A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh

Sexton Mipps and the gentleman who had worn the bottle-green coat then unlocked an old chest and took out certain money bags which they emptied on the table. The third gentleman, whom they addressed as the Scarecrow, helped them to sort the coin, French in one pile, English in another, and then referring to a list of names in the register, the three managers of the secret bank proportioned out their servants’ wages. When this was accomplished the gentleman who had worn the bottle-green coat presented his little account, which was promptly paid in golden guineas, and he left them, saying that he

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was very sorry that it was the last time that he could draw so many Georges from the bank.

“Yes, the bank closes accounts to-day,” said the Scarecrow, striking his name off the list, “though perhaps some day we shall open it again. Who knows?”

“Let’s hope so,” said the other, shaking hands with the Scarecrow and the sexton, “and let’s hope we meet again. Good-bye.” And he was gone, Mipps locking the door behind him.

“It’s all right to a penny,” said the Scarecrow.

“Hooray! I calls it,” chuckled Sexton Mipps, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll get this little lot of coinage nailed up in a coffin and sent to Calais, and old What’s-his-name wot’s just gone up the stairs has arranged with the Calais people to get it transferred to the Bank of Lyons, so you can get at it yourself from Marseilles, can’t you?”

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“Yes, we’re all square now. Everything shipshape. Mother Waggetts I’ve settled with, and Imogene gets the iron-bound casket. I’ve seen to it all. But it’s time I was off. I’ve a certain gentleman to see before nightfall.”

“Who’s that?” asked Mipps.

“The squire,” replied the Scarecrow, laughing as he tied up the money bags.

“And I have a gentleman to visit, too,” said Mipps.

“Who’s that?” asked the Scarecrow.

“Parson Syn, Doctor Syn, the worthy vicar,” replied Mipps, winking, at which the Scarecrow laughed and went out of the crypt.

Mipps, after locking up the money in the chest, followed leisurely, and as he crossed the churchyard he saw Doctor Syn ringing the front door bell of the Court House.

“Well,” murmured Mipps to himself, “I’ve met one or two of ’em in my time, but he’s a blinkin’ marvel.”

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Chapter 30

Doctor Syn Has a “Call”

Do you mean to say that you’re going to leave Dymchurch?” The squire was positively angry, a thing he had never been with Doctor Syn in all the years that he had known him. “You are undoubtedly pulling my leg—that’s what you’re doing. God bless my soul, sir, there’s precious few fellows can do that, and precious few that dare try; but that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?” “I’m afraid not, Sir Antony. My dear squire, my good friend, I am afraid that for once in my life I am most dreadfully in earnest.”

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“But what don’t you like about the place? Is it something I’ve done? Do you want your stipend raised? Damme, I’ll treble the blessed thing, if it’s that. Oh, it’s that rascally son of mine that’s been putting you out. It’s that Denis scamp, who never took to his books and never will. But I’ll make him. I’ll take my riding whip to the young whelp if he causes you pain. It is he! He’s at the bottom of it. My soul and body, I’ll give the young puppy a shaking up. He doesn’t know a good tutor when he sees one. The impertinent young popinjay! Doesn’t appreciate anything. No! God bless my soul, why he’s no more respect for me than a five-barred gate. He’s always doing something to jar me. Why, do you know, that the cool-faced malefactor announced the other day in the most insolent manner that he was going to marry a barmaid? Yes, I assure you he did. He announced to me, sir, in the most condescending tones, as if he were conferring an inestimable favour upon my head, that he thought I ran a very good chance of having that girl Imogene for my daughter-in-law. You know

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Imogene, that serves and waits and does innumerable dirty jobs at the Ship Inn; and when I expostulated in fatherly tones, why, bless me, if the young spitfire didn’t fly into a passion, crying out that it was high time one of the Cobtrees introduced some good looks into the family. Said that to me, mind you—his natural father that brought him into the world. I told him that, used those very words, and what does he do but begin to bow and scrape and praise and thank me for bringing him into the world at the same period as that black-haired bargirl, just as if his mother and I had timed the thing to a nicety! Why, when I come to think of it, she’s the daughter of a common pirate, that rascally, scoundrelly Clegg, who was hanged at Rye. Isn’t she now? And she’s to be my daughter-in-law! Now, Doctor Syn, in the name of Romney Marsh, what the devil—I say, what the devil would you do if you had a son like that to deal with?”

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The squire absolutely had to stop for breath, and Doctor Syn, who had been vainly trying to get a word in edgewise, replied: “Well, sir, I should candidly confess that my son was a lucky dog if he succeeded in getting her, and which, I should very much doubt. In fact, were I in your place, I should go so far as to bet my wig that he would never win the girl. I’m very fond of Denis, devoted to him in fact, but I’m afraid he’ll have a great difficulty in marrying Imogene.”

“I should damn well bet my eyes he will, sir! I need none to tell me that. Difficulty in marrying her? Aye, that he will. My son will marry position, sir— money, sir—and if beauty comes along of it, well, then, beauty, sir, and all the better for my son, sir.”

“And provided of course that the lady is willing,” put in the vicar.

“Willing? What minx wouldn’t be only too damned willing to marry my son —old Cobtree’s son; and not so old either, sir, eh? Why, any woman would jump at the chance! And as for a bargirl, the daughter of a dirty pirate hanged

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in that silly conceited little town of Rye, why, poohpooh, my dear Doctor! Laughable!”

“Well, I think differently in this case, Squire,” said the Doctor. “I should call Denis a lucky dog. I might even stretch a point and, at the risk of being unfrocked, say a damned lucky dog if he succeeded in marrying that girl Imogene.”

“What?” cried the squire.

“Of course,” said the Doctor, “you mustn’t go entirely by what I say, because I hold myself very seriously gifted in the judging of attractive women.”

“And so do I, sir. I know she’s attractive. A damned fine, upstanding young woman, and if she were even a county pauper I might stretch a point and accept her, but beauty comes last on my list.”

“But Imogene possesses all other necessaries required. Rich she is, and very rich, though she doesn’t know it, and although her mother was but a dancer in a

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Raratonga gambling saloon, she was descended direct from an Indian princess, and as you said ‘poohpooh’ to me, sir, why, I’ll say ‘pooh’ back, sir: ‘pooh’ to your Kentish ladies of quality, for when Imogene comes into her own, why, damme, she could chuck their fortunes on to every horse in the village steeplechase.”