Everybody realized that Doctor Syn, Vicar of Dymchurch, was the Scarecrow's chief enemy upon Romney Marsh. That both men were popular in their different ways went without saying, for while the Scarecrow led his merry rascals safely through many adventures, which if miscarrying would have meant the gallows, the rascals' pockets were well lined as a result, and their necks normal, so that since confidence in a man is the surest road to popularity, the Scarecrow was popular.
Also the very doubt as to whether the capable Captain of the Night-riders was a hero or devil, a man or a ghost, lent a mystery which is another part towards the laurels of popularity. Doctor Syn, on the other hand, was as fair and honest as the day. Everybody said that. None suspected that there was any mystery about him. If he did not talk much about his past—that was merely his unassuming way. A humility taught him not to talk about himself. This quality, in the days when the influential clergy were apt to be despotic, went a long way towards building up the popularity which he enjoyed; and though he would thunder against all forms of wickedness from the pulpit, he was ever tolerant with the sinner when he met him in the flesh.
Therefore his vigorous attacks against the Scarecrow and smuggling were perhaps to some surprising. They said that the Scarecrow was his dog-fish in the kiddle-net, which is fisherman's synonym for bee in the bonnet. He admitted the Scarecrow's ingenuity readily enough and expressed admiration for the man's daring. Everybody, in like manner, expressed their admiration for Doctor Syn's daring in ranging himself so deliberately against the Scarecrow; for it had been conclusively shown that anyone crossing swords with the Scarecrow came to disaster before long. Doctor Syn was constantly being warned by his well-wishers to leave the Scarecrow alone.
No doubt many of these advocates had their own good reasons for wishing the Scarecrow left alone, because he brought them very considerable gains. No doubt also but that some of them were genuinely afraid for the good Vicar, misguided though they thought him. For Doctor Syn made no secret when he was threatened, as he was repeatedly, by the Scarecrow himself. Whenever he received one or another of the Scarecrow's up-and-down scrawls of fearful warning, which were left in surprising places, such as under his pillow or upon his pulpit cushion, he would carry it to General Troubridge, who was for ever boasting that neither he nor Doctor Syn were to be intimidated by the ghostly rider, whatever other folk might be.
This was a sarcasm directed against Sir Antony Cobtree, who, although Leveller of the Marsh Scotts, Squire of Dymchurch, and Chief Magistrate upon the Marsh, preferred a pleasant life with his family, his horses, his dogs and tenants; and if a very generous allowance of the best brandy found its way mysteriously into his cellars—well, he was not the type of man to look a gift horse too closely in the mouth.
On the other hand, whenever Doctor Syn found a keg of brandy upon his Vicarage doorstep, with “Scarecrow's Compliments” scrawled in chalk upon it, he would send the same keg to the Customs officer, who, although drinking it himself, was nevertheless ready to swear in any company or court of inquiry that Doctor Syn's loyalty to the Government was clear. But for all this, Mipps the sexton would often make this remark to the Vicar when they were gone: “A keg to the Customs ain't wasted, sir. They enjoys a drink same as we does; and thank God we can produce as good brandy as any when we knows as how our guests are worthy of a good drink and to be trusted.” It was surprising to many that despite Doctor Syn's continual outbursts against the Scarecrow, he viewed the nefarious exploits of Jimmie Bone the highwayman with extreme toleration. No one was more astonished at this attitude of the good Vicar than the famous Mr. Hunt the Bow Street Runner. He called at the Vicarage and presented his credentials.
“You're Doctor Syn, sir, Vicar of Dymchurch,” he said, with the decision of a man who makes a statement and allows for no denial.
His tone amused the Vicar, who answered: “I have no reason to be ashamed of that, sir. I am also styled Dean of the Peculiars, which puts me on a pedestal a little above my colleagues hereabouts. Do you wish me to cry your name before the parish in holy matrimony, or what is it, Mr.—”
“Hunt, sir. An officer from Bow Street, at your service, I hope.”
