” 
Jerem3 7 growled, held up the bottle to 
the failing light of evening, and extended 
it unwilling^ 7 toward his comrade’s hand; 
but at that instant, the chaise lurched 
violently 7 —there was a cry 7 , a splintering 
of glass, a crash, and I was tying, half- 
stunned, in a ditch, listening to the 
chorus of oaths and cries that rose from 
the cloud of dust where the frightened 
horses reared and plunged. 
All at once, I found m3 7 self upon m3 7 
feet, running down the road, for I could 
think only of escape. So I ran on, some¬ 
what unsteadity as 3 7 et, because m3 7 fall 
had been a heavy one. I heard a shout 
behind me—and a bullet sang over m3 7 
head; and then I could hear the patter 
of their feet upon the hard ground. 
Now, as I ran, m3 7 brain cleared, but 
this onty served me to appreciate the 
difficult3 7 of eluding my pursuers; more¬ 
over, the handcuffs galled m3 7 wrists, and 
the short connecting chain hampered my 
movements considerably, and I saw that, 
upon this straight lever, I must soon be 
run down, or shot from behind. 
Glancing back, I beheld them some 
hundred 3 7 ards or so, away, running with 
that long, free stride that speaks of en¬ 
durance. I increased the pace, but, when 
I glanced again, though the man Bob had 
dropped back, the saturnine Jeremy 7 ran 
on, no nearer, but no farther than before. 
Now, as I went, I presently 7 espied that 
for which I had looked—a gate set in the 
midst of the hedge, but never did a gate 
appear quite so high and insurmountable; 
with the desperation of despair, I sprang, 
swinging my arms above my head as I did 
so. M3 7 foot grazed the top bar—down 
I came, stumbled, regained my balance, 
and ran on over the springy 7 turf. I 
heard a crash behind me, a second pistol 
barked, and it seemed that a hot iron 
seared m3 7 forearm. Glancing down, I 
saw the skin cut and bleeding, but, finding 
it no worse, breathed a sigh of thankful¬ 
ness, and ran on. 
By that leap I had probably 7 gained 
some twenty 7 y r ards; I would nurse my 
strength, therefore. If I could once gain 
the woods! How far off were they?— 
half-a-mile, a mile?—well, I could run 
that easily 7 . Stay! what was that sound 
behind me? I turned my head; the man 
Jeremy 7 was within twelve y r ards of me— 
lean and spare, he ran with the long, easy 
stride of a greydiound. 
On I went, scattering flocks of scamper¬ 
ing sheep, past meditative cows who 
started up, scrambling through hedges, 
over gate and stile and ditch, with eyes 
upon the distant woods full of the purple 
gloom of evening, and, in m3 7 ears, the 
muffled thud! thud! of the pursuit. The 
woods were close now, but my breath 
was panting thick and short, my stride 
was less sure, my wrists were raw 7 and 
bleeding, and the ceaseless jingle of my 
chain maddened me. 
T HUD!—thud!—untiring, persistent- 
thud !—thud! He had gained on me in 
the last half-mile. I cast a look over my 
shoulder; I saw that he had lessened the 
distance between us by 7 half. His face 
shone w 7 ith sweat—his eyes w 7 ere staring 
and shot with blood, but he ran on with 
the same long easy 7 stride that w r as slowly 
but surety wearing me down. 
He w 7 as nearing me fast—he was close 
upon me—closer—within reach of me. 
I could hear his w 7 histling breaths, and 
then, all at once, I was down on hands 
and knees; he tried to avoid me—failed, 
and, shooting high over me, thudded 
down upon the grass. 
For a moment he lay 7 still, then, with a 
groan, he rolled over, and propping him¬ 
self on his arm, thrust a hand into his 
bosom; but I hurled myself upon him, 
and, after a brief struggle, twisted the 
pistol from his grasp, whereupon he 
groaned again. 
“Hurt?” I panted. 
“Arm broke, I think,” he growled, and 
forthwith burst out into a torrent of 
curses. 
“Does it—hurt—so much?” I panted. 
“Ah! but it—ain’t that,” he panted 
back; “it’s me—a-lettin’ of y 7 ou—w 7 ork 
off a moldy—old trick on me—” 
“But you are a great runner!” said I. 
“A great fool, y 7 ou mean, to be took in 
by a—” 
“You have a long walk back, and y T our 
arm will be painful—” 
“And serve me right for bein’ took m 
by—” 
“If you w 7 ill lend me your neckerchief, 
I think I can make your arm more com¬ 
fortable,” said I. He ceased cursing to 
stare at me, slowly 7 and awkwardly un¬ 
wound the article in question, and passed 
it to me. Thereupon, having located the 
fracture, I contrived a rough splint with a 
piece of w 7 ood tying near; which done, he 
thanked me, in a burst of profanity 7 , and 
rose. 
“ I’ve see worse coves nor y 7 ou! ” said he, 
“and one good turn desarvin’ another— 
lie snug all day 7 , and travel by night, and 
keep to the byroads—this ain’t no com- 
(Continued on page 543) 
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