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

“Well, but it’s an old custom, as old as this here road.”

“True,” said I, “and that of itself but proves my argument, for men have been hanged and gibbeted all these years, yet robbery and murder abide with us still, and are of daily occurrence.”

“Why, as to that, sir,” said the man, falling into step beside me as I walked on down the hill, “I won’t say yes and I won’t say no, but what I do say is—as many a man might think twice afore running the chance of coming to that—look!” And he stopped to turn, and point back at the gibbet with his stick. “Nick can’t last much longer, though I’ve know’d ‘em hang a good time—but they made a botch of Nick—not enough tar; you can see where the sun catches him there!”

Once more, though my whole being revolted at the sight, I must needs turn to look at the thing—the tall, black shaft of the gibbet, and the grisly horror that dangled beneath with its chains and iron bands; and from this, back again to my companion, to find him regarding me with a curiously twisted smile, and a long-barrelled pistol held within a foot of my head.

“Well?” said I, staring.

“Sir,” said he, tapping his boot with his stick,” I must trouble you for the shiner I see a-winking at me from your cravat, likewise your watch and any small change you may have.”

For a moment I hesitated, glancing from his grinning mouth swiftly over the deserted road, and back again.

“Likewise,” said the fellow, “I must ask you to be sharp about it.” It was with singularly clumsy fingers that I drew the watch from my fob and the pin from my cravat, and passed them to him.

“Now your pockets,” he suggested, “turn ‘em out.”

This command I reluctantly obeyed, bringing to light my ten guineas, which were as yet intact, and which he pocketed forthwith, and two pennies—which he bade me keep.

“For,” said he, “‘t will buy you a draught of ale, sir, and there’s good stuff to be had at ‘The White Hart’ yonder, and there’s nothin’ like a draught of good ale to comfort a man in any such small adversity like this here. As to that knapsack now,” he pursued, eyeing it thoughtfully, “it looks heavy and might hold valleybels, but then, on the other hand, it might not, and those there straps takes time to unbuckle and—” He broke off suddenly, for from somewhere on the hill below us came the unmistakable sound of wheels. Hereupon the fellow very nimbly ran across the road, turned, nodded, and vanished among the trees and underbrush that clothed the steep slope down to the valley below.

CHAPTER V

THE BAGMAN

I was yet standing there, half stunned by my loss and the suddenness of it all, when a tilbury came slowly round a bend in the road, the driver of which nodded lazily in his seat while his horse, a sorry, jaded animal, plodded wearily up the steep slope of the hill. As he approached I hailed him loudly, upon which he suddenly dived down between his knees and produced a brass-bound blunderbuss.

“What’s to do?” cried he, a thick-set, round-faced fellow, “what’s to do, eh?” and he covered me with the wide mouth of the blunderbuss.

“Thieves!” said I, “I’ve been robbed, and not three minutes since.”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, in a tone of great relief, and with the color returning to his plump cheeks, “is that the way of it?”

“It is,” said I, “and a very bad way; the fellow has left me but twopence in the world.”

“Twopence—ah?”

“Come,” I went on, “you are armed, I see; the thief took to the brushwood, here, not three minutes ago; we may catch him yet—”

“Catch him?” repeated the fellow, staring.

“Yes, don’t I tell you he has stolen all the money I possess?”

“Except twopence,” said the fellow.

“Yes—”

“Well, twopence ain’t to be sneezed at, and if I was you—”

“Come, we’re losing time,” said I, cutting him short.

“But—my mare, what about my mare?”

“She’ll stand,” I answered; “she’s tired enough.”

The Bagman, for such I took him to be, sighed, and, blunderbuss in hand, prepared to alight, but, in the act of doing so, paused:

“Was the rascal armed?” he inquired, over his shoulder

“To be sure he was,” said I.

The Bagman got back into his seat and took up the reins.

“What now?” I inquired.

“It’s this accursed mare of mine,” he answered; “she’ll bolt again, d’ye see—twice yesterday and once the day before, she bolted, sir, and on a road like this—”

“Then lend me your blunderbuss.”

“I can’t do that,” he replied, shaking his head.

“But why not?” said I impatiently.

“Because this is a dangerous road, and I don’t intend to be left unarmed on a dangerous road; I never have been and I never will, and there’s an end of it, d’ye see!”

“Then do you mean to say that you refuse your aid to a fellow-traveler—that you will sit there and let the rogue get away with all the money I possess in the world—”

“Oh, no; not on no account; just you get up here beside me and we’ll drive to ‘The White Hart.’ I’m well known at ‘The White Hart;’ we’ll get a few honest fellows at our heels and have this thieving, rascally villain in the twinkling of an—” He stopped suddenly, made a frantic clutch at his blunderbuss, and sat staring. Turning short round, I saw the man in the beaver hat standing within a yard of us, fingering his long pistol and with the same twisted smile upon his lips.

“I’ve a mind,” said he, nodding his head at the Bagman, “I’ve a great mind to blow your face off.”