“As to that, Mr. Hunt,” smiled Doctor Syn, “I cannot recall any deed of mine that can claim your service or professional attentions. Unless it is that you are a suitor for the hand of one of our pretty Marsh girls, and wish me to call the bans. Our fees are—”
“I ain't down here, sir,” interrupted Hunt, “on any sentimental mission, I promise you. I ain't down here to put no banns up, but to slip the pretty darbies upon the wrists of Gentleman James, known, I believe, in these parts as Jimmie Bone.”
“Mr. Hunt, you will admit that you are a stranger to me,” replied the Vicar amiably. “There I deny your claim to expect me to ride with you against one of my most punctilious parishioners.”
“Please do not misunderstand me,” went on the genial parson. “I do assure you that whenever I meet our notorious Jimmie, I do my best to make him see the error of his ways. But I must admit that there is no man under my ecclesiastical jurisdiction who is so punctilious in paying up his tithes in full. I take his word as to the figures he earns in sterling, and collect his tenth portion because it is my duty so to do. There is no canon that I know of which tells me that I must question the means of income. He tells me that he has earned so much, and I tell him that of that portion he owes the Church one tithe. Some people,” continued the parson, “event amongst the gentry, make a fuss, Mr. Hunt, but Mr. Bone, never. Now you may or you may not have heard of another outlaw of these parts. He is called the Scarecrow. Had you been sent from Bow Street to arrest him, you would have found me a worthy and not unhelpful ally.
The Scarecrow certainly enriches our part of the world in his mysterious way, but he does not pay his tithes as our romantic gentleman of the road does. By the way, Mr. Bone lives up to his ancient profession fully. I never yet heard that he has ever robbed a poorer than himself. The rich, yes, but the poor never, and when he robs the rich, it is not only my fund for the Sick and Needy that benefits, but I hear many of the poorest of the Marsh as well have full cause to bless his skill, his generosity and luck.”
“And a very long speech, too, sir, in defence of this gentleman of the road,” replied Hunt. “Every man to his own calling and to what advantage he can gain from it. But let me point out that this Bone fellow has a reward upon his head.
He may do as much filching from your local gentry bumpkins as he pleases for all I care, but, you see, he has repeatedly robbed His Majesty's mails, and His Majesty's Justices in London have employed Jerry Hunt, at your service, to carry their justice for them into this fifth quarter of the globe, for I believe your arrogant Marshmen lay claim to that title?”
“Quite so, sir, and with full justice,” returned Doctor Syn. “Our schools upon the Marsh teach our children here this formula in geography—that the world is divided into five parts: Europe, Asia, Africa, the Americas and Romney Marsh. Aye, sir, and you will find that we are the most independent of them all. By giving us our independence during a troublous age, King William secured a certain good loyalty for his successors. Therefore I defend Mr. Bone, and not the Scarecrow, for you see one pays his tithes and the other does not.
But if you are in the Bow Street business for your income, why not abandon the meagre two hundred pounds which is set upon the head of the highwayman and try to earn the two thousand guineas that are set upon the capture, dead or alive, of the great smuggler?”
“I have a mind to get both of them in one journey,” laughed the Bow Street runner. “And if it so be that you can help me to one or either, well then, reverend sir, I promise that your tithes shall not be at a loss for me.”
“I will do all I can to help you catch the Scarecrow,” replied Syn, “but I am powerless to aid you against Mr. Bone. I will, however, do one thing for you. I will save you time, and Bow Street your longer billeting expense. Mr. Bone held up the mails the other day, and when he paid his tithes to me in confidence, an of course under an assumed name, I gathered that the chase was hot upon his spurs, and that it was more than likely that your chief, Sir John Fielding of Bow Street, would be sending the famous Mr. Hunt upon his trail.
He quite realized that, when one constantly was in the habit of holding up the King's mail, ere long Mr. Hunt would be put upon his track. And he was right,” Syn went on, “for here you are, Mr. Hunt, and Gentleman James is by this time, I should imagine, quietly enjoying a tour of the Picardy churches. You may not know it, but not the least of his many good qualities is a very intelligent appreciation of ecclesiastical architecture. I advised this present tour myself. He had not seen the beauties of Picardy. It is a great pity in some ways that Mr. Bone should be a highwayman, for he would make an excellent Dean's Verger of Canterbury Cathedral.”
“So you mean to tell me that the party I'm looking for has gone to France?” asked Hunt, with a frown of annoyance.
