‘’Evenin’, Sergeant,’ said Mr. Mipps. ‘Found what you’ve been lookin’ for, or ain’t you been lookin’ today?’ The red-faced sergeant swung across the bar parlour, spurs jingling and banged a gauntleted fist upon the counter, as he called for drinks. His attitude was that of a pugnacious game-cock, which, though it did not intimidate Mr. Mipps, had the power of paralysing his enormous troopers.

‘We don’t want none of your quips and quirks, Mister Sexton,’ he snorted. ‘We’ve been out today and well you knows it. Though we didn’t find what we was lookin’ for, we finds out quite enough to help us to go on lookin’, and if I knows anything about the look in Major Faunce’s eye, we’ll be out again lookin’ tonight.’

‘Well, they do say,’ croaked the old croney in the corner, ‘that there’s none so blind as them as looks and can’t see.’ And so it went on, the yokels baiting the red-coats who generally came off worst. Indeed, had not Mrs. Waggetts’ beer been of such excellent brew, some pretty quarrels might have ensued; but its soothing qualities acted quickly on the tired Dragoons, and, putting them in good humour, the sallies were taken and returned in good part.

Lord Cullingford, used to the polished wit of the London exquisites, was bored with the crude clowning of these bumpkins, and welcomed the news that his dinner was ready in the coffee room, where he was delighted to find that the fare, though simple, was yet well cooked while the cellar list might have put most London taverns to shame.

The only other occupant of the coffee room was an officer of Dragoons who for some time was engrossed over military papers at the far end of the long table, but upon the serving-wench bringing in his dinner, he moved nearer to Lord Cullingford and the two were soon engaged in conversation. Major Faunce, although an older man and a typical soldier, possessed a manner both frank and engaging, and Lord Cullingford was relieved to find someone of his own class who seemed eager to converse upon the one thing which his lordship most wished to hear — namely, the Scarecrow.

‘Though I have been over here but a week,’ Major Faunce explained, ‘I have learned to appreciate the difficulties before me. The ways of the Scarecrow and his gang are devilish tricky, as my own brother knew to his cost. Many years ago that was, too, and since then the organization has been so built up that I don’t believe anyone will stop it. Still, orders, you know. Though as far as I’m concerned I shall be glad when I’m ordered to France, for I’d rather fight the Frenchies than have to deal with this hole-and-corner business.’

Which statement served to plunge Lord Cullingford back into his former despondency. And it was not until the Major said that he had received information that there was to be a run tonight and that he hoped for some action, that he saw again some ray of hope, and indeed his spirits soared when the Major laughingly suggested that if he wanted a good ride and had no objection to jumping a dyke or two, he might care to come along and see something of the Scarecrow’s work.

‘Though, understand me, sir,’ concluded the Major, ‘I cannot promise that we shall see a thing.’ This offer Lord Cullingford accepted eagerly, though protesting that having ridden from London that day, his acceptance must depend upon the condition of his mare. And warming to the subject, having for some time been in sore need of a confidant, he found himself blurting out the full extent of his difficulties and the reason of his visit to Dymchurch.

The kindly soldier treated him as he might have done a somewhat foolish younger brother, and though he may have been secretly amused at the thought of this stripling confronting the Scarecrow and succeeding where so many accomplished men had failed, he did not show it.

‘Let the youngster ride out with us tonight,’ he thought, ‘and he’ll soon see the impossibility of succeeding, and go squealing back to London with his tail between his legs.’

So he treated the boy’s confidences in a sensible way, proffering the loan of one of his own chargers if the mare was spent.

And so it was that some hours later Lord Cullingford, freshly mounted, rode with the Dragoons. Trotting at Major Faunce’s side he felt an exhilaration he had not experienced before. This was a different type of horsemanship to the foppish caracoles he was accustomed to in London, and a fresh loathing of his squandered opportunities and meaningless life seized him. He looked back at the troop, and the moon, appearing from behind the driven clouds, flashed on breastplates and trappings and lit up the crested helmets, under which the faces of the men held firm by tightened chin-straps were set into lines of determination and became to Cullingford symbols of purpose.

Although for some time they encountered nothing tangible, yet there was an air of expectancy on the Marsh that night, as if behind the shifting spirals of low-lying mist strange activities were about to be set in motion. Even the cries of the night-birds sounded ominous, and seemed to be woven into some furtive pattern, as if all were awaiting a master signal. The cry of a curlew surprisingly near was echoed at intervals into the far distance, each mocking note being answered back by the satirical hootings of an owl, so that the soldiers felt as if they were being made the target of some vast jest.

As indeed they were; for though the purpose of the night’s mobility was but a practice for the smugglers, and a valuable one at that, since it enabled them to test, without the risk of losing contraband, the best way to tackle the ‘run proper’, yet they saw to it that the Dragoons were fooled into thinking that this exercise was the real thing. So following false trails the soldiers were led on by a tantalizing will-o’-the-wisp, in and out the shining patchwork of the moonlit dykes.

And then from lofty Aldington that towered above them there shot to the skies a mighty flame. The beacon had been lit. Signal received — the whole Marsh came to life. Luggers off-shore put in, and empty barrels were swung into place. Strings of pack-ponies appeared, and, quickly loaded, were herded off in various directions, whilst circling the whole manœuvre were the Nightriders, hooded and masked, and mounted on the swiftest horses and uttering wild cries, and looking like a host of demon riders, enough to quell the stoutest heart.

Major Faunce, swinging his sabre as signal for attack, called to his men, and the whole troop charged; yet as hard as they rode, the Nightriders, led by the Scarecrow on his plunging black horse, Gehenna, outpaced and outwitted them. Across flat fields and over dykes went this mad cavalcade, till the bewildered Dragoons, breaking formation and riding each man for himself, were scattered, and the whole Marsh was in confusion. Shots were fired, and terrified sheep stampeded under the whistling bullets, hampering the cursing horsemen.

It was during this wild skirmish that Lord Cullingford, riding a horse he did not know, misjudged a jump and was heavily thrown.

Upon regaining consciousness, his first impression was that this must be Death, and worse, it must be Hell. He was in the Infernal Regions, surrounded by demons and ghouls, and confronted by the Archfiend himself. His lordship closed his eyes, hoping the nightmare would vanish, but on hearing a harsh voice cry out ‘Next,’ he opened them again, thinking that indeed his time had come. The place in which he found himself seemed to be a huge brick oven, whose circular wall tapered high above him into a narrow chimney and around him some sort of trial seemed to be taking place by torchlight. He was lying propped up by huge bolsters of sackcloth, which smelt most strongly of hops. Indeed, had he but known it, Lord Cullingford was in an oast-house and watching, what many a man would have given his eyes to see, a trial of miscreants conducted by the Scarecrow. Upon two of the prisoners sentence was being passed, and when his lordship recovered his senses the voice of the Archfiend was delivering the verdict and pronouncing punishment.