The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (ebook reader with highlight function TXT) 📖

took a fresh grip upon the hammer-shaft, twirled it lightly above his head, swung it once, twice, thrice—and let it go.

With a shout, Job and two or three others ran down the road to mark where it had fallen, and presently returned, pacing out the distance.

“Fifty-nine!” they announced.

“Can ‘ee beat that?” inquired Black George complacently.

“I think I can,” I answered as, taking up the hammer, I, in turn, stepped into the ring. Gripping the shaft firmly, I whirled it aloft, and began to swing it swifter and swifter, gaining greater impetus every moment, till, like a flash, it flew from my grasp. Panting, I watched it rise, rise, rise, and then plunge down to earth in a smother of dust.

“‘E’ve beat it!” cried the Ancient, flourishing his stick excitedly. “Lord love me, ‘e’ve beat it!”

“Ay, ‘e’ve beat it, sure-ly,” said a man who carried a rake that was forever getting in everybody’s way.

“An’ by a goodish bit to!” shouted another.

“Ah! but Jarge aren’t got ‘is arm in yet,” retorted a third; “Jarge can do better nor that by a long sight!”

But now all voices were hushed as Job paced up.

“Eighty-two!” he announced. Black George looked hard at me, but, without speaking, stepped sulkily into the ring, moistened his palms, looked at me again, and seizing the hammer, began to whirl it as he had seen me. Round and round it went, faster and faster, till, with a sudden lurch, he hurled it up and away. Indeed it was a mighty throw! Straight and strong it flew, describing a wide parabola ere it thudded into the road.

The excitement now waxed high, and many started off to measure the distance for themselves, shouting one to another as they went. As for the smith, he stood beside me, whistling, and I saw that the twinkle was back in his eyes again.

“One hunner and twenty!” cried half-a-dozen voices.

“And a half,” corrected Job, thrusting the hammer into my hand, and grinning.

“Can ‘ee beat that?” inquired Black George again.

“Ay, can ‘ee beat that?” echoed the crowd.

“It was a marvellous throw!” said I, shaking my head. And indeed, in my heart I knew I could never hope to equal, much less beat, such a mighty cast. I therefore decided on strategy, and, with this in mind, proceeded, in a leisurely fashion, once more to mark out the circle, which was obliterated in places, to flatten the surface underfoot, to roll up my sleeves, and tighten my belt; in fine, I observed all such precautions as a man might be expected to take before some supreme effort.

At length, having done everything I could think of to impress this idea upon the onlookers, I took up the hammer.

“Means to do it this time!” cried the man with the rake; knocking off Job’s hat in his excitement, as, with a tremendous swing, I made my second throw. There was a moment’s breathless silence as the hammer hurtled through the air, then, like an echo to its fall, came a shout of laughter, for the distance was palpably far short of the giant smith’s last. A moment later Job came pacing up, and announced:

“Eighty-seven!” Hereupon arose a very babel of voices:

“You’ve got un beat a’ready, Jarge!”

“Well, I knowed it from the start!”

“Let un alone,” cried Simon, “‘e’ve got another chance yet.”

“Much good it’ll do ‘im!”

“Ah! might as well give in now, and take ‘is thrashin’ and ha’ done wi’ it.”

That my ruse had succeeded with the crowd was evident; they—to a man—believed I had done my best, and already regarded me as hopelessly beaten. My chance of winning depended upon whether the smith, deluded into a like belief, should content himself with just beating my last throw, for, should he again exert his mighty strength to the uttermost, I felt that my case was indeed hopeless.

It was with a beating heart, therefore, that I watched him take his place for the last throw. His face wore a confident smile, but nevertheless he took up the hammer with such a businesslike air that my heart sank, and, feeling a touch upon my arm, I was glad to turn away. “I be goin’ to fetch a sponge and water,” said Simon.

“A sponge and water!”

“Ah! Likewise some vinegar—theer’s nothin’ like ‘vinegar—and remember—the chin, a little to one side preferred.”

“So then you think I shall be beaten?”

“Why, I don’t say that, but it’s best to be prepared, aren’t it now?”

And, with a friendly nod, the Innkeeper turned away. In that same minute there arose another shout from the crowd as they greeted Black George’s last throw, and Job, striding up, announced:

“Ninety-eight!”

Then, while the air still echoed with their plaudits, I stepped into the ring, and, catching up the hammer, swung it high above my head, and, at the full length of my arms, began to wheel it. The iron spun faster and faster till, setting my teeth, with the whole force of every fibre, every nerve, and muscle of my body, I let it fly.

The blood was throbbing at my temples and my breath coming fast as I watched its curving flight. And now all voices were hushed so that the ring of the iron could be plainly heard as it struck the hard road, and all eyes watched Job, as he began pacing towards us. As he drew nearer I could hear him counting to himself, thus:

“Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four, ninety-five, ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one hundred and one, one hundred and two—one hundred and two!”

Next moment, as it seemed to me, an inarticulate Ancient was desperately trying to force me into my coat, wrong side first, and Simon was shaking my hand.

“You tricked me!” cried a voice, and turning, I found Black George confronting me, with clenched fists.

“And how did I trick you?”