“I did not exactly tell you so,” replied Doctor Syn humbly. “I just said that I imagined so. Oh, and by the way, Mr. Hunt,” he went on amiably, “it is no use looking at me in such a very antagonistic manner. You see, I am a parson, and a parson is one who is perhaps even more at the beck and call of the sinner than the saint. Lost sheep, and all that, you know. Besides, I confess that I rather like Mr. Bone. I only wish I could say the same of this rascally Scarecrow. Now come, Mr. Hunt, why not—as indeed you must, unless, of course, it happens that you are too interested in Picardy churches—why not, I say, join with me in hounding out and down this other outlaw, the Scarecrow? What the Customs, the Navy and the Dragoons have failed to do, Mr. Hunt of Bow Street might accomplish. I'll help you in that quest, and when you get the reward—well, I confess, although I want nothing for myself, I will gladly accept what you care to give for my Sick and Needy Fund. In fact, Mr. Hunt, against the highwayman you will find me as close as an oyster, but against this rascally non-paying tithe man, the Scarecrow, I will give you what help I can and be as open as your own red waistcoat.”
“How can you help me?” asked Hunt.
“In the first place by advice,” replied Doctor Syn. “Take off that absurd red waistcoat and try not to look so confoundedly like what you are. The folk in this part of the globe are not fond of foreigners, so behave pleasantly, spend money freely, and make a good pretence of your inferiority to any Marshman. Above all, follow my instructions implicitly. I may tell you—indeed anyone will tell you—that I have twice delivered the Scarecrow into the hands of the authorities, but they have allowed him to escape through not taking the full measure of his ingenuity.”
“He'll not escape Jerry Hunt,” laughed the man from Bow Street.
“But you must understand this,” went on the Vicar. “I will not be questioned by you or any of your legal friends as to how I come by my information. If I tell you, for instance, that there is to be a big run of contraband next week, on Wednesday night to be exact, and that the Scarecrow will direct it, you must not say to me, 'How come you by that knowledge, and from whom?' Because you see, Mr. Hunt, that is a sore point which very often pricks my conscience. I visit the sick, and who talks so much as the sick, eh? There you have it. I pick up unconsidered trifles of gossip, and then piece them together.”
“Jerry Hunt puts himself entirely at your service, Doctor Syn. What is more, I'll take off my red waistcoat and leave it here with you till I return to Bow Street with the darbies on the Scarecrow.”
“The darbies on the Scarecrow,” repeated Doctor Syn. “What an inspired sentence, Mr. Hunt! I only wonder whether it will come true.”
“I'll trust you for orders, and you trust Jerry Hunt for results,” replied the other, divesting himself of his waistcoat before taking up his quarters at the Ship Inn, where he endeavoured to look as much like an ordinary traveller as possible. But for all that he was conscious of being watched, and found that the natives were more than suspicious. This was no doubt due to Doctor Syn, who had immediately passed the word to Sexton Mipps that the visitor was none other than the great Bow Street Runner. A warning was also sent to Jimmie Bone that Hunt was after him, but that Doctor Syn had drawn a red herring across his path.
This was on the Saturday; and at night, behind closed shutters at the Vicarage, Doctor Syn, Mipps and Jimmie Bone met in consultation. Doctor Syn did most of the talking. The other two listened and nodded, though often protesting against the daring of the scheme which the Vicar unfolded. But the Vicar would rule them down with “It cannot miscarry, because I shall depend as much upon you two as upon myself, and you will not fail me, any more than I could fail you.” So these two men, the sexton and the highwayman, the only men in England who were in a position to identify Syn as the Scarecrow, these two trusted lieutenants lifted their glasses and drank to the Doctor's scheme. This was on Saturday night.
It was on Sunday morning that the blow fell, which made the village almost forget the presence of Hunt the Runner, though the news of his arrival had been discussed in every tavern from Hythe to Lydd. Hunt had no idea how speedily dangerous news could spread on Romney Marsh.
The blow fell in church at Morning Prayer. The bells had rung. They had stopped when the Cobtree family had assembled in the Squire's pew. General Troubridge was with them, in order to hear Doctor Syn preach. Now the bells always stopped when the Squire rose from his knees and looked over the pew side through his quizzing glass, in order to see who was there and who was not.
