Free THE SCARECROW RIDES by Russell Thorndike

gentlemen
have changed, but even in New England, where a democratic spirit is
daily increasing, it is not yet the fashion for servants to argue,
squabble or indeed expression opinions in the presence of superiors. As
for you, Mister Merry, you have at least played my porter well, and for
that must be rewarded.”
    He undid his coat with his left hand, for he still held the brass
bar in his right, and his long sensitive fingers felt in one of the
many pockets of the captain's belt. He took out a guinea piece and
dropped it ringing on the table of weights and measures.
    “And now, my very young friend of the scarlet livery, be good enough
to carry that coin to the man Merry there.”
    “A guinea, sir?” ejaculated the astonished footman. “For a porter's
fee? We can change this to-morrow at the bursar's office and he can
call for a shilling.”
    “Give him the guinea, sir, and have done with it. The money is mine
and the chest is heavy. I will give you the same if you can carry it up
to my bedroom here later.”
    The footman eyed the stranger with a puzzled look, something between
admiration and suspicion. Who was this man who came from Boston,
referred to the squire as 'Tony', and boldly talked of his chest being
carried to his room for a guinea? If he were a survivor of the wreck,
then it was probable that the squire would offer him hospitality, and
since he wore such a well-filled money belt and was obviously a
gentleman of importance, it would be wise to show him attention in
order to gain, perhaps, another guinea at his departure.
    So he picked up the guinea and carrying it to Merry, handed it over
with some disgust. Merry, however, showed no sign of moving.
    “Well?” asked the footman. “Why don't you hop to it now that the
gentleman's treated you handsome? You ain't wishing to stay the night,
I suppose, for the only time you honour us is on a pallet bed in the
cells. So get along with you.”
    “How can I get along when I'm lashed taut to the gentleman's chest?”
asked Merry with a scowl.
    “You have at least two free hands to unfasten the rope from the
chest,” suggested the stranger. “I shall not need the rope any more, I
think, and I daresay you can find use for it, if only as a reminder
that a knot at the wrist is better than a noose around the neck.”
    It took even the strong fingers of Merry some time to loosen the
knot attached to one of the iron handles of the chest, for it had been
tied by one who knew something of knots and cordage. But at last it was
undone, and with a snort of disgust from the footman and quite a cheery
“good night and keep Sunday in mind” from the stranger, Merry was shown
the door and barred out.
    He looked at the golden guinea. Under other circumstances he would
have taken himself off to the 'Sea-Wall Tavern' and got drunk while
feasting his eyes on Meg; but she was not there. But neither was Abel
there. He had just heard that Abel Clouder was dead. That was news that
compensated for a lot of disappointment. Of late, the puzzle of how to
remove Abel without prejudice to himself had become an obsession. Well,
his mind was free of that problem. Abel had most obligingly been heroic
once too often. Meg was now a widow. What would she do? He cursed the
fact that she had been taken to the Court House, and wondered how long
she would remain under the direct protection of the Cobtrees, and an
influence that boded no jot of good to his cause. The squire was no
friend to him. At their last encounter he had told him plainly that if
he (Merry) could not learn to behave himself, the Court would find
means to rid the Marsh of such a rascal. Although born and bred in
Dymchurch, Merry had no great love for it, for he hated his neighbours
as cordially as they disliked him. But, on account of his strange
passion for Meg, he had no intention of quitting it, and he knew that
short of the gallows, even the squire would have a difficulty in