Doctor Syn A Smuggler Tale of the Romney Marsh by Russell Thorndike

one for makin’ and the wood, ain’t it, Mister Sexton?”
    “No, it’s two for makin’, and I lose on that.”
    “Very well,” agreed Jerk desperately, handing over the money, “and please, Mister Sexton, make it now, ’cos I wants it quick.”
    So the bargain was struck there and then, and off they both set to the coffin shop to carry it out; and the gallows was made by nightfall and set up on Jerk’s property, the sexton carrying it there himself, digging the hole and fixing it up —a regular professional affair with a jangly rusty chain a-swing through the
     
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    hook—and all this for the nominal price of two silver crowns, lately received by the purchaser from Dr. Syn.
    “Ah!” cried Jerk, as they viewed the completed erection from the other side of the dyke; “ain’t it fust rate?”
    “Slap up,” agreed the sexton.
    “Quite strong, ain’t it?” inquired the owner anxiously, to which the sexton replied imperiously:
    “It were Mipps as knocked it up, as you seed yourself; and when Mipps knocks up, you can lay it’s solid wot’s knocked,” saying which he turned and strode off toward the village, followed by Jerk.
    When they had gone about half a mile Jerk looked back and called to the sexton to do the same. Darkness was already creeping over the Marsh, but sharp and black against the skyline—no toy, but real, weird, and convincing— stood Jerk’s gibbet.
     
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    “What do you think of Lookout Mountain now?” sang out the boy.
    “That you can better the name of it, Hangman Jerk. Why not call it Gallows Tree Hill?”
    “Why, so I will!” cried the singular youngster. “It’s a good name, and so I will—and let’s hope as how the tree’ll bear fruit.”
    “As how it won’t,” muttered the sexton.
    “But it will, you can lay to that.” Jerk could already picture the schoolmaster hanging there.
    As they neared the village, with sudden fear Jerk said to the sexton:
    “I suppose the smugglers won’t take my gibbet as a personal offence and knock it down?” But the wary Mipps disarmed his fears with:
    “There ain’t no smugglers, for one thing; ’sides, if there was, how could they knock down wot’s knocked up so solid?”
     
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    “Well, dig it up, p’raps,” suggested Jerk, “’cos, Mister Sexton, it do catch the eye somewot, don’t it? Look, you can see it even from here, and it don’t look exactly pleasant, do it?”
    “Pleasant ain’t exactly the word, I agrees, but you needn’t worry yourself on that score. If them damned King’s men had put it up now, I don’t say as how it mightn’t get mobbed and knocked about a bit, ’cos them damned King’s men ain’t wot you might term popular favourites in the village, but as it weren’t, don’t you worry, for I’ll soon pass the word, young Jerry, as how it’s you wot owns it.”
    “Thank you,” said Jerry. “They wouldn’t knock it over if you asked ’em not to, I’ll be bound.”
    “Asked who not to?” demanded the sexton quickly.
     
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    “Why, any of ’em,” replied Jerk innocently: “Marshmen, smugglers, jack-o’lanterns, demon riders, wot you will; for I’ll lay they’re all a-scared of Sexton Mipps, ain’t they?”
    But Sexton Mipps was not going to be caught by such dangerous flattery, and he replied:
    “There ain’t no such things as smugglers hereabouts, as I thinks I’ve already remarked; and as for demon riders, why, uncanny they be, and I holds no truck with ’em, thank the Lord. Folks wot has dealin’s with ’em has sold their souls for the bargain, and I ain’t a-goin’ to do that!”
    “Bein’ such a very good and respectable Christian? Oh, no!” said Jerk winking.
    “Why, certainly,” answered the sexton, “and might I ask wot you’re awinkin’ about?”
    “Nothin’—I was only thinkin’!”
     
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    “Wot about?”
    “A dream—a nightmare I had last night, that’s all.”
    “Wot about?” asked the sexton again.
    “Nothin’ particular,” returned the boy casually.
    They had now reached the coffin shop, so, thanking the sexton for his assistance, Jerk