The stopping of the bells at the right moment was supposed to deceive the parish that the Squire was always punctual. It was also a signal for Doctor Syn to intone a blessing upon the choir and service from the vestry. Upon this Sunday, however, his voice was not heard. The silence developed into an awkward pause.
Mipps beckoned to the beadle, and the Squire beckoned to Mipps, and eventually the beadle was sent trotting to the Vicarage to see what had delayed the Vicar. But the Vicar was not at the Vicarage. Mrs. Fowey, the housekeeper, to whom the beadle whispered over her pew, thought that the Vicar had gone out after breakfast. The Squire ordered the choir to take their places and sing a hymn. But still there was no Vicar. The Squire announced to the congregation that no doubt the Vicar had been detained at the cottage of some dying parishioner, and to eke out the time he stood up at the desk and read a warlike chapter from Joshua. Still no Vicar. As he closed the great Bible, preparatory to dismissing the congregation, he saw for the first time a paper lying on the desk cushion. He read it silently and then gasped aloud. There were some who maintained that he swore aloud. He then decided to read the message publicly.
“Doctor Syn would take no Warning. He was becoming a Menace to me and to the Safety of the Night-riders. So I have been compelled to carry out my Threat. I have removed the Vicar of Dymchurch.
After urging every able-bodied man to search and rescue the good Vicar, he dismissed the Service.
Now, much to the astonishment of Mr. Hunt, who had attended church out of respect for his secret ally, Doctor Syn, the Squire tapped him on the shoulder in the churchyard, and requested him, by name, to accompany him to the Court House.
Here, after promising not only to discover Doctor Syn, but also to arrest the Scarecrow, he asked Sir Antony how he had known him for Hunt the Runner.
“We are not entirely ignorant down here, sir, of our London,” replied the Squire. “Indeed, some of us cut a pretty good figure there in the best society.
Hence I for one immediately recognized Hunt of Bow Street.” Hunt was both flattered and hurt. Flattered that he was known; hurt that he had been so easily unmasked against his wish.
To the General's offer of military help he turned a deaf ear. Hunt had no wish to share with others the large reward that had been set upon the Scarecrow's head, and so he assured the gentlemen that only by being given a free and lone hand could he hope to effect his capture. “But leave me alone, gentlemen, and I'll soon have the darbies upon your Scarecrow's wrists, and furthermore, if Doctor Syn ain't dead he'll be in his pulpit next sabbath apreaching a very interesting sermon, I have no doubt.” There was no news, however, all through that Sunday, and Monday produced no results. Mipps went about sad and morose. Tuesday—nothing.
Mrs. Fowey went about moaning loudly. Even the folk who most admired the Scarecrow and profited by his cargoes thought he had gone too far in thus kidnapping the Vicar.
The news of the Wednesday “run” being generally known, the Squire agreed that in spite of Hunt's request, at least one troop of the Dragoons should be in residence. Hearing of this, Hunt laid his own plans without consultation with the Squire. Confident that Wednesday night would bring the Scarecrow out upon the Marsh, he determined to get a sight of him. For it happened that a wild and fantastic idea had entered into Hunt's brain, which had to be proved or disproved before he could act upon it.
On Wednesday evening he retired to his room, saying that the Marsh drinks were too strong for a mere Londoner, and that his head was throbbing. He was neither surprised nor annoyed to find that his door had been secured from the outside and that he was a supposed prisoner. He had planned to go by the casement in any case, and for that purpose had provided himself with a strong length of cord. Thus it was that by eleven o'clock he was sweeping Dymchurch beach and bay through a spy-glass, and lying comfortably hidden on the top of a haystack in the centre of the Marsh.
He had heard much talk in London about the Scarecrow and his Night-riders of Romney Marsh, but he had never imagined that the organization was run on such a big scale, and this particular run was an important landing, with a full fleet of luggers in commission. First he saw flash signals playing like will-o'- the-wisps all over the Marsh. Then a great beacon was fired from Aldington Knoll, and on the full tide he saw many vessels, lighted up by the full moon, putting into the bay in perfect formation.
