The COURAGEOUS EXPLOITS OF DOCTOR SYN - Thorndike Russell (книги онлайн полные TXT) 📗
Syn read on,” to remind him that he has not sent me an invitation to meet the Prince of Wales. Of all your guests I
am probably the only one he has ever heard of or would care to meet. As the best rider of Romney Marsh and the
best mounted, I shall be a credit to you. Nail my invitation to the gibbet post of Dymchurch. I will collect it. If you
fail to do so, the worst will happen, and in any case I am determined to ride in your Royal Hunt.”
The signature was a crude drawing of a scarecrow, and by the time Doctor Syn had reached it, Sir Henry was
repeating his words like a bewildered schoolboy.
“And now what am I to do?” he asked pathetically.
“Knowing the Scarecrow to be a creature of his word,” replied Syn, “I can only suggest that you do what he
asks.”
“You mean invite him?” gasped the Squire.
“I think he will come if you don’t,” said the Vicar.
“But he would be walking into a trap,” said the Squire. “He would not dare.”
“He has dared a good deal, as we know to our coast,” went on the vicar. “Are all your invitation sent out?”
Sir Henry went to a bureau and handed Doctor Syn a list of names. “I have sent all these that are marked, and the
others will be sent today.”
“Has it occurred to you sir, that the Scarecrow may be one of these gentlemen not yet asked? Since none of us
know who he is, it is obvious we would not recognize him if he comes.” Doctor Syn looked at the list and then
added: “May I have a copy of these guests? I would like to consider them one by one at leisure.”
The Squire of Lympne assenting, doctor Syn sat down and made a copy of the list, and then under his host’s
direction, marking off those who were to follow the hounds.
On the ride back to Dymchurch, Doctor Syn gave this list to Mipps saying, “Our next ‘run’ is on the night of the
Prince’s arrival. The Meet is on the following morning. The scarecrow will borrow all horses from these stables,
with the exception of the Prince’s chestnut. I only wish that animal to be fresh, so let the warning go out as usual to
open all stable doors, especially these. Warn all grooms in our power, for I know they would rather fail their
masters for the hunt than the Scarecrow. They will remember that those who have failed us in the past have
disappeared into the mist.”
Whatever may be said about the Scarecrow’s secrecy, in that not one of his followers save tow, Mipps and
Highwayman, knew who he was, his methods of challenge were always in the open. The night before the Prince’s
arrival at Lympne Castle, the Scarecrow’s chalk effigy was scrawled upon all the stable doors, including those of the
gentry who were providing mounts for the Royal Hunt.
The grooms concerned knew that it was to their advantage to betray their masters rather than to play false with
the mysterious being who could put many guineas in their purses by borrowing their masters’ cattle. He never stole
the horses. No. They were all returned before the dawn, sweated and muddy maybe, but with a secret bag of money
in their mangers. Such head stablemen who had defied the chalk order to open the stable doors, had mysteriously
disappeared, so their philosophy was rather to make suck monies as they could instead of wreaking their humble
homes. That this particular hunt was a Royal one weighed not a jot with them. They were loyal to the master they
dreaded. The master who was the most good to them and their families, for the Scarecrow never failed those who
were faithful, and gave them higher payment than the squires they served. And they were more than well paid for
the extra grooming they were bound to do.
Unfortunately no amount of horse-care could make the animals fresh after the gruelling riding of a Scarecrow’s
‘run’.
And the scarecrow had seen to it that this particular ‘run’ was harder than ever on the horses.
Every member of the Hunt was furious to find after the first gallop that all the ginger had gone out of his mount.
Not so the Prince. Three miles hard riding showed His Royal Highness that he had a mount in Colindale that could
outstrip them all.
Sir Antony had shown the greatest skill in arranging the course. Two kills, which saw the pack still fresh but the
horses tired, and then the third fox broke cover, and it was from this cunning fellow that the master planned to get
the run of the day; a fox that could be depended on to give the pack a long, long course. For the first time in his life
the Prince found that his riding and his alone could hold the pack. For the first time, too, he found himself riding
alone, unattended. One by one the others had dropped out, either worn with terrific pace or come to grief at the
stretched jumps over the countless dykes. Twice the old fox led them to the hills and down again, and then once
more in and out, doubling the dyke-cut fields.
When dusk fell the Prince was far out of sight from his followers, and the old fox still led the pace, but it was
across the Kent Ditch and away into Sussex that he showed first signs of exhaustion. The Prince’s excitement was
then redoubled, for he saw the kill in sight, and the honour of being alone. He had shown these Kent squires what
riding was. His voice was hoarse with halloing when he heard that at first he thought was his own echo. Whenever
he cried out to the hounds, a derisive answer came from the mist behind him. And then he heard above the tongue
of the pack, and thundering of hooves that did not belong to Colindale, and he realized that another huntsman was
pressing up behind him.
Determined not to be cheated at the last moment of the honour for which he had striven so hard, His Royal
Highness pricked Colindale forward desperately. As a huntsman he resented being robbed of his line kill, and as
Heir Apparent he was exceedingly displeased at the derisive laughter coming nearer and nearer from his pursuer.
In full cry the pack was hidden in the mist ahead, and the Prince kept glancing back for a sight of his rival.
Catching a glimpse of a magnificent wild head of a coal-black horse, he shouted haughtily to the rider to rein back.
With another scornful laugh the rider’s answer was to press alongside Colindale, and the Prince saw the rider’s face,
which gave him such a shock that he all but lost his seat. It was a demon horseman with a hideous face that shone
like phosphorus in the mist, and his clothes were wild black rags that streamed behind him as he rode. Keeping pace
easily beside him, the figure croaked out: “The fox ahead has been named the Devil Fox of Romney Marsh, and no
one shall take his brush but I the scarecrow. You may tell the Lord of Lympne that you have had the honour of
riding neck to neck with the best horseman of the county. Farewell.”
The aspiration streaked forwards, and as Colindale screamed with terror, disappeared in the mist ahead.
After the scream the Prince found that the spirit had gone out of Colindale, and he had the greatest difficulty in
urging the poor beast forward. Ahead in the mist could be heard the cries of the kill, and the Prince guesses rightly
that it was taking place on the summit of a grassy knoll confronting him. Dismounting he led the unwilling
Colindale up the slope, and in doing so climbed out of the lowlying mist.
It was a strange sight for the Heir Apparent. Above the pack who were fighting for their share of the hard -won
spoil stood the terrible figure of the Scarecrow, with a blooded hunting-knife in one hand and a whip and the brush
in the other. Behind him stood his great black horse, Gehenna.
On seeing the Prince, the Scarecrow bowed, and said in a deep, croaking voice: “I am desolated to rob Your
