Hitchhiking

I couldn't find the real origin of the "Hitchhiker's thumb" due to a condition that effects the thumb going by the same name. Damn it google. Oh yeah, this is supposed to be set in like, Victorian era England, therefore; horses and carts. Ah, and if you have the time follow the banner to venganza, under the blog archives. It's pretty lovely.

A man stood alone, in a field. This man, although he would never know it, would go on to create a worldwide phenomenon. He had been walking for hours and in the grand scheme of things, he may not have walked at all. No closer to his destination than he was before. Off in the distance he saw the worn away path that passed as a road. People would often ride their horse through here, sometimes pulling a cart behind them. He decided to try it and set off with renewed vigour, towards the path. He got there just in time to flag down a horse and cart; his luck seemed to be changing. A man stepped off the cart and held up a piece of paper to his face. It read: “John Butler, wanted for: Gross dereliction of payment x3.” He pulled it away and held the paper next to his face, the artist’s impression giving him an idea of what he looked like. He gulped as he saw the look of glee wash over his smug face.
“You know what this means? Eh? You know what the punishment is for this sort of thing?” He laughed at him through every word, not with his voice, but with the smirk printed seemingly permanently on his lips. John shook his head; resigned now to his fate, even if it wasn’t him; this man was convinced. That was all that counted. The man came closer to John, the smell seeming to leap from him directly up John’s nostrils and said five words, which made John reel back in horror. “Say goodbye to your fingers.”
“What‽ No! You can’t…er… not without a fair trial!” Said John, frantic to get even the slimmest chance at keeping his fingers.
“Sorry mate, no trial for you, I cut your fingers off, my mate here patches you up…” John looked at thumb of the man and to where he was pointing. In the cart was a doctor. “… And we leave you here. I’ve got my orders. Don’t worry though; I’ll be leaving your thumb. Can’t be too cruel now, can we?”
With that the man pulled out a large, jagged knife from his pocket and before he knew it he was being held by his wrist. A second later he felt the warm metal pierce his little finger, he looked down. Beyond the blood now pouring from what was once was his little finger, he saw the look of happiness spreading along the man’s face and further still the doctor in the background, waiting idly for the man to finish. He looked down again, only his index remained. He faded from consciousness.
John woke in a haze, he had lost a lot of blood and his head was still spinning. He remembered what had happened and quickly looked down at his fingers or, where they used to be. All that remained was stumps, burned where the wound was to heal it over. He clenched his hand into a crude imitation of a fist, his thumb the only thing to look the part. He sat up, feeling grass beneath him; he was still near the road. He looked around for a way to the nearest town. A horse off in the distance pulled a cart towards him. He stuck his mutilated hand in the air, still clenched. His thumb the only thing poking out; the cart began slowing down and, walking towards it, asked where they were going. “Just down the road, to the market town. We’re traders.” Came the reply.
“May I request a ride there?” Slurred John, still slightly dizzy from the blood loss. “I am quite incapacitated. As you may well be able to see.” He held his hand up for the traders to see. They seemed shocked.
“You’ll need to get a doctor for that lad. Get in, we know a man.”
John thanked them and climbed into their cart, sitting next to the man who had been talking to him.
“A good way of getting our attention that was. We figured you were sticking your thumb out. We were gonna ask you why. Better’n stickin’ your hand out at least.”
And with that, the hitchhiker’s thumb was born.