Текст книги "The COURAGEOUS EXPLOITS OF DOCTOR SYN "

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THE SCARECROW RIDES TO THE HOUNDS

That the Prince of Wales should invite himself to reside for a day or so at Lympne Castle was a great feather in the

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

Syn read on,” to remind him that he has not sent me an invitation to meet the Prince of Wales. Of all your guests I

am probably the only one he has ever heard of or would care to meet. As the best rider of Romney Marsh and the

best mounted, I shall be a credit to you. Nail my invitation to the gibbet post of Dymchurch. I will collect it. If you

fail to do so, the worst will happen, and in any case I am determined to ride in your Royal Hunt.”

The signature was a crude drawing of a scarecrow, and by the time Doctor Syn had reached it, Sir Henry was

repeating his words like a bewildered schoolboy.

“And now what am I to do?” he asked pathetically.

“Knowing the Scarecrow to be a creature of his word,” replied Syn, “I can only suggest that you do what he

asks.”

“You mean invite him?” gasped the Squire.

“I think he will come if you don’t,” said the Vicar.

“But he would be walking into a trap,” said the Squire. “He would not dare.”

“He has dared a good deal, as we know to our coast,” went on the vicar. “Are all your invitation sent out?”

Sir Henry went to a bureau and handed Doctor Syn a list of names. “I have sent all these that are marked, and the

others will be sent today.”

“Has it occurred to you sir, that the Scarecrow may be one of these gentlemen not yet asked? Since none of us

know who he is, it is obvious we would not recognize him if he comes.” Doctor Syn looked at the list and then

added: “May I have a copy of these guests? I would like to consider them one by one at leisure.”

The Squire of Lympne assenting, doctor Syn sat down and made a copy of the list, and then under his host’s

direction, marking off those who were to follow the hounds.

On the ride back to Dymchurch, Doctor Syn gave this list to Mipps saying, “Our next ‘run’ is on the night of the

Prince’s arrival. The Meet is on the following morning. The scarecrow will borrow all horses from these stables,

with the exception of the Prince’s chestnut. I only wish that animal to be fresh, so let the warning go out as usual to

open all stable doors, especially these. Warn all grooms in our power, for I know they would rather fail their

masters for the hunt than the Scarecrow. They will remember that those who have failed us in the past have

disappeared into the mist.”

Whatever may be said about the Scarecrow’s secrecy, in that not one of his followers save tow, Mipps and

Highwayman, knew who he was, his methods of challenge were always in the open. The night before the Prince’s

arrival at Lympne Castle, the Scarecrow’s chalk effigy was scrawled upon all the stable doors, including those of the

gentry who were providing mounts for the Royal Hunt.

The grooms concerned knew that it was to their advantage to betray their masters rather than to play false with

the mysterious being who could put many guineas in their purses by borrowing their masters’ cattle. He never stole

the horses. No. They were all returned before the dawn, sweated and muddy maybe, but with a secret bag of money

in their mangers. Such head stablemen who had defied the chalk order to open the stable doors, had mysteriously

disappeared, so their philosophy was rather to make suck monies as they could instead of wreaking their humble

homes. That this particular hunt was a Royal one weighed not a jot with them. They were loyal to the master they

dreaded. The master who was the most good to them and their families, for the Scarecrow never failed those who

were faithful, and gave them higher payment than the squires they served. And they were more than well paid for

the extra grooming they were bound to do.

Unfortunately no amount of horse-care could make the animals fresh after the gruelling riding of a Scarecrow’s

‘run’.

And the scarecrow had seen to it that this particular ‘run’ was harder than ever on the horses.

Every member of the Hunt was furious to find after the first gallop that all the ginger had gone out of his mount.

Not so the Prince. Three miles hard riding showed His Royal Highness that he had a mount in Colindale that could

outstrip them all.