But the smugglers were not to have it all their own way. He heard the ring of hoofs upon the Marsh round beneath him. A sharp word of command. The sound of trotting broke into a canter coming nearer; and then there swept by a troop of Dragoons with drawn sabres, and the moonlight dancing on their bright helmets.
As he watched them disappear, the bright flash and sharp bark of a gun made him swing his spy-glass to the sea. A fast vessel under full sail, and firing as she raced, came skimming through the water towards the smuggling fleet. It was, as Hunt knew, the Revenue cutter from Sandgate. Her gallant fire was immediately answered by the five ships that flanked the smuggling fleet upon the starboard side, and while the luggers and fishing boats held on their course towards the beach, these five tacked round to meet the cutter, who, seeing herself outnumbered and outgunned, swung round and stood for home, closely followed by the smugglers' fighting ships.
As Hunt was cursing the inadequate Customs' defence, he suddenly saw a tall wild figure, mounted on a fierce black horse, silhouetted against the skyline about a hundred yards away. It was the Scarecrow. Raising one arm above his head, he fired a pistol to the sky, which was answered by a wild yell, as from the back of the farm buildings behind Hunt's haystack a mad cavalcade of ghastly mounted devils swept out across the road and, leaping the dykes with screams of derision, galloped across country towards the flank of the Dragoons, who were borne away and scattered by the out-numbering Night-riders.
Hunt saw the Dragoons scattered and driven off with the same ease as the Revenue cutter had been herded back to Dover harbour, and the mad Nightriders galloped off towards the beach, where a long string of pack ponies was 262__ __being loaded up with tubs and bales. The Scarecrow's organization had once more shown itself superior to the inefficiency of the authorities. “And serve them right,” muttered Hunt to himself as he dropped to the ground, with the brave hope of now catching the Scarecrow single-handed.
Once again the Scarecrow was victorious. Astride his great horse, and surrounded by his Night-riders, he received his gallopers: messengers who brought news that the various sections of pack ponies had reached the hills and deposited their goods in the “hides” before scattering for home and stables. The last to gallop was Hellspite, who had only to announce “All clear, Scarecrow,” for the Night-riders also to be dismissed. Before he could speak, the Scarecrow rasped out, “Were any of our men hurt in the skirmish with those damned Dragoons?”
“Aye, Scarecrow,” replied the little devil. “One or two lads with gashes who gave as good as they got. But I've a message that there's a man a-dyin' at Black's Farm. He offered his purse of guineas to any messenger who could fetch our prisoner, Parson Syn. A religious cove, Scarecrow; for he said, 'Ask the Scarecrow in the name of God and fair play to let the parson come quick, so that I can die repentant.' He crept to Black's to die. Mother Black let him in, as her old 'un's with the lads at Aldington. A dreadful gash. He looks like a goner to me.”
“Do you know him?” asked the Scarecrow, motioning Hellspite to ride with him out of earshot.
Hellspite shook his masked head. “His face was tied up to stop the blood and I couldn't get nothin' out of him but 'Fetch the parson for a prayer.'“ The Scarecrow leant down from his saddle and whispered in the little man's ear: “Mipps, we must go there. I'll not have a man die uncomforted. Doctor Syn must be there.”
Mipps began protesting, but the Scarecrow cut him short with: “A dying man, Mipps. The parson must sometimes come before the adventurer.” Riding back towards his devil-masked followers, he ordered: “Come. I have business at Black's Farm. You will await me there for orders.” A quarter of an hour's hard riding brought them to the farm. The Scarecrow, Hellspite and a tall devil called Beelzebub, after tying their horses to the fence, were admitted to the house. After a gruff word of thanks to Mother Black for harbouring the wounded man, the Scarecrow ordered her to her bed, while Mipps led him to the room.
“This is the powder closet,” whispered Mipps, “and very convenient too. He lies through that door. Shall I get his candle?”
“I will,” replied the Scarecrow. “Wait here. Beelzebub, guard the passage door.”
Through one of the folds of the blood-soaked bandage the dying man saw the ghastly mask of the Scarecrow surveying him in the moonlight.
“I have sent for the parson,” said the rough, harsh voice.
