The Crooked Furrow

Jeffery Farnol

Description

A good fat book for the Farnol followers with even the naughty characters having something good in their make-ups. Arrogant uncle Everard proposes to his two nephews that they prove themselves worthy of inheriting his fortune by spending a year without money, save the little with which he starts them off. Oliver and Roland fall in love with the same girl, have plenty of adventures, Oliver adopts a small girl, brings her to London to be cared for by his old teacher, learns his uncle is pursued by a maddened drug fiend of a son who tries to kill him, tries to prevent an attack on his uncle but is unsuccessful, find his uncle's lost wife and see Roland win the girl. Very boots-and-saddle-y with plenty of entertainment.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Policier
• Romance historique
• Historical
• Regency
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 16 septembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781773236414
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Crooked Furrow
by Jeffery Farnol

Firstpublished in 1938
Thisedition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria,BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rightsreserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted inany form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, includingphotocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrievalsystem, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quotebrief passages in a review.

The Crooked Furrow



by JEFFERY FARNOL

To
RONALD OAKESHOTT

a brother of the pen and of choice
this romance is affectionately dedicated
by Jack

Sussex, 1937 JEFFERY FARNOL

CHAPTER I
A ROLAND FOR AN OLIVER
It was as Oliver swung his plough-horses to makethe difficult turn at the end of the Five Acre that heespied his henchman, Sam, approaching.
“Gotten a letter for ee I ’ave, zur.”
“Oh?” said Oliver, busy with his team. “A letter?”
“Ar! In me ’at it be,” answered Sam, surveying thelong, new-turned furrows with the keenly appraisingeye of long experience.
“Pretty straight, eh, Sam?” enquired his youngmaster a little anxiously, quick to note this so criticalscrutiny.
“As—arrers, zur! As so many arrers! There beantno man in arl Sussex nor not nowheres else wot neverdruv no straighter furrer.”
“Except yourself, Sam.”
“Why, zur,” quoth Sam, his sunburnt, good-naturedface beaming, “I were born wi’ a nat’ral turn for aplough, cut me teeth on a coulter, as you might say,an’ tes growed on me wi’ the years. But you, Must’Oliver, con-siderin’ as you ’adn’t never ’andled noplough till I larned ee—”
“You think I may have a chance in the match then,Sam?”
“Zur, me an’ Silas an’ Joel be a-layin’ fif-teen shillin’on ee! Fif-teen shillin’, Must’ Oliver, that’s wot,—an’a mort o’ money it be!”
“Lord, Sam! And quite too much to risk.”
“Ay, it do be a tidy sum, sure-ly!”
“And suppose I lose? I’ve never ploughed in amatch before, remember.”
Here Sam, finding no answer, lifted weather-beatenold hat to scratch his grizzled poll and—down tumbledthe forgotten letter.
“Well—dannel me!” he exclaimed and stooping, gaveit to Oliver, who beholding the superscription, whistled,opened his grey eyes wider than usual and ruffled hiscrisp, yellow hair; then he broke the seal, unfolded theletter and read this:

“ Dear Nephew Oliver ,—On receipt of this youwill pack and prepare for what may be a protractedjourney. Choose your best horse and come to mehere this day at three o’clock precisely, when I willfurther instruct you. Be punctual and fail not foryour own sake.
“Pray know me for
“Your very dutiful uncle to obey,
“ Everard Matravers .”
Having read this epistle twice, Oliver whistled again,and, looking at the watchful Sam rather woefully, shookhis yellow head.
“Well, Sam, I shan’t be ploughing in the matchto-morrow,” he sighed. “So at least your money willbe safe.”
“Eh—not plough, zur? Lordy-lord! And whyforenot, zur, if I may ax.”
“This letter from my uncle.”
“Wot—Sir Everard, zur?”
“And he is for sending me on some journey or other.”
“Why then dannel arl, I sez! An’ wot o’ your farm,Must’ Oliver, wot o’ Dapplemere?”
“You must take charge again, Sam, you and yourMary. After all, it was yourself with Silas and Joelhave made my Dapplemere all that it is, and—” Hestopped suddenly and narrowed his keen eyes as overan adjacent hedge a horseman came bounding, a slim,very shapely young exquisite, supremely elegant fromspurred heels to jaunty hat, and mounted upon steedof such fire and high breeding that, having cleared thehedge with a somewhat contemptuous ease, this excessivelyproud animal reared haughtily and, spurningthe newly-turned furrows beneath scornful hoofs,snorted disdainfully.
“So—there you are, Oliver!” cried this rider, withlook and in tone contemptuous almost as his horse.
“Yes,” answered Oliver, squaring his wide shoulders,“as you say, Cousin Roland, here I am.”
“I was informed,” said Roland, sitting his fretfulsteed with graceful ease, “a buxom body, thoughrather long in the tooth, assured me—”
“Can you mean my housekeeper, Mrs. Purdy?”
“Probably. However, she told me I should find‘young master a ploughing,’ and egad—there you are,Noll,—precisely where you should be. Your naturalplace is a furrow, your weapon a plough.”
“A plough,—yes!” nodded Oliver, frowning up intohis cousin’s handsome, mocking face. “A plough isfar better tool than your damned swords and muskets.”
“And ploughing a very gentlemanly diversion, eh,Noll?”
“No, it’s a man’s work and cleaner business thancutting throats, Roland. Humanity itself is of and bythe plough! All man was, all he is and all he has comesby the plough.”
“And you, my noble Noll and virtuous varlet, shouldbe the perfect ploughman and are—so far as looks go.Nice and muddy! Plenty of sweat! Boots and gaiters—anda smock!”
“Well,” retorted Oliver, dwelling upon the word andscowling contemptuous on his elegant cousin’s foppishperson, “w-e-ll, I’d rather grow a turnip than slaughteran enemy.”
“To-be-sure!” drawled Roland. “It is somewhatless hazardous.”
Oliver’s youthful cheek flushed hotly, his grey, wide-seteyes flared, then—reading gleeful triumph in hiscousin’s sneering smile, he shut grim lips on the fiercerejoinder and leaning against the ploughshaft, foldedhis powerful arms and contrived to smile also.
“Roly-poly,” said he, using the silly, boyish nick-namethat in their more youthful days had always bredstrife instant and bitter, “you always had a miss’sshrewish tongue, even as a little damp-nosed lad—”
“Ha,—but a masculine fist to back it, Mister CloddishPloughman!”
“Ah, those were the days!” sighed Oliver, shaking hiscurly head. “However, now that I am indeed a ploughman,and proud of it, you are to know that, standinghere in the mud of my own furrow, I am content.”
“Content—yes, of course, certainly and most naturally,”drawled Roland, surveying his stalwart cousinfrom miry boots and gaiters to sweat-pearled brow,“you are, so very emphatically, a thing of the mud,Mr. Oafish Chawbackon!”
“But also, so are you, Mr. Arrogant Donothing, formud is our common mother, good Mother Earth. Allthat is best and truly good comes up out of the soil!Remember this, my poor, benighted lad and don’t, inyour woeful ignorance, scorn the good mud whenceyou and the rest of us came and that shall cradle ustill the judgment.”
“Well now ’pon m’ soul,” exclaimed Roland, forgettingto smile and urging his mettlesome prancer a littlenearer, “I find you more smugly kickable than everyou were.”
“And you, as I remember, Roly, were always such avery ready kicker.”
“And am yet!” nodded Roland, freeing slim, polishedriding-boot from the stirrup.
“No, Roly—no!” sighed Oliver. “Such superlativefine gentleman shouldn’t soil such boots on mereploughman.”
“It will be a joy!” said Roland, between curling lips.
“I know, Roly, I know. But when I’m kicked Iprefer my kicker to be a real man, say a ploughing covewho works for his living as all men should,—not agentlemanly idler in a red jacket, a swaggering, peace-timewarrior—”
“Da-damnation!” cried Roland, in choking voice,“will you . . . actually . . . dare contemn my nobleprofession . . .?”
“Heartily,—as you do mine.”
“Ha—this,” gasped Roland, making to dismount,“this passes all endurance! Hi, you fellow . . . comeand hold my horse!”
“Sam,” quoth his master, “you may go,—off withyou.”
And thus, Son of the Sword and Son of the Plough,they scowled on each other while Sam, this grey-headedSon of the Soil, glanced shrewdly from the slender,arrogant beauty of black-haired Roland, all fire andhigh mettle like his horse, to the serene might and morerugged power of grey-eyed, comely Oliver, then, baringgrizzled head to the one he touched shaggy eyebrow tothe other and trudged heavily away.
“If only,” cried Roland, battling with his restivehorse that, startled by his rider’s fierce voice andgestures, was capering and snorting again, “if only this. . . dev’lish brute would . . . stand—”
“We should probably half kill each other,” addedOliver, “so let’s be thankful he won’t. Though why itis we always rouse the devil in each other—”
“Because you . . . are Oliver and I’m . . .Roland! Because it’s our nature . . . we’ve hatedeach other since we were born!”
“And I wonder why?” mused Oliver. “And nowremembering this, I can’t imagine what in the worldbrings you so far from your beloved London and, of allplaces,—here?”
“Because,” answered Roland, so soon as he hadquieted his fretful animal sufficiently, “I happened topass on my way to Abbeymead.”
“What then, have you been summoned too?”
“I have, for three o’clock, and I’m wondering whatHis Uncleship can want with me this time . . . debtsand so forth as usual, I suppose, confound him—”
“Three o’clock!” exclaimed Oliver. “God love me!I’d clean forgotten. I must get ready—”
“Aha! So his Superlative Arrogance has commandedyou also, eh? Well then, my virtuous Noll, why notgo as you are,—honest ploughman fresh from furrowall soil and sweat?”
Deigning no answer, Oliver unhitched his plough-horsesand began to lead them stablewards.
“Tell me,” demanded Roland, pacing beside him,“have you the least idea why Uncle Everard has calledus so dashed unexpectedly?”
“Not the least. Have you?”
“No, confound him again! To be sure I’m a trifledipped . . . but he’s such a dashed formidable, coldfish . . . icily serene and remote as an infernal icebergand as hard and sympathetic, give him an aitchand there you have him to the life. Ever-Hard! I tellyou, Noll, if we weren’t so dependent on his dashedbounty—”
“But we’re not, thanks to our mothers. You havetwo hundred a year in your own right and I have myfarm here, thank God!”
“Two hundred a year!” snarled Roland so fiercelythat his horse capered again instantly. “How the devilcan a fellow contrive on such a cursed incompetence,such dashed pitiful pittance?”
“Very easily, I think—”
“But then you think like a lumpish ploughman—”
“And you like