“Yes sir. Shall I take the order to Mister Rowton, sir?’
“No. Take me to him. I’ll make it clear to him. Have the prisoner put aboard at once. Rowton’s in my cabin?:’
“No, Captain Blain. Admiral Troubridge has been ashore for two nights and Mister Rowton is preparing the
quarters for Admiral Chesham.”
“Very well. Get the prisoner aboard.”
Syn closed the door of the Admiral’s cabin behind him, and called a very drunk officer asprawl across a chart
table to attention.
“Mister Rowton,” he said sharply, “I shall have you suspended for this. I come unexpectedly to escort the
prisoner Hart back to shore trial, and I find you drunk on Admiral’s liquor. Get to bed and you’ll hear that
tomorrow which will surprise you.”
Suddenly the drink seemed to drop from Rowton’s eyes. “What’s all this? “Just a minute. Who the hell are
you? You’re like Blain, but I’ve served under that devil for years, and you ain’t him. Who are you?”
Syn strode towards him, saying, “An officer whom no subordinate shall insult.”
With a terrific blow on his chin Rowton went down on the cabin floor. There was a knock at the door and young
Osmund announced, “Prisoner’s being taken aboard, sir.”
“Mister Rowton has fallen over drunk. When I’ve sailed come back here, pour a bucket of water over him and
let him sleep. And take example. Don’t drink on duty if you wish to get on in the Service.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” replied Osmund.
On deck Syn saw Hart being hustled below on the cutter. Leaning over the side he called, “Got the Admiral’s
flag there?”
“Yes sir,” replied Mipps. “Shall I bring it aboard.”
“Throw her up.”
The rolled flag fell on the deck. “Do you know how to break a flag, Mister Osmund?”
“Yes sir.”
“Then let’s see you run up Admiral Chesham’s.”
“He’s not aboard, you know, sir.”
“Obey orders, and don’t try to teach me regulations,” snarled Syn. “If the new Admiral wishes his colours to be
seen in the morning as though he were aboard, that’s his look-out and mine, not yours.”
As Syn stood once more on the cutter he saw the black bundle mounting to the peak, and then with a convulsive
twitch break out into t he breeze. “You strike that at Admiral Chesham’s orders, and see that Mister Rowton does
not tamper with it.”
The next morning there was fine to-do when the Scarecrow’s flag was seen waving above the flagship. There
was more to-do when the cutter was discovered run on Dymchurch sands with all her brass guns, fourteen in all,
shining below the water, and a hue and cry for Fred Hart who was shipped over to France that night for internment
in the Scarecrow’s secret port.
Meanwhile the Captain’s uniform and wig were brought to his room neatly brushed and powdered, and doctor
Syn, in the clothes that Mipps had brought to him from the hidden stable, went out before breakfast to give comfort
to Mrs. Hart.
“I will see that you join your husband as soon as you are well enough to cross the Channel,” he said. “He is alive
and well, having escaped from the jaws of death through the skill of the mysterious Scarecrow. How I came to this
information I may not say, and for the sake of your husband’s safety we must not speak of it. But you see, my
daughter, it was as I thought. My dream was a visitation from God.”
As to Captain Blain, he had a lot to puzzle him, and he vowed to be revenged upon the Scarecrow.
cap of Sir Henry Pembury, Lord of Lympne. That His Royal Highness should express the wish to hunt with the
Romney Marsh Pack was perhaps a greater feather in the cap of Sir Antony Cobtree, Squire of Dymchurch-underthe-Wall. Chief Magistrate of the Marshes, and Master of the Hounds. That Doctor Syn should be invited to meet
the Prince in order to pronounce grace at the Hunt Dinner, was only right and proper, since he was Dean of
Peculiars, and consequently the head cleric of the district.
On his fat white pony the reverend gentleman jogged his way from Dymchurch Vicarage, and mounted the hill to
the castle, in order to accept the invitation personally, and to learn details of the Royal visit. He was attended as
usual by his henchman, sexton Mipps, perched upon the donkey that pulled the churchyard roller. Although the
stone roller was not on this occasion attached to the sexton’s mount, they could not have proceeded slower if it had
been, for it was never the custom of the Vicar to urge his lazy pony to any speed beyond a walk. Besides, Lympne
hill is a steep climb for a man or beast.
As Doctor Syn gazed at the majestic walls he began to chuckle.
Mipps, wishing to know what was passing in his master’s mind, asked, “Notice something funny, sir?”
“No, my good Mipps,” replied the Vicar. “Do you?”
Mipps shook his head. “No, sir. Not me. This ‘venerable pile’, as the guide-book calls it, always gives me the
dejections.”
“Then why did you ask if I noticed something funny?”
“ ‘Cos you let out a out-loud sort of giggle,” explained Mipps.
