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

shaking his head, “leastways—not ‘ere.”

“I’m not particular,” said I, “if you prefer, we might manage it very well in the stable with a couple of lanthorns.”

“The barn would be the very place,” suggested the landlord, bustling eagerly forward and wiping his hands on his apron, “the very place—plenty of room and nice and soft to fall on. If you would only put off your fightin’ till to-morrow, we might cry it through the villages; ‘twould be a big draw. Ecod! we might make a purse o’ twenty pound—if you only would! Think it over—think it over.”

“To-morrow I hope to be a good distance from here,” said I; “come, the sooner it is over the better, show us your barn.” So the landlord called for lanthorns and led the way to a large outbuilding at the back of the inn, into which we all trooped.

“It seems to be a good place and very suitable,” said I.

“You may well say that,” returned the landlord; “it’s many a fine bout as has been brought off in ‘ere; the time Jem Belcher beat ‘The Young Ruffian’ the Prince o’ Wales sat in a cheer over in that theer corner—ah, that was a day, if you please!”

“If Tom Cragg is ready,” said I, turning up the wristbands of my shirt, “why, so am I.” Here it was found to every one’s surprise, and mine in particular, that Tom Cragg was not in the barn. Surprise gave place to noisy astonishment when, after much running to and fro, it was further learned that he had vanished altogether. The inn itself, the stables, and even the haylofts were ransacked without avail. Tom Cragg was gone as completely as though he had melted into thin air, and with him all my hopes of winning the guinea and a comfortable bed.

It was with all my old dejection upon me, therefore, that I returned to the tap-room, and, refusing the officious aid of the One-Eyed Man, put on my coat, readjusted my knapsack and crossed to the door. On the threshold I paused, and looked back.

“If,” said I, glancing round the ring of faces, “if there is any man here who is at all willing to fight for a guinea, ten shillings, or even five, I should be very glad of the chance to earn it.” But, seeing how each, wilfully avoiding my eye, held his peace, I sighed, and turning my back upon them, set off along the darkening road.

CHAPTER VII

OF THE FURTHER PUZZLING BEHAVIOR OF TOM CRAGG, THE PUGILIST

Evening had fallen, and I walked along in no very happy frame of mind, the more so, as the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds above (through which a watery moon had peeped at fitful intervals) seemed to presage a wild night. It needed but this to make my misery the more complete, for, as far as I could tell, if I slept at all (and I was already very weary), it must, of necessity, be beneath some hedge or tree.

As I approached the brow of the hill, I suddenly remembered that I must once more pass the gibbet, and began to strain my eyes for it. Presently I spied it, sure enough, its grim, gaunt outline looming through the murk, and instinctively I quickened my stride so as to pass it as soon as might be.

I was almost abreast of it when a figure rose from beneath it and slouched into the road to meet me. I stopped there and then, and grasping my heavy staff waited its approach.

“Be that you, sir?” said a voice, and I recognized the voice of Tom Cragg.

“What are you doing—and there of all places?”

“Oh—I ain’t afeared of ‘im,” answered Cragg, jerking his thumb towards the gibbet, “I ain’t afeard o’ none as ever drawed breath—dead or livin’—except it be ‘is ‘Ighness the Prince Regent.”

“And what do you want with me?”

“I ‘opes as theer’s no offence, my lord,” said he, knuckling his forehead, and speaking in a tone that was a strange mixture of would-be comradeship and cringing servility. “Cragg is my name, an’ craggy’s my natur’, but I know when I’m beat. I knowed ye as soon as I laid my ‘peepers’ on ye, an’ if I said as it were a foul, why, when a man’s in ‘is cups, d’ye see, ‘e’s apt to shoot rayther wide o’ the gospel, d’ye see, an’ there was no offence, my lord, strike me blind! I know you, an’ you know me—Tom Cragg by name an’ craggy by—”

“But I don’t know you,” said I, “and, for that matter, neither do you know me.”

“W’y, you ain’t got no whiskers, my lord—leastways, not with you now, but—”

“And what the devil has that got to do with it?” said I angrily.

“Disguises, p’raps!” said the fellow, with a sly leer, “arter that theer kidnappin’—an’ me ‘avin’ laid out Sir Jarsper Trent, in Wych Street, accordin’ to your orders, my lord, the Prince give me word to ‘clear out’—cut an’ run for it, till it blow’d over; an’ I thought, p’raps, knowin’ as you an’ ‘im ‘ad ‘ad words, I thought as you ‘ad ‘cut stick’ too—”

“And I think—that you are manifestly drunk,” said I, “if you still wish to fight, for any sum—no matter how small—put up your hands; if not, get out of my road.” The craggy one stepped aside, somewhat hastily, which done, he removed his hat and stood staring and scratching his bullet-head as one in sore perplexity.

