‘A WARNING TO ALL TRAITORS ON THE MARSH.’ No doubt who wrote it either, for underneath so all could understand, a crude but vivid drawing of a Scarecrow.

It was fortunate for Mrs. Honeyballs that her lifelong study of every nook and cranny in the village stood her in good stead, or hampered by her apron she would most certainly have come to grief. As it was, with the instinct of a homing pigeon she was able to travel thus blindfold at an incredible speed, finally coming to rest outside the Vicarage back door, where she was able to gasp, ‘Thank goodness, here’s the back door — never thought I’d get here,’ as she took the protective covering from her head, and decorously straightened herself before entering the ‘privilege to work there’. Upon entering, however, she promptly bumped into Mr. Mipps, who was coming out, and this sent her into a paroxysm of the trembles.

‘Oh, Mr. Mipps,’ she cried, throwing her arms about him and well-nigh suffocating the bewildered little Sexton, ‘never so pleased to see you. Oh, what a fright I had. Never thought I’d get here. Comin’ round the corner, thought I’d see the usual — but hangin’ in the Court Yard — glad it didn’t chase me. Can I have a brandy?’

From the hidden regions of her capacious bosom, the muffled voice of the Sexton plaintively appealed to be ‘let go of’, and extricating himself with difficulty, gasped out in his turn, ‘Careful now, don’t be so print.¹ Too early for canoodlin’. Can you ’ave a brandy? Phew! Need one myself after all that. ’Ere you are then. Take a nip and tell me why you’ve got the dawthers,’ and producing a heavy flask from an inside pocket, he handed it to the grateful housekeeper.

Mrs. Honeyballs took a generous pull, sighed loudly, and sat down. She then prepared to enjoy and freshly horrify herself with a description of what she had seen, but was disappointed when Mr. Mipps, dismissing the subject, remarked ‘Oh, thought you’d seen something ’orrid. What’s a corpse before breakfast? Undertakers ’as to live, don’t they? He’ll be buried in the parish, and them Lords of the Level allows me a god price. ’Ave to flip round there and measure him up after I’ve cleaned out the font for the christening. Funny

— I was only sayin’ yesterday that while waitin’ for old Mrs Wooley to make up her mind I could do with another corpse with brass ’andles.’ At which Mrs. Honeyballs, somewhat disgruntled, seized mop and bucket and set to work, noisily relieving her frustrated feelings, until Mr. Mipps was forced to tell her to ’ush her bucket as the poor dear Vicar, after his long journey, didn’t ought to be disturbed. Leaving her, certainly hushed though still resentful, he took himself off to the church, making mental notes while passing the cause of Mrs. Honeyballs’ discomfiture as to the length and type of coffin it might need. Thus happily engaged upon his funereal but lucrative speculation, he started to clean out the font.

His enthusiasm, however, was not shared by the Squire of Dymchurch, who, irritated by ‘a confounded babble goin’ on beneath his bedroom window so early in the mornin’, damme’ — pulled back the curtains to see the cause of it. The sight of half the village ‘gawpin’’ at a corpse he hadn’t convicted hanging from his official gibbet threw him into one of his before-breakfast rages, which, this morning, however, was perfectly justifiable.

Sir Antony Cobtree, though taking his position as Chief Magistrate and Leveller of Marsh Scotts very seriously, at heart preferred the more pleasant occupation of a country squire, to wit, his horses and his dogs; and indeed his favourite pastime was followin’ hounds. So upon recollecting that he had promised himself a day’s relaxation away from his extra duties as a family man, for ‘them prattlin’ women’ were getting on his nerves ‘in the most deuced fashion’, he was deeply chagrined that an uncalled intrudin’ corpse would necessitate his presence in that ‘stinkin’ Court Room’ to preside over an Inquiry, thereby ‘ruinin’ a good day’s sport, damme’.

¹ Bright.

Tugging at every bell-pull in his bed-chamber to no avail, almost crying with vexation, he trotted out upon the landing in search of another. He had just viewed one at the far end of the long gallery and was in full pursuit, when, tripping over his flapping nightshirt, he slid the whole length of the highly polished floor and reached it quicker than he had anticipated. His carpet slippers and a Persian rug flying from beneath him, bobbled night-cap obscuring his vision, he clutched despairingly at the bell-pull, which, unable to stand up to the full weight of the Squire, broke with snapping wires and clattered about his head, as he came down heavily upon that part of his person most pertinent to his saddle. There he sat for a considerable time before regaining sufficient breath to enable him to give vent to as many good round oaths as he could remember, and it was from this lowly position, where he had thoroughly damned beeswax and bell-pulls, that he espied upon the top of a tallboy a hunting-horn. Hope returned upon the sight of this familiar object, with which he knew he could give tongue. Having achieved possession of this he threw restraint to the winds and all his lung power into the blowing of a long series of ‘View Holloas’. This unorthodox method of calling for attention had the desired effect. He immediately became the centre of interest. Doors flew open all along the gallery. Housemaids peeped out and jumped back, thinking the Squire had run mad, while her ladyship came out in déshabillé and high dudgeon and admonished him for drinking so early in the morning, and what would Aunt Agatha think.

As a matter of fact Aunt Agatha’s thoughts were of the pleasantest nature, for this same noise had awakened in her happy memories of the hunting-field, and having told Lisette to open the door to enable her to hear the better, Mister Pitt, attracted by this rallying call, slipped unnoted from the room, and set out on a trail of investigation. Coming from the East Wing, he followed the dictation of his nose and ears till he reached the opposite end of the Long Gallery, where his dog’s-eye view was of two curiously attired humans, the lady soundly rating the gentleman, who like a naughty boy was standing dumb before her. An inviting length of dressing-gown cord trailing on the floor behind him enticed Mister Pitt to creep nearer, and when the Squire, unable to tolerate this nagging further, put the hunting-horn to his lips and deliberately emitted one short crude noise in protest, the poodle’s curiosity knew no bounds. As in answer to the Squire, he barked a high-pitched ‘Tally-ho’ and charged, but met with the same difficulties, for with jingling paws and legs splayed out, he came skating towards the unsuspecting gentleman. Such uncontrollable velocity surprised Mister Pitt into biting the first thing that came into contact with his nose. This happened to be the Squire’s big toe, and to make matters worse was the one that had been most damnably pinched by a ‘tight huntin’-boot’. The scene that ensued was indescribable, since the Squire’s language was so strong that it sent Lady Caroline, hands over ears, scurrying back to her room, where, after slamming the door, she succumbed to a fit of the flutters, while the irate gentleman, his tone at once persuasive and abusive, with such entreaties as ‘Nice leetle doggie — let go — get away from me, you little brute,’ at last succeeded in kicking loose and, making for cover, dashing towards his bedroom; while Mister Pitt, having, like a tiger, tasted blood, kept up lightning attacks upon the succulent retreating ankles. But surprisingly enough the Squire was too quick for him, and his nose came into violent contact with something that he could not bite — a slamming door, behind which the Squire had gone to ground.

Within his room Sir Antony’s annoyance by no means abated, when he heard that the commotion outside the house had grown louder and he went straight to the window and flung it wide, intending to harangue the crowd. Having lost his dignity with Mister Pitt, he quite forgot to assume it again for the villagers, and indeed upon seeing his own lackey, Thomas, in the front row of the corpse’s audience, with his arm round a giggling housemaid, he so far forgot himself as to lean perilously far out over the sill, thus endangering not only his person, but his still precariously tilted night-cap.