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of the road. Other times he’d set a stick at the crossroads — always a long one with a stub left on.
    If he had a touch of madness I wasn’t anxious to tangle with it. I didn’t ask questions. And I hadn’t a notion why he was on the trail of my pa. It was clear enough that if Mr. Peacock-Hemlock wanted me to know a thing, he’d tell me.
    But as the days went by, sharp and clear, curiosity got the best of me. “Them cat-sticks supposed to hold off evil spirits, sir?”
    To my surprise he answered straight out. “I’m setting a gypsy trail.”
    â€œGypsies?” I must have gaped at him. “Are you a gypsy gentleman?”
    He was polishing the gold head of his walking stick. But I don’t think it was gold. I suspicioned it was brass. “No,” he answered quietly.
    And that’s when we came upon the highwayman.
    He sat on horseback at the crossroads brandishing a pair of pistols at a buggy. I hauled back on the reins.
    â€œWhat are you stopping for?” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock asked.
    â€œRobbers!”
    â€œI only see one. Drive on.”
    I swallowed hard and shook the reins. No doubt about it, I thought. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock was thatchy in the head. He’d get us both shot full of holes.
    We pulled up to the buggy and he said, “Excuse me, gentlemen. You’re blocking the road. Kindly pull to one side, like good fellows, and get on with your business.”
    The highwayman shifted his eyes to us in the wildest amazement. And he shifted his pistols as well.
    â€œStand and deliver!” he scowled. He was a blunt-nosed man with tangled hair and rings on all his fingers.
    â€œDeliver what?” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock with the utmost unconcern.
    â€œBust yur haslet!” the highwayman exploded. “Do you think I’m standing here to collect yur linen! Gold, man! Yur watch and jewels! Deliver!”
    You’d think Mr. Peacock-Hemlock had gone deaf. “I declare, sir, those dueling pistols take my eye. Handsome as I ever saw. They do you credit.”
    â€œDeliver, you pesky fool!”
    All the while the man in the buggy sat trembling and washing his hands with worry. He was a smallish man in a black frock coat that hung as loose on him as a shirt on a beanpole.
    â€œWell, sir,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock, “if you intend to rob me I’ll have to insist upon a small favor.”
    â€œI’ll favor you with a window in yur skull!” replied the highwayman.
    â€œNo, thank you kindly,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock smiled, climbing down from the coach. “You see I’m carrying a considerable sum. Unfortunately, it doesn’t entirely belong to me. I have a partner and I’m afraid he’d never believe I was robbed in broad daylight on a public road.”
    â€œDeliver, I say!”
    â€œIn due time, sir.” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock threw open one of the coach doors. “Now if you would be generous enough to put a bullet through the door I could hardly be accused of deceit. Evidence, sir. Surely a ball of lead is a fair exchange for a hundred times its weight in gold.”
    The highwayman burst into a laugh and fired. The coach door rattled on its hinges with a hole shot clean through it.
    â€œThat’s a good chap,” said Mr. Peacock-Hemlock. “Now the other door, sir. I intend to make a fine story of it, I assure you. You’ll be famous in twenty-four hours. If I’m not mistaken you’ll be whispered about as the most daring lone swift-nick of the road. You’ll be remembered in the same glorious company with Captain Thunderbolt and Captain Lightfoot. A name. You’ll need a name, sir. How does ‘Captain Daylight’ strike you?”
    The highwayman fired through the other coach door and puffed up like a turkey. “Aye, Captain Daylight it is!”
    â€œNow, if you’ll just put a ball through my hat we’ll be done with it.” Mr.