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