The Vicar smiled. “Did I? Well, perhaps I did. A certain thought amused me, that’s all.”
“I don’t think it will be all at all,” contradicted the Sexton. “In all the long years I’ve served you, sir, it generally
means disaster to someone when you starts chuckling to yourself.”
“My thoughts were comparatively harmless, Mipps, I assure you. I was thinking ahead a day or so, and of the
great doings there will be when the Prince arriv es. I’ll wager the gentry for miles around are agog to know whether
old Pembury will remember to invite them to the festivites.”
“Aye, sir,” nodded Mipps, “and from what one hears tell of the first gentleman of Europe, old Pembury would do
well to leave out most of ‘em. The Prince don’t like nothing dull. If it was me giving the party to him, so to speak,
I’d beat up the countryside for buxom wenches, and fill the old place with laughing chambermaids.”
“I fear, Mipps, that Sir Henry has neither your daring nor quick appreciation of humanity. Indeed I do not envy
him his task of selection. He is bound to make enemies. Indeed to my knowledge he has made a very formidable
one already. A man of some standing, too, who will no doubt be giving Sir Henry a rap over the knuckles for his
neglect. As a matter of fact it was the thought of that coming rap that made me chuckle but now.”
Mipps pulled up his donkey with a jerk. Doctor Syn’s pony stopped walking, too. Doctor Syn was smiling, but a
look of horror had spread over the Sexton’s face. “You don’t never mean–—?”
The unfinished question was checked by the Vicar’s nod.
“But it’s madness,” explained the sexton. “It’s worse than madness. It’s—well, it’s”
“Impertinent audacity,” completed Doctor Syn. “Now come, Mipps, when during our long association have you
begrudged me a little harmless amusement? Let me put my case to you before I enter the castle. You know the
policy I have followed when the Hunt meets at Dymchurch? I attend on this ridiculous but charming pony. I am an
old parson, is it not so? I must play the part I am. And yet all the time can you tell me of a better horseman on
Romney Marsh? Include my good Squire Tony Cobtree, and the youngest of the hunting gentry, and add our good
friend Jimmie Bone, whose good riding has saved his neck for years when holding up His Majesty’s mails on the
highway. Cannot Doctor Syn ride harder than them all? You know he can. But no. If I am seen outstripping and
overjumping them all it is possible that my horsemanship will be compared to the best rider of the Marsh. The
Scarecrow. I must not risk even comparison with him, for the safety of his followers depends upon the safety of the
Vicar of Dymchurch. But, Mipps, I have heard Tony preparing this meet with all his skill. The Prince is to have a
good day, and he will get it, thanks to Tony’s knowledge. He knows where every fox is earthed, and the riding will
be soft or hard according to the Prince’s whim. Do you bla me me for being envious? I must be left behind with the
children upon this dear old creature, when my whole blood calls to be behind the pack. So, Mipps, since Doctor Syn
must not show the First Gentleman of Europe what riding is, the Scarecrow shall. It is not conceit. At least not
personal conceit. It is the pride I have for our Marshland. I would have the Prince own that he has never seen such
riding as from one he met on Romney Marsh. I must have him say so for our credit. Trust me to carry this through
without endangering our friends, but the Scarecrow must ride to hounds beside the Prince of Wales.”
Mipps sighed, and kicked upon his donkey to approach the castle gate, muttering: “Well, if he must, he must and
will, and not even old Pembury can hinder him. But I might remind you, Vicar, that the night before the Meet, there
is a landing planned.”
“I know, my good Mipps,” whispered Syn. “And that will be the greatest help to the scheme I have in mid, and if
all goes as I mean it there will be two men who will enjoy the hunt. The Scarecrow and the Prince. The rest will I
fear be disappointed with their day. I’ll risk a hundred hangings to carry this through well.”
“But no man has a hundred necks,” replied Mipps.
“I know of two to prove the lie to that, Mipps. A cat has nine lives they say.” Then, looking back, “How many
in the devil’s name have we?”
“Oh, we’ve done pretty well,” nodded Mipps. “I’ll say no more, except to assure you that if the Scarecrow wants
to hunt, with Royalty, well so he shall if Mipps can help him to it.”
Dismounting before the great entrance Doctor Syn entered Lympne Castle, while Mipps led the pony and his own
donkey to the stables in order to gossip with the grooms while waiting for his master.
Thinking that any information he could pick up concerning the hunt might prove useful to his master, he entered
the stable where the hunters were stalled. In a loose box he saw the magnificent chestnut that had been reserved for
the Prince.
“As fast as anything we’ve got,” exclaimed the groom to Mipps. “Easily the best jumper, and there’s nothing
Colindale won’t take, and add to that no vices. Sweet on the mouth and comfortable. Anyone astride Colindale
would think they was the best horseman in the field. But it ain’t the rider: it’s the horse.”
