The Broad Highway by Jeffery Farnol (hot novels to read .txt) 📕

What book is there to compare with the great Book of Life—whose pages are forever a-turning, wherein are marvels and wonders undreamed; things to weep over, and some few to laugh at, if one but has eyes in one’s head to see withal?

To walk through the whispering cornfields, or the long, green alleys of the hop-gardens with Simon, who combines innkeeping with farming, to hear him tell of fruit and flower, of bird and beast, is better than to read the Georgics of Virgil.

To sit in the sunshine and watch the Ancient, pipe in mouth, to hearken to his animadversions upon Life, and Death, and Humanity, is better than the cynical wit of Rochefoucauld, or a page out of honest old Montaigne.

To see the proud poise of sweet Prue’s averted head, and the tender look in her eyes when George is near, and the surge of the mighty chest and the tremble of the strong man’s hand at the sound of her light footfall, is more enthralling than any written romance, old or new.

In regard to these latter, I began, at this time, to contrive schemes and to plot plots for bringing them together—to bridge over the difficulty which separated them, for, being happy, I would fain see them happy also. Now, how I succeeded in this self-imposed task, the reader (if he trouble to read far enough) shall see for himself.

“George,” said I, on a certain Saturday morning, as I washed the grime from my face and hands, “are you going to the Fair this afternoon?”

“No, Peter, I aren’t.”

“But Prudence is going,” said I, drying myself vigorously upon the towel.

“And how,” inquired the smith, bending in turn above the bucket in which we performed our ablutions, “and how might you know that, Peter?”

“Because she told me so.”

“Told you so, did she?” said George, and immediately plunged his head into the bucket.

“She did,” I answered.

“And supposin’,” said George, coming up very red in the face, and with the water streaming from his sodden curls, “supposin’ she is goin’ to the Fair, what’s that to me? I don’t care wheer she comes, no, nor wheer she goes, neither!” and he shook the water from him as a dog might.

“Are you quite sure, George?”

“Ah! sartin sure. I’ve been sure of it now ever since she called me—”

“Pooh, nonsense, man! she didn’t mean it—women especially young ones—often say things they do not mean—at least, so I am given to understand.”

“Ay, but she did mean it,” said George, frowning and nodding his head; “but it ain’t that, Peter, no, it aren’t that, it’s the knowin’ as she spoke truth when she called me ‘coward,’ and despisin’ me for it in ‘er heart, that’s wheer it is, Peter.”

“Nevertheless, I’m sure she never meant it, George.”

“Then let ‘er come and tell me so.”

“I don’t think she’ll do that,” said I.

“No more do I, Peter.” Saying which, he fell to work with the towel even as I had done.

“George,” said I after a silence.

“Well, Peter?”

“Has it ever struck you that Prudence is an uncommonly handsome girl?”

“To be sure it ‘as, Peter—I were blind else.”

“And that other men may see this too?”

“Well, Peter?”

“And some one—even tell her so?” His answer was a long time coming, but come it did at last:

“Well, Peter?”

“And—ask her to marry him, George?” This time he was silent so long that I had tied my neckerchief and drawn on my coat ere he spoke, very heavily and slowly, and without looking at me.

“Why, then, Peter, let ‘im. I’ve told ‘ee afore, I don’t care wheer she comes nor wheer she goes, she bean’t nothin’ to me no more, nor I to she. If so be some man ‘as a mind to ax ‘er for ‘isself, all open an’ aboveboard, I say again—let ‘im. And now, let’s talk o’ summat else.”

“Willingly. There’s to be boxing, and single-stick, and wrestling at the Fair, I understand.”

“Ay.”

“And, they tell me, there is a famous wrestler coming all the way from Cornwall to wrestle the best man for ten guineas.”

“Ay, so there be.”

“Well?”

“Well, Peter?”

“They were talking about it at ‘The Bull’ last night—”

“‘The Bull’—to be sure—you was at ‘The Bull’ last night—well?”

“They were saying that you were a mighty wrestler, George, that you were the only man in these parts who could stand up to this Cornishman.”

“Ay, I can wrastle a bit, Peter,” he replied, speaking in the same heavy, listless manner; “what then?”

“Why then, George, get into your coat, and let’s be off.”

“Wheer to?”

“The Fair.” Black George shook his head.

“What, you won’t?”

“No, Peter.”

“And why not?”

“Because I aren’t got the mind to—because I aren’t never goin’ to wrastle no more, Peter—so theer’s an end on ‘t.” Yet, in the doorway I paused and looked back.

“George.”

“Peter?”

“Won’t you come—for friendship’s sake?”

Black George picked up his coat, looked at it, and put it down again.

“No, Peter!”

CHAPTER XXXIV

WHICH DESCRIBES SUNDRY HAPPENINGS AT THE FAIR, AND ENDS THIS FIRST BOOK

“I say, young cove, where are you a-pushing of?”

The speaker was a very tall individual whose sharp-pointed elbow had, more than once, obtruded itself into my ribs. He was extremely thin and bony, with a long, drooping nose set very much to one side, and was possessed of a remarkable pair of eyes—that is to say, one eyelid hung continually lower than the other, thus lending to his otherwise sinister face an air of droll and unexpected waggery that was quite startling to behold.

