your good self into a high pother which Doctor Sennacharib Pepper declares is so bad for you, and so I came to help
you by erasing the letters which have caused you so much ado.”
The Squire picked up the letter from the table and shook it in the air. “This is the most impertinent letter I have
ever received in my life, Doctor Syn. I should have thrown it into that fire on my first reading of it, but that the
sheer effrontery of the words makes me read it over and over again.”
“Then, sir, refrain from reading it any more,” said Doctor Syn in a soothing tone. “This is a time of year when all
good men like your honored self should be ready to hold out the hand of forgiveness to his worst enemy.”
“That I will never do in this case,” cried the Squire. ‘Not even upon the advice of a saint like yourself, Reverend
Sir. The writer is one that I hate, and shall always hate most fiercely. A traitor and an unmitigated scoundrel.”
“Oh, come now, Sir Henry,” went on the Vicar. “I think you wrong him there, upon my soul. No one who
knows anything of him could question his bravery.”
“Many a scoundrel has been brave,” interrupted the Squire.
“And as to his being a traitor,” went on the parson, “his whole life’s career gives the lie to that.”
“Oh, aye,” nodded the Squire sarcastically. “He’s loyal enough to his own men it is said, but then that is only to
his own advantage. This letter to my mind is the saucy culmination of a million impertinences in a scandalous
career.”
“Now listen, sir,” urged Doctor Syn. “I bring you a written apology from Captain Blain, and”
“Damn the Captain and his apologies too,” shouted the Squire.
“I am sorry you take it so badly,’ replied the Parson.
“The Captain is small fry and don’t matter a damn, Parson,” retorted Sir Henry.
“He is at least big enough, sir to own his fault against you and ask pardon,” argued the Vicar. “And to prove my
words I have here a letter which I must ask you to read.”
“I’ll read no more letters,” cried the Squire with rising irritation. “This one is quite enough to last me a lifetime.”
“But I say that you should forget about it, sir, in view of the other letter I now bring you.”
“Now see here, Doctor Syn. And I will endeavor to be calm while I convince you that you have no idea what
you are talking about. The Captain’s letter was merely silly.”
“And he owns so much in this second one,” said the Vicar.
“But this letter here,” continued the Squire, “is not silly. It is terrifying. Yes, Parson, it is exasperating but
terrifying too. And it is not from that disgruntled Captain who is trying to catch the Scarecrow while eating your
good fare at Dymchurch Vicarage. No, it is not from that failure to catch the scoundrel and his smuggling gang, but
it is from HIM. Him himself. I mean HE himself, or what is it?”
“But who is HIM or he himself?” asked the bewildered Parson.
“The Scarecrow, Doctor Syn,” explain ed the Squire. “I keep telling you that his letter in not from Captain Blain
or whatever his name is, but from the Scarecrow, and its impertinence is, as I have said, terrifying.”
“Another letter from the Scarecrow?” asked Doctor Syn.
“Aye, Parson, and worse than the last one I received from him, as you will agree when you hear it, which you
shall.”
“Let me see; the last one you had from him,” said the Vicar, “was a reproof that you had not invited him to the
hunt with the Prince of Wales, and stating that he intended to come, which he did, and much to the Prince’s
amusement. That was bad enough, so please let me know what can be worse.”
“He now invites himself into my house,” replied the Squire. “Aye, he intends to visit Lympne Castle without an
invitation. Before it was at least out of doors. This time it will be within doors. Think of my unmarried daughters.
The danger is frightful.”
With an effort Doctor Syn repressed the smile which he felt inwardly at the thought of the Scarecrow having
designs upon anything so unattractive as the Squire’s unwieldy daughters. Aloud he said: “I think you may dismiss
any fear of harm in that direction. Your young ladies have too many gallant followers, I should hope. So many who
would protect them with their lives.”
“Precious little good that would be,” snorted the Squire. “None knows better than we that the Scarecrow does
what he says he will and diddles everyone. Here, read the letter for yourself, and tell me what to do.”
Doctor Syn adjusted his spectacles and smoothed out the paper which the Squire had crumpled in his rage. It was
written in the usual scrawl that never had failed to disturb its receiver. A rough sketch of a scarecrow was the
signature. The Doctor read it aloud.
“We are informed that as Lord of Lympne Castle you have asked rich and poor alike to your Christmas
junketing. Thanks to the poor attempts to put down the contraband traffic by all concerned, we count ourselves
amongst the rich of this district. We therefore have been expecting to hear from you. Unless you wish us to attend
in the wrong spirit, you had best nail and invitation to us upon the Lympne Hill signpost. When hunting with the
Prince of Wales I did not have the honor of meeting your beautiful daughters, a pleasure I am looking forward to. It
will also be a pleasure to drink a toast beneath the rafters of your historic home.”
“And what do you think of that?” gasped the Squire, as though he had only just learned the contents which he
knew by heart.
“I think that Captain Blain will now certainly accept your invitation,” replied the Doctor. “His men will give
confidence to us all by their presence, and he’ll sit through the play twice without boredom if he thinks he has a
chance of getting his prey.”
“You think the Scarecrow will come, as he says?” asked the Squire.
The Doctor laughed and shook his head. “No, sir, I think the whole thing is a decoy to get the King’s men to the
junketing, as he calls it, in order that he may have a free hand upon the Marsh. But I advise you not to let Captain
Blain think that, for then he will not attend, and in case of accidents it will be as well to have your guests protected
from the scoundrel. Though come to think of it, sir, the rascally Scarecrow is too wise to prepare such a trap for
himself and then, walk boldly into it.”
“Yes, yes, but that’s all very well,” said the Squire testily. “Just the thing he’d enjoy. Prepare a trap, as you say,
and walk into it, and then have the laugh of us all by walking out of it again.”
“I think you will find that I am right this time,” replied the Doctor. “Our play will go through without any
disaster, because the Scarecrow will be busy shifting kegs of brandy on the beach. He will certainly have cause of a
fresh quarrel with me, if he should see the play, for I am afraid that as author I have made many biting allusions
against him, and the great Finale is framed especially to make him the laughingstock of all that are good and true.”
“But is that quite wise for your own safety, Doctor?” asked the Squire. “Even though he is not at the
performance, as you think, he will be sure to hear of it, when it will be discussed by everybody. I think I should
leave the Scarecrow out of it.”
“I am too vain an author, sir,” replied the smiling Vicar. “I could not think of cutting out the best scene in my
play.”
Before taking his leave, Doctor Syn penned a generous acceptance of Captain Blain’s apology which the Squire