The blunderbuss fell to the roadway, with a clatter.

“Thievin’, rascally villain—was it? Damme! I think I will blow your face off.”

“No—don’t do—that,” said the Bagman, in a strange, jerky voice, “what ‘ud be—the good?”

“Why, that there poor animal wouldn’t have to drag that fat carkiss of yours up and down hills, for one thing.”

“I’ll get out and walk.”

“And it might learn ye to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“I—I didn’t mean—any—offence.”

“Then chuck us your purse,” growled the other, “and be quick about it.” The Bagman obeyed with wonderful celerity, and I heard the purse chink as the footpad dropped it into the pocket of his greatcoat.

“As for you,” said he, turning to me, “you get on your way and never mind me; forget you ever had ten guineas and don’t go a-riskin’ your vallyble young life; come—up with you!” and he motioned me into the tilbury with his pistol.

“What about my blunderbuss?” expostulated the Bagman, faintly, as I seated myself beside him, “you’ll give me my blunderbuss—cost me five pound it did.”

“More fool you!” said the highwayman, and, picking up the unwieldy weapon, he hove it into the ditch.

“As to our argyment—regardin’ gibbetin’, sir,” said he, nodding to me, “I’m rayther inclined to think you was in the right on it arter all.” Then, turning towards the Bagman: “Drive on, fat-face!” said he, “and sharp’s the word.” Whereupon the Bagman whipped up his horse and, as the tired animal struggled forward over the crest of the hill, I saw the highwayman still watching us.

Very soon we came in view of “The White Hart,” an inn I remembered to have passed on the right hand side of the road, and scarce were we driven up to the door than down jumped the Bagman, leaving me to follow at my leisure, and running into the tap, forthwith began recounting his loss to all and sundry, so that I soon found we were become the center of a gaping crowd, much to my disgust. Indeed, I would have slipped away, but each time I attempted to do so the Bagman would appeal to me to corroborate some statement.

“Galloping Dick himself, or I’m a Dutchman!” he cried for the twentieth time; “up he comes, bold as brass, bless you, and a horse-pistol in each hand. ‘Hold hard!’ says I, and ups with my blunderbuss; you remember as I ups with my blunderbuss?” he inquired, turning to me.

“Quite well,” said I.

“Ah, but you should have seen the fellow’s face, when he saw my blunderbuss ready at my shoulder; green it was—green as grass, for if ever there was death in a man’s face, and sudden death at that, there was sudden death in mine, when, all at once, my mare, my accursed mare, jibbed—”

“Yes, yes?” cried half-a-dozen breathless voices, “what then?”

“Why, then, gentlemen,” said the Bagman, shaking his head and frowning round upon the ring of intent faces, “why then, gentlemen, being a resolute, determined fellow, I did what any other man of spirit would have done—I--”

“Dropped your blunderbuss,” said I.

“Ay, to be sure I did—”

“And he pitched it into the ditch,” said I.

“Ay,” nodded the Bagman dubiously, while the others crowded nearer.

“And then he took your money, and called you ‘Fool’ and ‘Fatface,’ and so it ended,” said I. With which I pushed my way from the circle, and, finding a quiet corner beside the chimney, sat down, and with my last twopence paid for a tankard of ale.

CHAPTER VI

WHAT BEFELL ME AT “THE WHITE HART”

When a man has experienced some great and totally unexpected reverse of fortune, has been swept from one plane of existence to another, that he should fail at once to recognize the full magnitude of that change is but natural, for his faculties must of necessity be numbed more or less by its very suddenness.

Yesterday I had been reduced from affluence to poverty with an unexpectedness that had dazed me for the time being, and, from the poverty of an hour ago, I now found myself reduced to an utter destitution, without the wherewithal to pay for the meanest night’s lodging. And, contrasting the careless ease of a few days since with my present lamentable situation, I fell into a gloomy meditation; and the longer I thought it over, the more dejected I became. To be sure, I might apply to Sir Richard for assistance, but my pride revolted at even the thought, more especially at such an early stage; moreover, I had determined, beforehand, to walk my appointed road unaided from the first.

From these depressing thoughts I was presently aroused by a loud, rough voice at no great distance, to which, though I had been dimly conscious of it for some time, I had before paid no attention. Now, however, I raised my eyes from the spot upon the floor where they had rested hitherto, and fixed them upon the speaker.

He was a square-shouldered, bullet-headed fellow, evidently held in much respect by his companions, for he occupied the head of the table, and I noticed that when ever he spoke the others held their peace, and hung upon the words with an appearance of much respect.

“‘Yes, sirs,’ says I,” he began, louder than before, and with a flourish of his long-stemmed pipe, “‘yes, sirs, Tom Cragg’s my name an’ craggy’s my natur,’ says I. ‘I be ‘ard, sirs, dey-vilish ‘ard an’ uncommon rocky! ‘Ere’s a face as likes good knocks,’ I says, ‘w’y, when