All about us were jostling throngs of men and women in snowy smock frocks, and holiday gowns, who pushed, or were pushed, laughed, or frowned, according to their several natures; while above the merry hubbub rose the blare of trumpets, the braying of horns, and the crash, and rattle of drums—in a word, I was in the middle of an English Country Fair.

“Now then, young cove,” repeated the man I have alluded to, “where are you a-pushing of? Don’t do it again, or mind your eye!” And, saying this, he glared balefully at me with one eye and leered jocosely with the other, and into my ribs came his elbow again.

“You seem to be able to do something in that way yourself,” I retorted.

“Oh—do I?”

“Yes,” said I; “suppose you take your elbow out of my waistcoat.”

“‘Elber,’” repeated the man, “what d’ye mean by ‘elber’?”

“This,” said I, catching his arm in no very gentle grip.

“If it’s a fight you’re wantin’—” began the man.

“It isn’t!” said I.

“Then leggo my arm!”

“Then keep your elbow to yourself.”

“‘Cod! I never see such a hot-headed cove!”

“Nor I a more bad-tempered one.”

This altercation had taken place as we swayed to and fro in the crowd, from which we now slowly won free, owing chiefly to the dexterous use of the man’s bony elbows, until we presently found ourselves in a veritable jungle of carts and wagons of all kinds and sorts, where we stopped, facing each other.

“I’m inclined to think, young cove, as you’d be short-tempered if you been shied at by your feller-man from your youth up,” said the man.

“What do you mean by ‘shied at’?”

“What I sez!—some perfessions is easy, and some is ‘ard—like mine.”

“And what is yours?”

“I’m a perfessional Sambo.”

“A what?”

“Well—a ‘Nigger-head’ then,—blacks my face—sticks my ‘ead through a ‘ole, and lets ‘em shy at me—three shies a penny—them as ‘its me gets a cigar—a big ‘un—them as don’t—don’t!”

“Yours is a very unpleasant profession,” said I.

“A man must live!”

“But,” said I, “supposing you get hit?”

“Them as ‘its me gets a cigar!”

“Doesn’t it hurt you?”

“Oh! you gets used to it—though, to be sure, they don’t ‘it me very often, or it would be a loss; cigars is expensive—leastways they costs money.”

“But surely a wooden image would serve your turn just as well.”

“A wooden image!” exclaimed the man disgustedly. “James!—you must be a fool, you must! Who wants to throw at a wooden image —you can’t ‘urt a wooden image, can you—if you throwed ‘eavens ‘ard at a wooden image that there wooden image wouldn’t flinch, would it? When a man throws at anything ‘e likes to ‘it it —that’s ‘uman—and when ‘e ‘its it ‘e likes to see it flinch —that’s ‘uman too, and when it flinches, why—‘e rubs ‘is ‘ands, and takes another shot—and that’s the ‘umanest of all. So you see, young cove, you’re a fool with your wooden image.”

Now, as he ended, I stooped, very suddenly, and caught hold of his wrist—and then I saw that he held my purse in his hand. It was a large hand with bony knuckles, and very long fingers, upon one of which was a battered ring. He attempted, at first, to free himself of my grip, but, finding this useless, stood glowering at me with one eye and leering with the other.

“Ha!” said I.

“Hallo!” said he.

“A purse!” said I.

“Why, so it is,” he nodded; leastways, it looks uncommonly like one, don’t it?”

“What’s more, it looks like mine!”

“Does it?”

“I could swear to it anywhere.”

“Could you?”

“I could.”

“Then p’r’aps you’d better take it, young cove, and very welcome, I’m sure.”

“So you’ve been picking my pocket!” said I.

“Never picked a pocket in my life—should scorn to.”

I put away my recovered property, and straightway shifted my grip to the fellow’s collar.

“Now,” said I, “come on.”

“Why, what are you a-doing of?”

“What does one generally do with a pickpocket?”

But I had hardly uttered the words when, with a sudden cunning twist, he broke my hold, and, my foot catching in a guy-rope, I tripped, and fell heavily, and ere I could rise he had made good his escape. I got to my feet, somewhat shaken by the fall, yet congratulating myself on the recovery of my purse, and, threading my way among the tents, was soon back among the crowd. Here were circuses and shows of all kinds, where one might behold divers strange beasts, the usual Fat Women and Skeleton Men (who ever heard of the order being reversed?); and before the shows were fellows variously attired, but each being purplish of visage, and each possessing the lungs of a Stentor—more especially one, a round-bellied, bottle-nosed fellow in a white hat, who alternately roared and beat upon a drum—a red-haired man he was, with a fiery eye, which eye, chancing to single me out in the crowd, fixed itself pertinaciously upon me, thenceforth, so that he seemed to address himself exclusively to me, thus:

“O my stars! [young man].” (Bang goes the drum.) “The wonderful wild, ‘airy, and savage man from Bonhoola, as eats snakes alive, and dresses hisself in sheeny serpents! O my eye! step up! [young man].” (Bang!) “Likewise the ass-tonishin’ and beautiful Lady Paulinolotti, as will swaller swords, sabres, bay’nets, also chewin’ up glass, and bottles quicker than you can wink [young man].” (Bang!) “Not to mention Catamaplasus, the Fire Fiend, what burns hisself with red-hot irons, and likes it,