One thing puzzled them. The officer in charge of the King’s men was inspecting a hole in the centre of the
cobbled quay. It was about six foot long and three broad. Two of his sailors were standing shoulder deep in it with
spades.
“She’ll do now, sir,” said one of them.
“Then tumble up, and fall in with the others,” ordered the officer.
The two men obeyed smartly, and joined four of their mates who stood on guard with drawn cutlasses.
Turning to the prisoners the officer said: “You are no doubt glad to see His Majesty’s uniforms for once in you
lives, eh? Well, you may thank your colleague Handgrove for braving escape with information. In a few minutes
you will be given an opportunity to prove your loyalty by obeying an officer of the crown. Six of you who can
handle a musket, and no doubt you all can, step forward. Master-gunner serve them out with the Frenchmen’s
arms.”
While this order was being carried out he called down the quay steps, “Bring up your prisoner, and let us put an
end once and for all with this Scarecrow nonsense.”
Up the steps marched four sailors with drawn cutlasses. They had a prisoner limping in their midst, and at the
sight of him the prisoners who held the muskets cried out, “The Scarecrow!”
“The Scarecrow is taken,” laughed a woman from the back. “We are free! We are free! It is true.”
“Quiet there,” ordered the officer, as he picked up a board that had been lying near the ominous hole in the
ground. He held it up so that all who knew their letters could read.
Those who could repeated the chalk inscription to those who were too ignorant:
HERE LIES A TRAITOR
THE SCARECROW
The guards pushed the prisoner to the edge of the hole which was indeed to be his grave. He was bound and
gagged over his famous mask. Addressing the armed prisoners the officer said, “You will cover him carefully and
when I give the word, fire.”
“Don’t look so fearful now, does he?” laughed one of the armed prisoners. “Ain’t so tall and upright as he was
when bullying us.”
“Poor devil,” muttered Hart, the youngest of them. “I’ve had a bit of the torture they serve out to make men
speak and betray. They’ve no doubt given him a taste of it.”
“Quiet there,” thundered the officer. “Present arms. Stand clear from him. Fire.”
To the cries of hysterical women and frightened children the six muskets cracked. The figure of the Scarecrow
sagged forwards on his knees and toppled into the open grave.
“Pile up those muskets,” ordered the officer. “Ready with your spades, my lads, but first rip off the scarecrow’s
mask.”
The two sailors with the spades jumped into the grave and ripped off the corpse’s gag and mask.
“He’s dead all right, sir,” said one of them.
“Now all of you except the children file past this grave and look at this dead traitor’s face,” said the officer.
“Think, too, whether you were wise or foolish to betray your one-time leader.”
The prisoners in morbid curiosity hurried to the open grave. And then screams of terror broke the silence of the
chill morning. For as they looked down upon the rag-clothed corpse they saw the glazed eyes of their colleague,
Handgrove, looking up at them.
Laughing, the sailors drove them in a herd from the grave at the point of their cutlasses, and then from the quay
steps appeared the figure of the real Scarecrow.
“Fill in the grave and make his epitaph correct,” he ordered.
The officer wrote tow letters more to the writing on the board, and held it out to that they could read the added
word ‘to’.
HERE LIES A TRAITOR
TO
THE SCARECROW
“Let this be a warning to you all,” cried the scarecrow. “These sailors are my men from London. Their uniforms
were purchased by Hellspite from the junk-shops there. Disobey Monsieur Duloge again and there will be other
graves upon this quay.” Then turning to Duloge he added, “Let your men drive them back to their quarters.”
As the wretched prisoners were surrounded by the Frenchmen, who had thrown aside their ropes, they saw the
ensign being struck from the lugger’s peak, and the two spades shovelling in the earth upon the corpse.
No sooner had they gone, however, but the filling of the grave stopped at the Scarecrow’s orders, and the corpse
was lifted out and carried back aboard the lugger.
Then the grave was filled up and the board placed as a headstone. Turning to the play-acting officer the
Scarecrow whispered: “Very well done, my good Jimmie Bone. Admiral Troubridge might have spotted you, but to
the laymen you surely had the manner born.”
In the meantime, back in Dymchurch, Captain Blain’s men searched to no avail for the body of Handgrove. But
two days later they had their reward, for as Doctor Syn was supping with the Captain and describing his coach
journey down form London, Mrs. Fowey, the Vicarage housekeeper, burst into the dining-room with the dreadful
tidings that there was a body hanging from the gibbet outside the Court House.
“It must have got there after dark,” she said, “for as I passed the spot at twilight there was never a smell of a
corpse upon it.”
Rushing out to investigate, Parson and Captain cleared their way through a group of fascinated though fearful
villagers who were reading an inscription nailed to the post.
“THE SCARECROW’S COMPLIMENTS TO CAPTAIN BLAIN. IN FUTURE THE ADMIRALTY SHOULD
GUARD THEIR INFORMERS WITH MORE CARE, FOR DEAD MEN CARRY NO TALES.”
“I’ll get the Scarecrow for this,” cried the Captain.
“Dreadful,” muttered Doctor Syn, shaking his head and shuddering with horror. “Really, something should be
done.”
“Is shall be, Parson,” said the Captain. “Don’t lose heart. We’ll catch the rascal yet.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed Doctor Syn, “I wonder if you ever can.”
8
THE DANDY SLEUTHS
Since that affair at the Admiralty, when the Scarecrow had prevented the informer, Handgrove, from collecting the
Government reward for betraying the secret base in France where his contraband boats were loaded, the Nightriders
of Romney Marsh became more than ever the topic of popular conversation amongst the London gossips. The
mysterious disappearance of Handgrove had not ceased to be the chief source of wonder at the scarecrow’s skill,
when the corpse was found hanging from the common gibbet outside the Court House in Dymchurch.
Amongst people of all classes a great fear had arisen concerning the Scarecrow. The average man, whether
regaling himself in a club of fashion, a coffee -house, or a tavern, declared that if ever he had the opportunity to
betray the Scarecrow, or his men, he would be too scared to do it, since what had happened to Handgrove might and
probably would be the lot of any other who was dangerous towards the Scarecrow’s schemes. However, this was
but the opinion of the average man. A thousand golden guineas, which was now the reward offered for the
Scarecrow alive or dead, was yet a great temptation to any man of courage who happened to be desperate for hard
cash.
And such a one was Sir Harry Sales.
A young bachelor, clever, well dressed and attractive in manner as in face and form, he loved the ladies so well
that he could never bring himself down to a one and only. His friends said of him that he would never marry in case
his lady wife made him give up his gambling habits. Not that he was skilled in cards or dice, but he loved the