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Peacock-Hemlock ambled closer. “But do miss my scalp, won’t you?”
    â€œGreat keezer’s ghost!” the highwayman declared. “I’ve discharged both pistols.”
    â€œThat is unfortunate,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock answered, and struck forward like a shaft of lightning. He gave the horse a sharp prod with his walking stick, the horse reared and Captain Daylight was thrown sprawling in the mud. He rose in time to meet the swing of Mr. Peacock-Hemlock’s jackboot, which must have filled his head with birdsong.
    â€œChavo,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock called to me. “Fetch a bit of rawhide from the coach.”
    I hopped to it, and in no time Captain Daylight was trussed hand and foot. Mr. Peacock-Hemlock threw him across the saddle like a sack of flour and tied the horse to the rear of the buggy.
    Then he turned to the nervous little man who had watched it all. “Take this empty-headed rascal to the nearest constable.”
    â€œBless you, sir,” the man piped up. “I do believe he meant to kill me before you came along. He was in a terrible rage when all I had on my person was a dollar and twenty-eight cents.”
    Mr. Peacock-Hemlock grinned. “I don’t have even that small sum left in my pouch. The inns and tollgates have bankrupted me.”
    I was perplexed to hear that. I had come to believe that Mr. Peacock-Hemlock was a man of vast means.
    â€œHere is my card,” said the frock-coated man, who had got over his fear and trembling. “If you are ever in Deerfield and I can be of service, please call on me.”
    Mr. Peacock-Hemlock gazed at the card and smiled. “Thank you, Reverend Pye. You have already done me a splendid service. Good-bye, sir.”
    It was only after we parted that I caught my breath from the encounter, and stopped to wonder what splendid service the Reverend Pye had performed by remaining perched like a crow in his buggy.
    And then, like a distant echo coming back to me, the word chavo sounded in my head. Hadn’t Mr. Peacock-Hemlock called me that, as if my name had slipped his mind in the excitement of the moment?
    Chavo. It was part of my secret language, like mishto and hatchi-witchu. It was a word from long ago.
    How had he known it?
    These bafflers occupied my thoughts while Mr. Peacock-Hemlock sat beside me on the box, whistling to himself. I had to admit that he had been uncommon clever in dealing with the highwayman. Some hours later I spied fresh trouble ahead.
    â€œWe’re coming to a tollgate,” I said.
    â€œDrive on,” he answered.
    â€œBut you said you were bankrupt. They won’t let us through without paying the toll.”
    â€œForward, lad.”
    We slowed to a halt at the wooden gate across the road. A man with sagging eyes came out of the gatehouse, spit tobacco juice and touched his cap. He looked more of a villain than Captain Daylight.
    â€œSixty cents for the coach, gents. Eighteen cents each for the horses. Pays to keep up the roads, y’know.”
    I hadn’t noticed that the road was kept up at all. It was two boggy ruts. And as I glanced at the rates painted and weathered on the signboard I saw that he meant to overcharge us. I was about to open my mouth when Mr. Peacock-Hemlock passed the toll keeper the Rev. Pye’s card.
    â€œAnother,” the man muttered with clear disappointment, and returned the card. “Another preacher, is it?”
    He swung the gate open, we passed through and continued on our way.
    â€œHe meant to charge you double for the coach,” I said.
    â€œYou’ll soon learn the ways of the road, Jango,” Mr. Peacock-Hemlock laughed. “If our fortunes don’t improve we’ll travel the toll roads clear to Mexico on the good reverend’s card. Men of the cloth pass toll-free, as you saw.”
    â€œThe name’s Jingo, sir,” I said once more. There seemed no getting it fixed properly in his