“Very tactful of Sir Henry to put the Prince up on him,” said Mipps with a wink.
Meanwhile Doctor Syn waited in the library while a servant went in search of Sir Henry. He returned to say that
his master would be with him in a few minutes, and would the reverend Doctor take a glass of wine. The ancient
butler brought in a bottle and two glasses, followed by the same servant carrying a pile of letters, which he placed on
the oak table in the centre of the room.
“Each mail brings us in a larger collection, sir,” said the butler. “Since this business of the Prince’s visit became
known, we can hardly cope with Sir Henry’s correspondence.”
“Invitations accepted and asked for, I suppose,” laughed Doctor Syn.
“That is so, sir,” replied the butler. “Buckingham Palace wouldn’t hold the applications we have had. And
everyone expects us to accommodate his family and servants. Sir Henry is now inspecting the roof rooms, a thing
he has not done to my knowledge in the past thirty years. Most unusual and upsetting for a gentleman of his years.
Your wine, sir.”
No sooner had the butler closed the door behind him, than Doctor Syn drew a letter from his side-pocket with a
glance of appreciation at the scrawled address on one side and the seal of black wax on the other. For a second or so
he listened, then crossing quickly on tiptoe to the centre table he placed the letter beneath the top one of the pile. He
then returned to his seat and sipped his wine.
At last the door opened and Sir Henry, corpulent but dandified, entered to greet his guest. But at the sight of the
further pile of correspondence his smile changed to a scowl. “More, by gad. I trust, Doctor, that you have come to
say you will pronounce grace at the Hunt Dinner, but I hope you do not want a bedchamber. I’ll wager that these are
all letters reminding me that I have forgotten to invite them to meet His Royal Highness. Let us see now. Pour me
out a glass of wine, Doctor, and I’ll open the top one. By the way, I trust your Squire, Sir Antony, sees reason and
will call the Meet here rather than at his Court House. We can hardly expect the Prince to ride to meet the Meet.”
Doctor Syn laughed. “My dear Sir Henry, no. the Master of the foxhounds agrees with you that the Meet must
meet the Prince. We shall bring the pack with the Marsh Field up to Lympne at whatever time convenient.”
“Good,” exclaimed Sir Henry, as he perused the first letter. His mind was at rest on one point at least, for he had
feared Sir Antony would claim the right to call the Meet at Dymchurch.. The contents of the letter, however,
brought the scowl back to his face.
“Just as I said,” he snapped. “Same thing again. Lis ten, ‘Colonel Buckshaft presents his compliments to the
Lord of Lympne and while thanking him for his kind invitation to meet the Prince of Wales, respectfully points out
that although the said invitation includes Mrs. Buckshaft, there is no mention of Mis s Buckshaft. Feeling sure that
this is but an oversight, since our little Fan has been presented for attractive young ladies, I shall be glad to receive
an emendation at your early convenience.’”
Doctor Syn laughed. No so Sir Henry. “Calls her ‘little’ when she’s six foot in her socks, and her only
resemblance to a ‘fan’ is that she has a neck like an ostrich. One glimpse of that dragoon in skirts would send His
Royal Highness post-haste back to Town. I shall write regrets that Lympne ceilings are not lofty enough to
accommodate her.”
Tossing the letter aside, he stared at the next one. “And who in thunder writes to Lympne with and up-and-down
fist like this? I seem to remember this scrawl. Now whose is it?”
“Perhaps you would know by unsealing is, Sir Henry,” laughed the Doctor.
The old gentleman turned the letter over. “Black wax,” he ejaculated. “This is hardly the time to exploit a
private mourning.”
Sir Henry’s podgy cheeks, already red with the Buckshaft irritation, suddenly turned to vivid purple. “Look!
Look! Look!” he screamed.
To Doctor Syn’s quiet query for explanation of this further rage, his host could do nothing but choke out another,
“Look!”
Doctor Syn rose and crossed behind the Squire, who was pointing to a crude device stamped upon the black wax.
A soft whistle of astonishment came from the Vicar’s lips, and then he added, “A scarecrow. The Scarecrow’s
writing, too. We should know, since this had has victimized us both. A letter of warning to me, on the day of the
Exciseman’s funeral, and”
“I know. I know,” interrupted the testy Squire. “The inscription over my head when the rascal lashed me to the
Dymchurch gibbet post. ‘A laughingstock, by order of the Scarecrow.’ What further blackmail is here, I wonder.”
The contents were worse than he imagined. The words were gasped out in a tragic duet.
Sir Henry read, “The Scarecrow salutes his old laughingstock of Lymphne.” Rage choked his voice, so Doctor