“I seen a many rum goes in my time,” said he, “but I never see so rummy a go as this ‘ere—strike me dead!”

So I left him, and strode on down the hill. As I went, the moon shot out a feeble ray, through some rift in the rolling clouds, and, looking back, I saw him standing where I had left him beneath the gibbet, still scratching his bullethead, and staring after me down the hill.

Now, though the whole attitude and behavior of the fellow was puzzling to no small degree, my mind was too full of my own concerns to give much thought to him indeed, scarce was he out of my sight but I forgot him altogether; for, what with my weariness, the long, dark road before and behind me, and my empty pockets, I became a prey to great dejection. So much so that I presently sank wearily beside the way, and, resting my chin in my hands, sat there, miserably enough, watching the night deepen about me.

“And yet,” said I to myself, “if, as Epictetus says—‘to despise a thing is to possess it,’ then am I rich, for I have always despised money; and if, weary as I am, I can manage to condemn the luxury of a feather bed, then tonight, lying in this grassy ditch beneath the stars, I shall slumber as sweetly as ever I did between the snowy sheets.” Saying which, I rose and began to look about for some likely nook in the hedge, where I might pass the night. I was thus engaged when I heard the creak of wheels, and the pleasant rhythmic jingle of harness on the dark hill above, and, in a little while, a great wagon or wain, piled high with hay, hove into view, the driver of which rolled loosely in his seat with every jolt of the wheels, so that it was a wonder he did not roll off altogether. As he came level with me I hailed him loudly, whereupon he started erect and brought his horses to a stand:

“Hulloa!” he bellowed, in the loud, strident tone of one rudely awakened, “w’at do ‘ee want wi’ I?”

“A lift,” I answered, “will you give a tired fellow a lift on his way?”

“W’y—I dunno—be you a talkin’ chap?”

“I don’t think so,” said I.

“Because, if you be a talkin’ chap, I beant a-goin’ to give ‘ee a lift, no’ow—not if I knows it; give a chap a lift, t’ other day, I did—took ‘im up t’ other side o’ Sevenoaks, an’ ‘e talked me up ‘ill an’ down ‘ill, ‘e did—dang me! if I could get a wink o’ sleep all the way to Tonbridge; so if you ‘m a talkin’ chap, you don’t get no lift wi’ I.”

“I am generally a very silent chap,” said I; “besides, I am too tired and sleepy to talk, even if I wished—”

“Sleepy,” yawned the man, “then up you get, my chap—I’m sleepy too—I allus am, Lord love ye! theer’s nowt like sleep—up wi’ you, my chap.” Forthwith, up I clambered and, laying myself down among the fragrant hay, stretched out my tired limbs, and sighed. Never shall I forget the delicious sense of restfulness that stole over me as I lay there upon my back, listening to the creak of the wheels, the deliberate hoof-strokes of the horses, muffled in the thick dust of the road, and the gentle snore of the driver who had promptly fallen asleep again. On we went as in borne on air, so soft was my bed, now beneath the far-flung branches of trees, sometimes so low that I could have touched them with my hand, now, beneath a sky heavy with sombre masses of flying cloud or bright with the soft radience of the moon. On I went, careless alike of destination, of time, and of future, content to lie there upon the hay, and rest. And so, lulled by the gentle movement, by the sound of wheels and harness, and the whisper of the soft wind about me, I presently fell into a most blessed sleep.

CHAPTER VIII

WHICH CONCERNS ITSELF WITH A FARMER’S WHISKERS AND A WAISTCOAT

How long I slept I have no idea, but when I opened my eyes it was to find the moon shining down on me from a cloudless heaven; the wind also had died away; it seemed my early fears of a wild night were not to be fulfilled, and for this I was sufficiently grateful. Now as I lay, blinking up to the moon, I presently noticed that we had come to a standstill and I listened expectantly for the jingle of harness and creak of the wheels to recommence. “Strange!” said I to myself, after having waited vainly some little time, and wondering what could cause the delay, I sat up and looked about me. The first object my eyes encountered was a haystack and, beyond that, another, with, a little to one side, a row of barns, and again beyond these, a great, rambling farmhouse. Evidently the wain had reached its destination, wherever that might be, and the sleepy wagoner, forgetful of my presence, had tumbled off to bed. The which I thought so excellent an example that I lay down again, and, drawing the loose hay over me, closed my eyes, and once more fell asleep.

My second awakening was gradual. I at first became conscious of a sound, rising and falling with a certain monotonous regularity, that my drowsy ears could make nothing of. Little by little, however, the sound developed itself into a somewhat mournful melody or refrain, chanted by a not unmusical voice. I yawned and, having stretched myself, sat up to look and listen. And the words of the song were these:

“When a man, who muffins cries, Cries not, when his father dies, ‘Tis a