Sir Antony had shown the greatest skill in arranging the course. Two kills, which saw the pack still fresh but the

horses tired, and then the third fox broke cover, and it was from this cunning fellow that the master planned to get

the run of the day; a fox that could be depended on to give the pack a long, long course. For the first time in his life

the Prince found that his riding and his alone could hold the pack. For the first time, too, he found himself riding

alone, unattended. One by one the others had dropped out, either worn with terrific pace or come to grief at the

stretched jumps over the countless dykes. Twice the old fox led them to the hills and down again, and then once

more in and out, doubling the dyke-cut fields.

When dusk fell the Prince was far out of sight from his followers, and the old fox still led the pace, but it was

across the Kent Ditch and away into Sussex that he showed first signs of exhaustion. The Prince’s excitement was

then redoubled, for he saw the kill in sight, and the honour of being alone. He had shown these Kent squires what

riding was. His voice was hoarse with halloing when he heard that at first he thought was his own echo. Whenever

he cried out to the hounds, a derisive answer came from the mist behind him. And then he heard above the tongue

of the pack, and thundering of hooves that did not belong to Colindale, and he realized that another huntsman was

pressing up behind him.

Determined not to be cheated at the last moment of the honour for which he had striven so hard, His Royal

Highness pricked Colindale forward desperately. As a huntsman he resented being robbed of his line kill, and as

Heir Apparent he was exceedingly displeased at the derisive laughter coming nearer and nearer from his pursuer.

In full cry the pack was hidden in the mist ahead, and the Prince kept glancing back for a sight of his rival.

Catching a glimpse of a magnificent wild head of a coal-black horse, he shouted haughtily to the rider to rein back.

With another scornful laugh the rider’s answer was to press alongside Colindale, and the Prince saw the rider’s face,

which gave him such a shock that he all but lost his seat. It was a demon horseman with a hideous face that shone

like phosphorus in the mist, and his clothes were wild black rags that streamed behind him as he rode. Keeping pace

easily beside him, the figure croaked out: “The fox ahead has been named the Devil Fox of Romney Marsh, and no

one shall take his brush but I the scarecrow. You may tell the Lord of Lympne that you have had the honour of

riding neck to neck with the best horseman of the county. Farewell.”

The aspiration streaked forwards, and as Colindale screamed with terror, disappeared in the mist ahead.

After the scream the Prince found that the spirit had gone out of Colindale, and he had the greatest difficulty in

urging the poor beast forward. Ahead in the mist could be heard the cries of the kill, and the Prince guesses rightly

that it was taking place on the summit of a grassy knoll confronting him. Dismounting he led the unwilling

Colindale up the slope, and in doing so climbed out of the lowlying mist.

It was a strange sight for the Heir Apparent. Above the pack who were fighting for their share of the hard -won

spoil stood the terrible figure of the Scarecrow, with a blooded hunting-knife in one hand and a whip and the brush

in the other. Behind him stood his great black horse, Gehenna.

On seeing the Prince, the Scarecrow bowed, and said in a deep, croaking voice: “I am desolated to rob Your

Royal highness of the honour he so richly deserved, but I am forced to take the brush in order to settle scores with

Sir Henry Pembury. If you ride some five hundred yards to9 your right, you will come out upon the main road

leading you direct to the Lympne hills and the castle, where no doubt the Reverend Doctor Syn is awaiting your

arrival to say the dinner grace. Since he has met the scarecrow in the past, and to his cost, you will have an

opportunity of comparing notes upon the Leader of the Marsh. I bid you farewell again, and a most Royal appetite.”

With a leap which the heavy Prince envied, the figure mounted and waving the brush above his head, dashed

down the knoll into the mist.

On reaching the main road indicated by the Scarecrow, the Prince encountered a search-party headed by Sir

Antony Cobtree, who escorted him to the castle, where most of the disgruntled huntsmen had been congregated for

hours. While the Prince dres sed for dinner, doctor Syn jogged unobtrusively into the courtyard upon his white pony,

explaining to the grooms that he had been unsuccessfully seeking for the missing Prince.

