another wait he reappeared, craving the audience’s indulgence.

“The fact is, my lords, ladies and gentlemen,” he said solemnly, “our principal actor appears to have disappeared.

What’s more, he seems to have took off Miss Pembury with awaiting to step forward at the conclusion of his play

to accept your kind applause. He’s gone, too. Perhaps he’s a-chaperoning Miss Pembury, for the back door is open

on to the terrace.”

Suddenly Captain blain sprang to his feet. “Mr. Mipps,” he cried out, “who was acting the part of the Devil?”

“We ain’t supposed to tell,” replied Mipps, “but if you must know it was one of them Uptons. Good, too.”

“Was it?” replied the Captain. “Aye and he may be ‘was’ unless we’re quick. Sir Henry Pembury, I believe the

Scarecrow has kept his word. I believe he has carried off your daughter under our noses. Quick, men. Fall in and

follow me.”

There followed a general stampede of those brave enough to venture out of the door to the terrace. The King’s

men with drawn cutlasses pushed their way out, and the first sight that met their eyes was a dishevelled Miss Fan

lying in the snow on the terrace steps.

Captain Blain seized hold of her and gave her a rough shaking as he shouted, “Where did he go?”

Miss Fan pointed to a great tree at the foot of the terrace and then uttering a scream, fainted.

Leaving his heavy burden to be taken care of by others who were thronging out on to the terrace, the Captain,

followed by his men, ran down the steps, and stumbled through the thick snow to the tree in question, where they

found Doctor Syn and the eldest young Upton lashed to the trunk with coils of rope.

And away down the hill towards the Marsh they saw the hoof-marks of a horse.

Before the old Doctor could recover his speech, young Upton explained.

“We’ve been here for some minutes. We were seized, the Doctor and me, and dragged out here. It was Nightriders because we saw the great black horse, standing with three others which another Nightrider held. Presently

out comes the Scarecrow with Miss Pembury in his arms. He seemed to be disentangling himself from her arms

which were clutched round his neck. He finally got free of her and laid her in the snow, and then they all mounted

and rode off single file down towards the Marsh.”

When Doctor Syn recovered later in the castle, he smiled at Sir Henry and said: “You were right , sir. I was

punished for making fun of the Scarecrow. What I cannot make out though is how did the rascal play his part so

well according to you.”

“Most likely he watched it last night in the Dymchurch Court House,” suggested the Captain. “He was, in my

opinion, a better actor than poor young Upton.”

The next day Doctor Syn went out though the snow to visit a dying woman. On the way back, however,

unknown to anyone, he visited Jimmie Bone, the Highwayman, in the Scarecrow’s hidden stable.

“I hear, my good friend,” laughed the Doctor, “that your performance was magnificent. I hope you enjoyed it as

much as the audience.”

“My very revered Scarecrow,” replied the Highwayman, “had I known all, I fear I should not have obeyed you.

That Pembury woman, when I told her that I was the scarecrow in truth, clung to me tighter than ever. I can feel her

heart beating against me now. I always had an eye for a pretty wench, but oh, that woman!”

“Avoid all such conceit,” reproved the Parson. “No doubt she clung to you in order to get the thousand guineas

on the Scarecrow’s head. You must not misinterpret her motive.”

“Wee, I’ll never hold up old Pembury’s coach again, in case she embraces me again.” Laughed the Highwayman.

10

THE SCARECROW’S RIVAL

Although the Scarecrow did not tolerate independent smuggling in his territory, and compelled any man or gang of

men with such propensities to join his band of Nightriders or take the consequences, he had a soft spot for “old

Katie,” and made it possible for her to earn good money by the smuggling of Hollands.

“Old Katie” lived by herself in a little cottage at St. Mary’s-on-the-Marsh. Although she had turned seventy, she

was as strong as a horse and fearless. Many a Marsh farmhand or fisherman who displeased her, had received a

blow on the nose that had staggered him and left ‘Old Katie’ victorious, since no retaliation was permitted by order

of the Scarecrow who had proclaimed her as ‘an old body that was to be left alone.’ Maybe she took advantage of

this privilege, for she herself left nobody alone, and would get what she wanted out of anybody, either by the sheer

strength of her arm or through her engaging personality. She could out-talk the very devil himself, as she often

boasted, ‘and when I can’t, I hits.’ Despite this war-like tendency the old woman was popular, not only for her

rough humor and quick retorts, but for what she could do for people in need.

Now amongst a large section of human beings there is no need so persistent as the craving for strong drink, and

although most of the ablebodied men on Romney Marsh worked in secret for the Scarecrow, and were able to get for

themselves and families plenty of spirits as part of their payment, there were many who were not so fortunate.

Sickly men whose strength could not cope with the laborious tub-carrying: women whose menfolk would have

nothing to do with the Free Traders, either for fear of the scaffold, or though loyalty to the Government; and then

those poor people who could not afford to buy spirits that were taxed.

To such folk ‘Old Katie’ was a ministering angel, and her jolly red face and vast bulk were eagerly looked for,

since nobody ever suspected that she came in for anything else but a chat. To the sick and depressed she was always

welcome, because she had the latest gossip of the neighborhood, and could embroider upon it in the drollest fashion.

But it was what Katie carried underneath the folds of her voluminous skirt and petticoats that made her most

welcome. This was a pair of bladders each capable of holding a gallon of the best Hollands. They were ingeniously

made with a three-inch tube in their necks made out of cuttings of elder boughs, the pith taken out and vent pegs

inserted for corks. ‘Old Katie’ found this a handier contrivance than a bottle or keg could be, since it was lighter to

carry, and whether full or empty, adapted itself to her figure.

Very often, when leaving her cottage for her Dymchurch clients, with her bladders full, she would encounter that

sympathetic Vicar, Doctor Syn, who would ask her how she did, and whither bound.

“Oh, God bless you, Parson,” the old rascal would answer, curtseying with the greatest difficulty by reason of the

bladders, “and preserve you from ever being afflicted with the dropsy like ‘Old Katie’. Aye, it’s my dropsy you can

walk it down after a bit. I calls in and sees someone for a sit down when I gets tired, and by the time I gets home I

seems to have dispersed the liquid, and I feels thinner then.”

When Doctor Syn used to suggest that the suffer should consult Doctor Pepper, who could no doubt relieve her,

she would answer: “Not me. I’ll come to you, Parson, for the good of my soul, but not to him for my dropsy. I

knows it better than what he can.”

“Well, Katie, I don’t always agree with him myself,” the Vicar would answer. “After all, by our own experience

we should know what is best for our own bodies. Now some people maintain that any strong drink is bad for you

complaint, and so it is if taken to excess, but in moderation, taken purely medicinally, I should recommend you try a

little drop of good Hollands,. Believe me it is a very comforting drink, and if you would care to follow my