“I could ha’ chucked farther nor that.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because I thought you was beat. I say you tricked me.”

“And I tell you the match was a fair one from start to finish!”

“Put up your hands!” said the smith, advancing in a threatening manner.

“No,” said I, “a bargain is a bargain,” and turning my back upon him, I fell to watching the man with the rake, who, not content with Job’s word, was busily pacing out the distance for himself.

“Put up your hands!” repeated Black George hoarsely.

“For the last time, no,” said I over my shoulder. “Strike me if you will,” I went on, seeing him raise his fist, “I shall not defend myself, but I tell you this, Black George, the first blow you strike will brand you coward, and no honest man.”

“Coward, is it?” cried he, and, with the word, had seized me in a grip that crushed my flesh, and nigh swung me off my feet; “coward is it?” he repeated.

“Yes,” said I, “none but a coward would attack an unresisting man.” So, for a full minute we stood thus, staring into each other’s eyes, and once again I saw the hairs of his golden beard curl up, and outwards.

What would have been the end I cannot say, but there came upon the stillness the sound of flying footsteps, the crowd was burst asunder, and a girl stood before us, a tall, handsome girl with raven hair, and great, flashing black eyes.

“Oh!—you, Jarge, think shame on yourself—think shame on yourself, Black Jarge. Look!” she cried, pointing a finger at him, “look at the great, strong man—as is a coward!”

I felt the smith’s grip relax, his arms dropped to his sides, while a deep, red glow crept up his cheeks till it was lost in the clustering curls of gleaming, yellow hair.

“Why, Prue—” he began, in a strangely altered voice, and stopped. The fire was gone from his eyes as they rested upon her, and he made a movement as though he would have reached out his hand to her, but checked himself.

“Why, Prue—” he said again, but choked suddenly, and, turning away, strode back towards his forge without another word. On he went, looking neither to right nor left, and I thought there was something infinitely woebegone and pitiful in the droop of his head.

Now as I looked from his forlorn figure to the beautiful, flushed face of the girl, I saw her eyes grow wonderfully soft and sweet, and brim over with tears. And, when Black George had betaken himself back to his smithy, she also turned, and, crossing swiftly to the inn, vanished through its open doorway.

“She ‘ve a fine sperrit, ‘ave that darter o’ yourn, Simon, a fine sperrit. Oh! a fine sperrit as ever was!” chuckled the Ancient.

“Prue aren’t afeard o’ Black Jarge—never was,” returned Simon; “she can manage un—allus could; you’ll mind she could allus tame Black Jarge wi’ a look, Gaffer.”

“Ah! she ‘m a gran’darter to be proud on, be Prue,” nodded the Ancient, “an’ proud I be to!”

“What,” said I, “is she your daughter, Simon?”

“Ay, for sure.”

“And your granddaughter, Ancient?”

“Ay, that she be, that she be.”

“Why, then, Simon must be your son.”

“Son as ever was!” nodded the old man, “and a goodish son ‘e be to—oh, I’ve seen worse.”

“And now,” added Simon, “come in, and you shall taste as fine a jug of ale as there be in all Kent.”

“Wait,” said the old man, laying his hand upon my arm, “I’ve took to you, young chap, took to you amazin’; what might your name be?”

“Peter,” I answered.

“A good name, a fine name,” nodded the old man.

“Peter—Simon,” said he, glancing from one to the other of us. “Simon—Peter; minds me o’ the disciple of our blessed Lord, it du; a fine name be Peter.”

So Peter I became to him thenceforth, and to the whole village.

CHAPTER XXVI

WHEREIN I LEARN MORE CONCERNING THE GHOST OF THE RUINED HUT

And after the Ancient and Simon and I had, very creditably, emptied the jug between us, I rose to depart.

“Peter,” said the Ancient, “wheer be goin’?”

“Home!” said I.

“And wheer be that?”

“The cottage in the Hollow,” said I.

“What—th’ ‘aunted cottage?” he cried, staring.

“Yes,” I nodded; “from what I saw of it, I think, with a little repairing, it might suit me very well.”

“But the ghost?” cried the old man; “have ye forgot the ghost?”

“Why, I never heard of a ghost really harming any one yet,” I answered.

“Peter,” said Simon, quietly, “I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that. I wouldn’t go a-nigh the place, myself; once is enough for me.”

“Simon,” said I, “what do you mean by ‘once’?”

Now when I asked him this, Simon breathed hard, and shuffled uneasily in his chair.

“I mean, Peter, as I’ve heerd un,” he replied slowly.

“Heard him!” I repeated incredulously; “you? Are you sure?”

“Sure as death, Peter. I’ve heerd un a-shriekin’ and a-groanin’ to ‘isself, same as Gaffer ‘as, and lots of others. Why, Lord bless ‘ee! theer be scarce a man in these parts but ‘as ‘eerd um one time or another.”

“Ay—I’ve ‘eerd un, and seen un tu!” croaked the Ancient excitedly. “A gert, tall think ‘e be, wi’ a ‘orn on ‘is ‘ead, and likewise a tail; some might ha’ thought ‘t was the Wanderin’ Man o’ the Roads as I found ‘angin’ on t’