Knowing that he had an hour or so to his credit, Mr. Bone allowed himself the luxury of complete relaxation. With the wing of a chicken in one hand and a foaming tankard in the other he exchanged confidences and he felt, as indeed he was, prince of the road.

It was while Mr. Bone was in this enviable position that the coach came down Strood Hill and then with horn blowing gaily, rattled across Rochester Bridge. The four occupants by this time had become more or less acquainted through such close proximity, though for some time after leaving London the Captain had appeared aloof and ill-mannered. It had by no means improved his temper that he had to sit with his back to the horses, and, having been so rudely bundled into the coach, it was annoying enough when the coach stopped again so soon after Haxell’s to pick up, as he thought, such an insignificant passenger, who had bespoken the only other comfortable seat. A parson was the last person he had wished to travel with, for his mind still rankled when he thought of his encounter with one at Crockford’s.

Imagine then his rage upon closer examination when the coach had left the City and the daylight streamed through the windows to discover that here he was cooped up with none other than that confounded cleric who had so quietly scored off him the night before. Coupled with the warning he had received, the uncomfortable feeling he had hoped to forget was increased a thousandfold by the presence in the coach of its instigator. So he had turned up his collar and glared in sulky silence out of the window, purposely ignoring the fact that they had met before, at the same time somewhat mystified that the parson did not seem to recognise him. To feign sleep was out of the question owing to the continual barking of that confounded dog and the perpetual chatter of the little old lady who, damme, appeared to have another poodle on her had. And so he continued to sulk and stare.

Miss Gordon, on the other hand, had found a fellow traveller to her liking, for Mister Pitt, contrary to his habit of being thoroughly rude to strangers, had swept aside all social barriers, and with much jingling of bracelets, he had attempted to lick the parson’s nose. Miss Gordon, though secretly delighted, had pretended to be horrified, as she exclaimed, ‘Fie, Mister Pitt, manners, please. What a rude gentleman we are. Lisette, lift the Minster of War off the minister’s lap.’ Whereupon Mister Pitt showed his warlike tendencies by worrying with obvious enjoyment one of the Captain’s silver coat-buttons. The old lady had then produced a miniature handkerchief edged with the finest lace and handing it to the parson requested him to use it.

Doctor Syn, declining, was amused and charmed and settled down to enjoy her lively wit, while Miss Gordon, making a mental note that she must remember to reward Mister Pitt for introducing to her such a delightful travelling companion, prattled gaily.

‘I am indeed felicitated that we are bound for the same part of the coast and quite overwhelmed that I should be talking to the famous Doctor Syn whose ecclesiastical books are widely read by our ministers in Scotland. So you see, Mister Pitt, what a clever dog you are to have recognised such a well-known figure. Is he not like his namesake, sir,’ she said, ‘in bestowing honours where honours are most due’ — and she laughed so infectiously that Doctor Syn quite looked forward to the remainder of the journey, and was delighted to discover that she was a relation of his old friend, Sir Antony Cobtree, to whom she was paying a visit.

‘Then I vow, madame, you are no stranger to me, for I knew your niece, Lady Cobtree, before she married Tony, and your name has ever been a household word in the family. Indeed, on more occasions than I can remember I have heard Tony refer to “me wife’s Aunt Agatha”.’ Here Doctor Syn gave such a graphic imitation of the Squire of Dymchurch that Miss Gordon was quite paralyzed with giggles. ‘’Tis Tony to the life. You have caught his excellent pomposity. But he’s a good boy. I have ever been fond of him, though I think he regards “me wife’s Aunt Agatha” as a most eccentric old body, and what he will think of me now I hardly dare think, since it is many a year since I have visited them. Indeed, sir, the last time I was in Dymchurch was when you must have been away in the Americas. They often spoke of you. I was deeply distressed to learn of my favourite niece’s death. Poor Charlotte. She was so young.’ Engrossed in her family reminiscences, she failed to note the look of pain that for a moment clouded the Doctor’s face on her mentioning the name of Charlotte. ‘But tell me,’ she went on, ‘what of Cicely? I hear she is a fine girl. Good rider too. That’s to my liking. Indeed, she is my god-child. And thank heaven for that, since I never could abide her elder sister Maria. ’Twas a great blow to Caroline and Tony, as you must well know, when Maria went off and married that French nincompoop, though naturally now they are in a great state about her, and no wonder. To have a daughter of Maria’s disposition in the midst of these Paris horrors must be more than worrying. Indeed, I had a long letter from Cicely upon that subject before I left Kildrummy. It seems that the poor girl is worrying herself to a fiddle-string about her sister, though goodness knows Maria never cared a fig for anyone except herself. But tell me, Doctor Syn,’ she continued, ‘is not the position serious? — especially as we are now at war with France. Tony, with his English insularity, is often apt to deceive himself. I can almost hear him saying, “Damme, they’d never dare to touch a Cobtree. She may have married a Frenchman, but she’s still my daughter, sir.”’ Which rendering was as perfect an imitation of the Squire as Doctor Syn’s had been, which amused them both considerably, but returning almost at once to the seriousness of the situation, she added: ‘But I have a notion that that French husband of hers is not worth his salt and would be far too concerned for his own safety than to worry over Maria’s. For I am not sharing Tony’s convictions, and am quite certain after what they have done to their own Royal Family, one Cobtree more or less wouldn’t worry ’em.’

And so the conversation rolled on from one topic to another. Doctor Syn had by this time politely insisted upon Lisette taking his more comfortable seat, which though it infuriated the Captain, placed him in a better position for conversing with the old lady.

By the time the coach had reached Canterbury, their talk had brought them to the most popular topic of the day — occasioned by Doctor Syn remarking the little grotesque black patch upon Miss Gordon’s cheek — the topic which was inevitable at any fashionable gathering — namely, the Scarecrow, whose exploits amused the old lady vastly, though Lisette, frightened out of her well-trained servility, showed signs of apprehension at every mention of the name, till the old lady rated her for being a superstitious fool, and told her not to listen.

The Captain, on the other hand, appeared to come to life for the first time on the journey and listened to every word with avid attention, though neither he nor the old lady noticed the gleam of amusement that lurked behind the parson’s spectacles, as he spoke to the Captain.

‘I trust, sir, you will forgive a comparative stranger for addressing you, but you will understand from our conversation that our Marshes are not considered healthy at the moment. Indeed, Dymchurch-under-the-Wall is not as fashionable as Brighton.’ Then with an admirable piece of play-acting he pretended to recognise the Captain for the first time, exclaiming: ‘Dear me — your face is familiar. Have we not met before?’

To which the Captain was forced to reply: ‘Yes, sir. Last night — in Crockford’s.’

‘Yes, indeed, of course — the wager. Had you but spoken sooner, I would have recognised your voice. Pray forgive me. My eyesight, you know. At Crockford’s, yes. Foolish of me to think you were coming to Dymchurch for your health.’