“I sometimes suspect you of being a bloodthirsty little rascal, my good Mipps,” said the Vicar reprovingly.
Mipps answered stoutly, “If I thought that my pet spider, Horace, was annoying you, sir, I’d tread on him, and
not feel sorry neither.”
Syn laughed. “I must confess that I do not share your affection for Horace, but every man to his tastes. Since
you like spiders and I don’t, no doubt I am the loser. Does he keep well, by the way? I have neglected to inquire
after him lately, I think.”
“As fat as ever, and could do with a shave on all eight legs,” said Mipps with enthusiasm.
“I fear he would not last long were I to be accommodated in your hammock,” laughed the Doctor. “I could sleep
sounder in the condemned cell at Newgate than in proximity with that brute.”
“Oh, I likes to see Horace run out and squint at me from the beam above me,” went on Mipps.
“Never any tremors that he might fall upon you?” asked the Vicar.
“He wouldn’t hurt hisself if he was to fall from the rigging,” replied Mipps seriously. “But talking of Newgate, if
my hands ain’t as black as Newgate knocker. Must have been sitting down there in the corner.”
“Mrs. Fowey would not take that as a compliment,” laughed the Vicar. “But run along and wash ‘em at the
pump, and if she catches you at it tell her that it was dirt from the bell-rope when you pulled it for service. We must
not fall out with our housekeeper.”
Mipps chuckled and withdrew. Doctor Syn took from a drawer a sheaf of foolscap. On the top page of it were
noted ideas for his next Sunday’s sermon. But the Vicar did not look at them. He produced a tiny piece of
parchment from another drawer, and laid it upon the sermon paper. He then selected the finest pointed quill from a
silver tray, and began to write in minute letters instructions in French for his agent, Monsieur Duloge, who managed
the Scarecrow’s organization across the Channel. Before he had finished this, Mipps returned to the study, and was
asked to wait.
The vicar chuckled as he wrote, and when the ink was dry he rolled the tiny missive tightly and said: “I think the
fashioning of these ropes will be an artifice after our fat dandy’s heart. I have also suggested the possibility of spare
running-blocks with sheaves made of tobacco pressed very hard, instead of wood. Ever since I gave him the notion
of shipping logs, hollowed out and packed with tobacco, he has been seeking in vain for fresh inspiration. Duloge is
one of those lazy people who seems incapable of thinking out original things in his own head, but he is a rare one for
perfecting the ideas of others. Let this go over with the onion-boy, and g ood luck to our cargo of bones.”
The onion-boy duly arrived upon the following morning, and carried back Doctor Syn’s orders, signed by the
figure of the Scarecrow. From the same bulb which concealed this list of instructions there had come over a note in
French to the effect that a large consignment of bones was awaiting the empty casks for their shipment, and although
the Plough and the Strawberry would only be delayed one day for the packing, the Scarecrow must not expect the
next big run on their armed fleet for at least three weeks, for as the Scarecrow had himself pointed out, the vessels
had been hard worked of late, and all keels needed careening. This job was now in hand and was a necessity in
order to maintain the maximum of speed required for showing fast vanishing sterns to the revenue cutters. This
meant a waiting time for the Scarecrow’s men on the Marsh, so that things moved quietly enough in Dymchurch,
and the Captain’s men had a slack time of it too, with no rumours of a ‘run’ to stir them into action.
The Captain himself was well content to wait, knowing that he would at least be able to show his zeal to the
Admiralty just as soon as the casks of bones appeared from France. This proof of his ability he needed badly, for he
had already been rapped over the knuckles by his chiefs at Whitehall for not showing any victory against the
smugglers. He had also been reproved privately by the Admiral at Dover, who resented being worried by the
bigwigs of London. And now, even the resident Revenue men at Dymchurch began to talk of his lack of initiative.
But Blain was a had man, and his shoulders were broad enough to bear the burden of abuse, for he was confident
that in the long run he would show the bigwigs a thing or two.
The meeting between the Bos’n and George Lee, as arranged by the Captain, was duly kept upon the Thursday
evening, when the cooper reported that the casks were not only finished, but were awaiting shipment that very night,
and that the Plough and the Strawberry would be ready to leave the wharf on the early morning tide. George Lee
was also able to inform the Bos’n of the approximate date for their return with the cargo. This he had learned from
the longshoremen.
This satisfactory news from the ‘Red Lion’ in Hythe caused the Captain to show his good faith towards his
informant, by sending word to the Press Gang, who were being very busy along the coast, that although the young
cooper might appear to them as a profitable victim, he was on no account to be touched, as he was secretly aiding
the Admiralty by procuring certain information that was needed.
Unaware of this himself George Lee came into trouble from another source, but one from which Doctor Syn was
eventually able to free him.
As it transpired later, someone in Dymchurch had seen the cooper enter the Vicarage with the Captain and
Doctor Syn, and having watched the house saw him later come out and walk away with the officer, engaged in
earnest conversation. Inquiries form the Henley family established the fact that George’s visit had nothing to do
with his wedding, since the girl had refused, so far, to set any date concerning that ceremony.
The man’s story spread till certain members of the Scarecrow’s gang put two and two together. Quickly
suspicious they came to the conclusion that since the Captain and Doctor Syn were known to be the two archenemies of the Scarecrow and therefore of themselves, George Lee must be guilty of carrying secret information
against them, and being in the know about the proposed tobacco run concealed in the cargo of bones, they guessed,
perhaps naturally, that the news was out about the casks, and given away to their enemies by the young cooper.
Now as there had been no call from the Scarecrow to meet in full conclave at the deserted Oast House at
Doubledyke Farm, a section of the gang resolved to take the matter into their own hands, arguing that it would
delight the Scarecrow to find that an unknown enemy had not only been discovered, but very severely punished.
It happened to be customary for the lovesick young cooper to repair to the ‘Red Lion’, and to whistle under her
window after she had been dispatched to bed, in the fond hope that she might be coyly encouraged to appear at the
casement and signal, or better still whisper personally, a fond good-night.
When Polly Henley felt in a romantic mood herself, she would, if it seemed safe, actually open the casement of
her bedchamber which looked not upon a side alleyway, in order to whisper sweet nothings to the upturned face of
her swain.
Now this Friday night happened to be one of a p/itch-dark sky, and there was no artificial light in the alleyway.
No lamp upon the wall. The only light which could cheer the sinister passage against the inn wall was from Polly’s
little candlelight, which shone through her small lead-rimmed casement.
Having heard the landlady about on the staircase, Polly contented herself, on this occasion, with appearing at the