The dying man began to mutter his thanks, but the other cut him short with:
“Don't thank me. I've no love for parsons. Don't believe in 'em. But if a dying man asked for my last drop of brandy I'd give it up.” Another voice came from the powder closet. “They've brought the old parson, Scarecrow. Shall he come up?”
“I'll come,” replied the Scarecrow, carrying the candle with him.
Sheltered by the half-closed door, and assisted by Mipps and the candlelight in the mirror, he quickly and silently stripped off the mask and rags, beneath which appeared the black clerical suit of Doctor Syn. From a side pocket he shook out the parson's formal wig. During which operation he addressed himself for the benefit of the dying man in the Scarecrow's voice.
“He's in there, Parson Syn. Deceive the poor devil that he's safe for heaven if you can, and maybe we'll forgo a little of your punishment. But no tricks, mind, and not too long with your prayer.”
“I will do what I can for him,” replied the sweet calm voice of Doctor Syn.
As he took a last look at himself in the mirror, Mipps saw his master give a sudden start. Although the little sexton did not understand the reason for alarm, he understood the silent signal which followed, for Doctor Syn pointed sharply to the floor, and then made a crawling gesture with his long fingers. Like a well-trained dog, Mipps dropped quietly on his stomach as his master, shielding the flame with his hand, tiptoed into the room.
“Is that Doctor Syn?” whispered the wounded man.
“Aye, come to pray with you, my poor fellow,” replied the parson. “But ere I begin, if you can bethink you of any crime upon your soul, now is the time to confess it.”
“There is one thing,” said the dying man. “But whether you will think it a crime or not I cannot say.”
“Let me be the judge of it, then,” replied the parson.
“Well, sir, is it a crime to act the spy in order to send the cleverest rogue unhung to the gallows?” Doctor Syn sat by the bed considering this before replying: “Good men have from time to time been forced to play the spy. The spies of Joshua were accounted good men and brave. But you must tell me more.”
“I will, sir,” whispered back the dying man, putting his left hand with a great effort up to his wounded head as though the pain were too much to bear.
Then with one superb gesture, which peeled the blood-stained bandage from his head and flung the bedclothes back, the dying man was sitting up on the bed, and Doctor Syn found himself looking into the barrel of a pistol held by the Bow Street Runner.
That Doctor Syn was amazed appeared only too plainly to the grinning Hunt.
“I told the Squire I'd find Doctor Syn. I have; and found him out as well. I told you I'd put the darbies on the Scarecrow too. Very clever, Doctor Scarecrow, but Jerry Hunt's been a bit cleverer. If the spies of Joshua is accounted good 'uns, what will they say of Jerry Hunt now? No offence, Mr. Parson Smuggler, but out with your wrists and we'll have the darbies on.” Doctor Syn did not move. He blinked at the pistol, and then shook his head sadly. “Mr. Hunt,” he said quietly, “you are a brave man, but a very foolish one. I will not discuss the absurdity of your statement here. It is too laughable, and our present situation is too serious. I have suffered so much in the last few days at the hands of this rascally Scarecrow that I assure you I welcome your presence here with all my heart. You are at least brave, strong and ingenious, and if you can get me away from these ghastly Night-riders, even with the darbies on my wrists, I will forgive your ridiculous accusation.”
“I'll get you away—don't worry,” chuckled Hunt. “There's a great manure heap under this window. A bit dirty for a parson, but it will break our fall together in silence. And you shall have a wash before facing the magistrate, I promise you.”
“And I promise you that if you don't drop that pistol you're deader than your manure heap. Sharp's the word.” And sharp it was; for Mr. Hunt felt cold steel pricking steadily into his shirted back. Hunt lowered his pistol and turned to see the owner of the cold words and steel, and in that second Doctor Syn struck hard at his wrist. The pistol dropped. “We'll have no murder, Mr. Hunt,” he said, “Night-riders or no.”
“Give me that pistol, Parson Syn,” ordered Hellspite, pressing the dagger bayonet of his blunderbuss against the Runner's back. Yes, Mipps had understood his master's gesture, and had crawled behind the bed when Doctor Syn had entered. With pistol and blunderbuss he now had the whip hand.
