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