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Title: The Broad Highway
Author: Jeffery Farnol
Release Date: March, 2004 [EBook #5257] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on June 16, 2002]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BROAD HIGHWAY ***Etext prepared by Polly Stratton and Andrew Sly
The Broad Highway
by Jeffery Farnol
To Shirley Byron Jevons The friend of my boyish ambitions This book is dedicated As a mark of my gratitude, affection and esteem
J. F.
ANTE SCRIPTUM
As I sat of an early summer morning in the shade of a tree, eating fried bacon with a tinker, the thought came to me that I might some day write a book of my own: a book that should treat of the roads and by-roads, of trees, and wind in lonely places, of rapid brooks and lazy streams, of the glory of dawn, the glow of evening, and the purple solitude of night; a book of wayside inns and sequestered taverns; a book of country things and ways and people. And the thought pleased me much.
âBut,â objected the Tinker, for I had spoken my thought aloud, âtrees and suchlike donât sound very interestinââleastwaysânot in a book, for after all a treeâs only a tree and an inn, an inn; no, you must tell of other things as well.â
âYes,â said I, a little damped, âto be sure there is a highwaymanââ
âCome, thatâs better!â said the Tinker encouragingly.
âThen,â I went on, ticking off each item on my fingers, âcome Tom Cragg, the pugilistââ
âBetter and better!â nodded the Tinker.
ââa one-legged soldier of the Peninsula, an adventure at a lonely tavern, a flight through woods at midnight pursued by desperate villains, andâa most extraordinary tinker. So far so good, I think, and it all sounds adventurous enough.â
âWhat!â cried the Tinker. âWould you put me in your book then?â
âAssuredly.â
âWhy then,â said the Tinker, âitâs true I mends kettles, sharpens scissors and such, but I likewise peddles books anâ nov-els, anâ whatâs more I reads âemâso, if you must put me in your book, you might call me a literary cove.â
âA literary cove?â said I.
âAh!â said the Tinker, âit sounds betterâa sight betterâbesides, I never read a nov-el with a tinker in it as I remember; theyâre generally dooks, or earls, or barronitesânobody wants to read about a tinker.â
âThat all depends,â said I; âa tinker may be much more interesting than an earl or even a duke.â
The Tinker examined the piece of bacon upon his knifepoint with a cold and disparaging eye.
âIâve read a good many nov-els in my time,â said he, shaking his head, âand I knows what Iâm talking of;â here he bolted the morsel of bacon with much apparent relish. âIâve made love to duchesses, run off with heiresses, and fought dooelsâah! by the hundredâall between the covers of some book or other and enjoyed it uncommonly wellâespecially the dooels. If you can get a little blood into your book, so much the better; thereâs nothing like a little blood in a bookânot a great deal, but just enough to give it a âtang,â so to speak; if you could kill your highwayman to start with it would be a very good beginning to your story.â
âI could do that, certainly,â said I, âbut it would not be according to fact.â
âSo much the better,â said the Tinker; âwho wants facts in a nov-el?â
âHum!â said I.
âAnd then againââ
âWhat more?â I inquired.
âLove!â said the Tinker, wiping his knife-blade on the leg of his breeches.
âLove?â I repeated.
âAnd plenty of it,â said the Tinker.
âIâm afraid that is impossible,â said I, after a momentâs thought.
âHow impossible?â
Because I know nothing about love.â
âThatâs a pity,â said the Tinker.
âUnder the circumstances, it is,â said I.
âNot a doubt of it,â said the Tinker, beginning to scrub out the frying-pan with a handful of grass, âthough to be sure you might learn; youâre young enough.â
âYes, I might learn,â said I; âwho knows?â
âAh! who knows?â said the Tinker. And after he had cleansed the pan to his satisfaction, he turned to me with dexter finger upraised and brow of heavy portent. âYoung fellow,â said he, âno man can write a good nov-el without he knows summat about love, it arenât to be expectedâso the sooner you do learn, the better.â
âHum!â said I.
âAnd then, as I said afore and I say it again, they wants love in a book nowadays, and wotâs more they will have it.â
âThey?â said I.
âThe folk as will read your bookâafter it is written.â
âAh! to be sure,â said I, somewhat taken aback; âI had forgotten them.â
âForgotten them?â repeated the Tinker, staring.
âForgotten that people might went to read itâafter it is written.â
âBut,â said the Tinker, rubbing his nose hard, âbooks are written for people to read, arenât they?â
âNot always,â said I.