“Now, Parson,” he ordered, “save your skin by fetching in the Scarecrow. He's outside.” Doctor Syn, with a gesture of resignation, went out, and a few moments later the Scarecrow and Beelzebub came in with ropes. They bound Mr. Hunt securely, and gagged his mouth with blood-stained bandages.
“Since he prefers the window, let him go by it,” laughed the Scarecrow.
Prodded by the blunderbuss bayonet, Hunt was pricked to the casement, hoisted up, and dropped on to the manure, where he was pounced upon by the waiting Night-riders. Thrown over the Scarecrow's saddle, the whole cavalcade set off at the trot for Dymchurch. They halted at the twin-posted gallows between the Court House and the churchyard wall. Hunt gave up all hope when he saw that emblem of justice, the hanging noose. He was agreeably surprised when at the Scarecrow's orders he was but lashed securely to the right-hand post.
“And now, lads,” croaked the Scarecrow, “home to bed and dream of the guineas you have earned tonight.” The Night-riders wheeled their horses and rode off in different directions to their homes. From the crowd of some seventy horsemen only three remained:
Hellspite, who still held Hunt's pistol, but pointing towards a tall Night-rider whom they had called Beelzebub, and the Scarecrow. Hunt fell to wondering what the Night-rider had done to be thus guarded. He was soon undeceived.
“Off with our uniform, Hellspite,” ordered the Scarecrow, “and lash the meddlesome parson to the left-hand post.” The Night-rider dismounted, and at the point of the pistol took off his rags and mask, and the astonished Hunt saw them bind a very weary Doctor Syn to the fellow post. Then Hellspite climbed the post and nailed two papers above their heads.
“'Scarecrow's warning' is what the papers say,” explained the Scarecrow.
“If so be that anyone cuts you free in the morning, you will, I know, have learnt your lesson, Doctor Syn, for you are no fool. In future keep to your preaching and leave honest men alone. As to you, Hunt, let me warn you, if you or any other of your Bow Street trash set foot upon our Marsh again, it will not be lashing but hanging to this gallows you an look for. So let us hope for your own sake that you will be freed in time to catch the morning coach. Good night.”
By dawn Hunt had worked his gag sufficiently loose to be able to talk to his companion in misfortune.
“I thought so,” said Doctor Syn kindly. “You see, I saw you sitting up in bed and watching me change in the mirror. Naturally you thought I must be the Scarecrow, because you did not know that these rascals have kept me dressed in their infernal rags since first they took me. He's a cunning rogue, this Scarecrow. Did you note that he dismissed his men before lashing me up? No doubt he thought that many of them would not agree to violence against me.
You see, I am not entirely unpopular even amongst the rogues of the parish.” Hunt realized then that even a Bow Street Runner might be guilty of a bad mistake, and was generous enough to own as much to Doctor Syn, and to ask his pardon, which the Vicar gladly gave.
They remained there talking till the morning broke. The village being strangely sleepy, the first person to notice their plight was the Squire himself, who stepped out for a breath of air before his breakfast.
Thought the good Vicar seemed badly shaken after his mysterious adventures, he refused to say a word, affirming that he had promised if released to stay silent, and so must keep his word. At to Hunt, although he promised to call upon the Squire when he had cleaned himself at the inn he was so fearful of losing the coach that he did not trouble even to call at the Vicarage for his read waistcoat. He went post haste to London, where he kept his mouth shut, not caring to boast of his misfortunes on Romney Marsh.
That night Gentleman James tapped upon the closed shutters of the Vicarage study about midnight, and was admitted to the Vicar by the sexton.
“Ah, my good Jimmie Bone,” said Doctor Syn. “You have come to be congratulated, I presume, upon your excellent imitation of the Scarecrow. It was vastly entertaining to me and very bewildering to Hunt. Have some brandy.”
“I really came to pay tithes,” grinned the highwayman, removing his silk mask. “Just held up another coach. A hundred guineas in all. That means ten to you.”
“The Parish Accounts, please, Mipps,” said the Vicar, taking the coins. “I suppose it is useless for me to point out to you, James, the error of your ways?”
“Quite,” replied the highwayman, drinking.
“Pity, perhaps,” said Doctor Syn, entering ten guineas in the columns of the Sick and Needy Fund. “But you are a good fellow, Jimmie. At least you pay your tithes.”