During dinner the Prince was full of his adventure, and he found that his encounter with the Scarecrow gave him

more credit with the ladies than had be brought back the brush. The gentlemen, however, secretly discredited the

story, whispering that the Prince had no doubt spent the evening in some inn, ogling the barmaids. Doctor Syn

seemed the only one who was convinced by the account, till something happened which showed the whole company

that the Prince was not boasting.

The old butler whispered to Sir Henry that one of the footmen opening the castle doors to a ring, had found a

wooden box marked ‘urgent’ and addressed to His Royal Highness. At the Prince’s command it was brought in. A

narrow oblong box, well made and hinged. No one knew that it had been fashioned for the purpose in Mipps’

Coffin Shop. Throwing back the lid his Royal Highness lifted out a fox’s brush with the following message attached

to it:

The Scarecrow presents his compliments to the Prince of Wales, and returns the accompanying brush which he

unfairly robbed from him at the last moment of a splendid run. If any man deserved this brush it is Your Royal

Highness.

“By heavens!” cried the Prince, “but the rascal’s a sportsman after all, and should he ever be taken I shall ask my

royal father to pardon him.. What do you say, Doctor Syn?”

“That the Scarecrow would appreciate your sentiment, sir,” replied the Vicar, “though I think it is a wasted one,

for in spite of the vigorous drive against him by the authorities, I fancy the rascal will never be laid by the heels.”

“Then I give him a toast,” cried the Prince. “Ladies and gentlemen, you will drink with me to the scarecrow.”

After dinner His Royal Highness remarked slyly to Doctor Syn that he feared he had shocked not only his host

but many of the gentry by his toast, adding, “I hope my good Doctor, that you who have so vigorously opposed this

rascal from the pulpit will not condemn me for being too unorthodox?”

“Your Royal Highness places me in a difficult position.” Replied Doctor Syn, with a smile. “I had every excuse

to drink the toast, since it was a Royal command, just as it is my bounden duty to condemn him from the pulpit,

while I hold Orders under your Royal Father as Defender of the Faith. But I will confess that I drank the toast

willingly enough because I admire the rascally Scarecrow prodigiously.”

“And so do I, Parson,” laughed the Prince. “I can take a beating with the best, and the fellow outrode me at the

kill.”

“Your Royal Highness is perhaps too modest,” said the Doctor. “No doubt he outrode you because he and his

horse were fresh.”

“And what a horse,” exclaimed the Prince. “I should like to know where the devil he got it from.”

“Men say that he got it from the Devil at the price of his soul,” explained the Doctor. “there are many who can

vouch that he calls it Gehenna, which certainly suggests hell’s stables.”

“I’d give him a thousand guineas for it tomorrow,” laughed the Prince. “It beats anything in my stables, and in

the King’s too. If you sermons are half as good as those humorous stories that you told us over the port, I’ll make

you my spiritual adviser when I become Defender of the Faith.”

“As I believe your Royal Highness has expressed his willingness to attend Divine Service at the Castle Church on

Sunday,” remarked the Doctor, “Your Royal Highness will be able to judge, since I have been ordered to preach.”

“Well, if you keep me awake, Doctor, I’ll get you a pair of lawn sleeves,” laughed the Prince.

The sermon in question pleased the Prince so well that the Doctor was summoned to bid His Royal Highness

farewell

“And see here, Doctor,” he said. “ I have made two promises in this neighbourhood. One concerns you and the

other the Scarecrow. I have told that human bloodhound, Blain, that if he catches the Scarecrow I shall see to it that

the rascal does not hang. The other is what I said about your lawn sleeves. You say you are content to stay on

Romney Marsh for the rest of your ministry. If you should at any time change your mind, come to me in London,

and ask for what promotion you like, and I’ll see that you get it at once.”

Although Doctor Syn thought little of these promises at the time, the day came when he claimed them both.