second arrival was a wiry old fellow, who surveyed Knarler critically with sharp eyes.
“I am Doctor Syn, Vicar of Dymchurch, Mister Knarler, and this is my Sexton, Mipps. Look, my good Mipps,
what I have achieved. A most illuminating example of the Roman period.”
The little man looked at it with disgust. “It ain’t much good, sir, surely? It looks to me broke.”
“You keep your trap shut,” warned Knarler. “If the gentleman likes it, what’s that to you? I’ll sell him some
more at the same price. I can do with the other half of this guinea-piece.”
“Half a spade?” echoed Mipps. “And I has to dig graves for a eightpence. Something wrong somewhere.”
“Nothing is wrong,” replied Syn. “In fact, everything is right if Mister Knarler of Cranbrook will only do me a
favour.”
“Mister Knarler of Cranbrook,” repeated the digger. “You seem to have heard about me somehow.”
“Do you know him, sir?” asked Mipps.
“I do, I do,” went on the Vicar with enthusiasm. “He is the man who can remove mountains, and make rough
places plain. Mister Knarler, you can help me, and then yourself to some more of my gold.”
“Let’s have it, and tell me what,” said Knarler.
“This find from Roman days,” whispered the Vicar, “is but the key to further treasures of equal value. If you will
only dig as I ask you, how rich you can grow.”
“I has to dig the lot away, so may as well clear the bit you want done first.”
“I knew I should like you, Mister Knarler,” laughed the Vicar. “They tell me you have no fear of this Scarecrow
that has banned the moving of this hill. Well, I applaud your courage. I attack the Scarecrow, too, don’t I Mipps?
Yes, Mister Knarler, I preach against him from my pulpit.”
“And me always telling you not to, too,” put in Mipps.
“Now see her,” continued the Vicar. “This piece of pottery is part of a military wash pot. Finding it in the
hollow there, tells me that in the face of the cliff behind it here we shall uncover
the remains of a Roman captain. Clear all this grass, Knarler, and then cut the chalk into a level face. I have no
doubt but that we shall find a tomb. All sorts of things buried with him. Sword, buckler, his personal properties,
like wine flagon, milk-jug”
“And the rest of the wash-pot?” suggested Mipps.
“I think not, Mipps,” corrected the Parson. “That should be where this piece came from, at his feet. He will be
buried standing to attention. How splendid. If Mister Knarler works hard we shall see a dead man upon the face of
the chalk. I will pace out where you must dig. From here to here. Show me a nice white face of cliff, and then Ill
come along and help you. We’ll have a corpse to show for our pains. Work well, Knarler. I fear I must leave you
now for my duty. Clear the chalk, my good man.”
“I will, and you of guineas, too, I hopes, sir. If his milk-jug’s there, you’ll have it and the rest of the wash-pot,
too.”
They left him hard at work.
Out of sight and at the bottom of the Knoll, Doctor Syn mounted his fat white pony that had been peacefully
grazing. Mipps followed suit upon the churchyard donkey. As they rode off at a walk Mipps saw the piece of
pottery that had cost his master half a guinea.
“Wait, sir,” cried Mipps. “you’ve gone and dropt your wash-pot. I’ll pick it up.”
“Not worth the carrying,” replied Syn. “Nothing Roman about it. Modern. Dumped there not more than a year
or so.”
“Then why pay gold for it?” whined Mipps.
“Because, as you know, the Scarecrow pays well for any work he wants done. And he happens to want a white
facing of chalk upon the sea side o f the Knoll. When that is done the work must be stopped, as we agreed it must be
stopped. It is only that I have changed my plans slightly. Ride close beside me and you shall hear.”
Meanwhile Knarler worked on feverishly, determined to find the Roman captain and his belongings that very
day. The crazy Parson would pay him well. If not he would smash up such treasure as he found under his eyes
unless the pay was double. The Parson would fall for such a threat. Although he did not waste time in eating, he
constantly fortified his strength with copious gulps of spirit. By the time the sun set in Fairlight Bay he was drunk.
But he worked on, eyeing with pleasure the growing whiteness of the uncovered chalk. At twilight the Parson
visited him, and after congratulations, encouraged him to go on.
“Plenty of time,” growled the exhausted drunkard.
“But there is not,” contradicted the Parson. “Farmer Finn had had a message from the Admiralty warning him to
allay proceedings till Whitehall has looked into things. I had this from Finn himself. He is still obstinate, but their
appeal to his loyalty has weakened him, It is not-pleasant to do a disservice to your country, and this landmark is of
value when we are at war with the French yonder.”
“Don’t fret, sir,” chuckled the digger. “I’ll get that Roman before downing tools.”
When Doctor Syn had gone, he drank more and worked harder. As the darkness deepened and the red in the west
faded into black, he vowed that he’d work on in the gloom till the moon rose over the sea to give him light. As the
Marsh turned black beneath him he quite welcomed the scattered little lights that began to twinkle up at him from
distant farms and cottages. Ship’s lanterns, too, moved slowly out on the dis tant fairway of the Channel.
He felt angry with himself for being capable of feeling lonely. He longed to see even the scowling faces eyeing
him under the lights of the ‘Walnut Tree’ snug parlour. So he drank more till he glowed inwardly into a savage
rage. Then his inflamed brain played tricks with him. It was not the sheep, for they were huddled together at the
foot of the Knoll. Once he imagined that he saw horsemen below him on the level whose faces shone pale as they
galloped. Cursing himself for a fool, he faced the whiteness of the chalk: drank deeper and worked on, his legs
frequently giving under him as he swung his pick with greater effort. The moon would soon be up, he told himself.
Meanwhile, at the Vicarage of Dymchurch, Doctor Syn expressed mild surprise when his guest, Captain Blain,
refused to linger over the port. His Bos’n was awaiting him, and he must go at once, he explained.
“Is it that you have heard rumours of a ‘run’, Captain?” asked the Parson anxiously.
“No, Doctor Syn,” replied the Captain. “But I am taking no chance of losing a sight of the Scarecrow, and since
he is so hot against this removal of the Knoll he may take steps in the matter. I think he may be attracted to the spot.
The moon will rise. I shall hide and through my spyglass get a view of him perhaps.”
The moment he had gone, Syn summoned Mipps from the kitchen.
“Just as I guessed,” he whispered. “The Captain has gone with the Bos’n, and I can play my prank on him and
punish this interfering Knarler at the same time. Is all ready?”
Mipps held out his left hand, began counting off items, “Strong rope attached to a sea-saving belt. Four lengths
of thin cord. Two for arms. Two for legs. And we both knows the naval semaphore code. We’ve only to go.
Jimmie Bone is waiting for us with the horses and things, and the other lads at Aldington.”
When the moon rose Captain Blain saw a strange sight upon the Knoll. Against the whiteness of the new-cut
chalk stood out the black figure of the Scarecrow.
“Look,” he whispered to the Bos’n. “He’s doing it again. It says”—slowly he spelt out the sentence—“THE