Hereupon the Tinker rubbed his nose harder than ever.
âMany of the worldâs greatest books, those masterpieces which have lived and shall live on forever, were written (as I believe) for the pure love of writing them.â
âOh!â said the Tinker.
âYes,â said I, warming to my theme, âand with little or no idea of the eyes of those unborn generations which were to read and marvel at them; hence it is we get those sublime thoughts untrammelled by passing tastes and fashions, unbounded by narrow creed or popular prejudice.â
âAh?â said the Tinker.
âMany a great writer has been spoiled by fashion and success, for, so soon as he begins to think upon his public, how best to please and hold their fancy (which is ever the most fickle of mundane things) straightway Genius spreads abroad his pinions and leaves him in the mire.â
âPoor cove!â said the Tinker. âYoung man, you smile, I think?â
âNo,â said I.
âWell, supposing a writer never had no genâusâhow then?â
âWhy then,â said I, âhe should never dare to write at all.â
âYoung fellow,â said the Tinker, glancing at me from the corners of his eyes, âare you sure you are a genâus then?â
Now when my companion said this I fell silent, for the very sufficient reason that I found nothing to say.
âLord love you!â said he at last, seeing me thus âhippedâââdonât be downheartedâdonât be dashed afore you begin; we canât all be genâusesâit arenât to be expected, but some on us is a good deal better than most and thatâs something arter all. As for your book, wot you have to do is to give âem a little blood now and then with plenty of love and you canât go far wrong!â
Now whether the Tinkerâs theory for the writing of a good novel be right or wrong, I will not presume to say. But in this book that lies before you, though you shall read, if you choose, of country things and ways and people, yet, because that part of my life herein recorded was a something hard, rough life, you shall read also of blood; and, because I came, in the end, to love very greatly, so shall you read of love.
Wherefore, then, I am emboldened to hope that when you shall have turned the last page and closed this book, you shall do so with a sigh.
P. V.LONDON.
BOOK ONE
CHAPTER I
CHIEFLY CONCERNING MY UNCLEâS LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
ââAnd to my nephew, Maurice Vibart, I bequeath the sum of twenty thousand pounds in the fervent hope that it may help him to the devil within the year, or as soon after as may be.ââ
Here Mr. Grainger paused in his reading to glance up over the rim of his spectacles, while Sir Richard lay back in his chair and laughed loudly. âGad!â he exclaimed, still chuckling, âIâd give a hundred pounds if he could have been present to hear that,â and the baronet went off into another roar of merriment.
Mr. Grainger, on the other hand, dignified and solemn, coughed a short, dry cough behind his hand.
âHelp him to the devil within the year,â repeated Sir Richard, still chuckling.
âPray proceed, sir,â said I, motioning towards the willâŠ. But instead of complying, Mr. Grainger laid down the parchment, and removing his spectacles, began to polish them with a large silk handkerchief.
âYou are, I believe, unacquainted with your cousin, Sir Maurice Vibart?â he inquired.
âI have never seen him,â said I; âall my life has been passed either at school or the university, but I have frequently heard mention of him, nevertheless.â
âEgad!â cried Sir Richard, âwho hasnât heard of Buck Vibartâbeat Ted Jarraway of Swansea in five roundsâdrove coach and four down Whitehallâon sidewalkâran away with a French marquise while but a boy of twenty, and shot her husband into the bargain. Devilish celebrated figure in âsporting circles,â friend of the Prince Regentââ
âSo I understand,â said I.
âAltogether as complete a young blackguard as ever swaggered down St. Jamesâs.â Having said which, Sir Richard crossed his legs and inhaled a pinch of snuff.
âTwenty thousand pounds is a very handsome sum,â remarked Mr. Grainger ponderously and as though more with the intention of saying something rather than remain silent just then.
âIndeed it is,â said I, âand might help a man to the devil as comfortably as need be, butââ
âThough,â pursued Mr. Grainger, âmuch below his expectations and sadly inadequate to his present needs, I fear.â
âThat is most unfortunate,â said I, âbutââ
âHis debts,â said Mr. Grainger, busy at his spectacles again, âhis debts are very heavy, I believe.â
âThen doubtless some arrangement can be made toâbut continue your reading, I beg,â said I.
Mr. Grainger repeated his short, dry cough and taking up the will, slowly and almost as though unwillingly, cleared his throat and began as follows:
ââFurthermore,
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