rather scornfully, “I am a Count, Monsieur, the Ninth St Honoré.”
Count Armande had straightened but Skanks laughed and jumped up, looking down kindly at the funny faced French lad, with his heavy eyebrows. He was sitting on his valise, to keep his britches clean.
“Nope Siree,” he cried. “Except a Lord of the open road, Count Armande. Lord J Skanks, that’s me, or Highway Jack. The Green ‘anky, some call me, or The Swingin’ Lantern. Up north though it’s Roadside Roger, the Nighthawk, or Botany Bay Jim. Just a few of me aliases, lads.”
The brave Pimpernel Club wondered how many aliases and disguises funny Jack Skanks had, but they all thought it miraculous too, and that night they slept in a neat row under the stars, the newly formed Club, five of them now, wrapped in their blankets in the damp grass, by the fading embers and around them the Universe felt quite gigantic.
A warm summer morning, twittering with birdsong, found them on the edge of the Dover road again, with a dry and rested Skipper, ready to get cracking again in pursuit of their vanishing quarry.
Henry Bonespair’s eye looked much better too, now that it was turning a gentler purple, with the healing effects of the raw steak.
“Good luck to yer then, Pimples,” cried Skanks, chuckling as he sat on dappled Betsy, as Nellie sat in the back of the coach with the boys and Skipper perched up front again, dry as straw and clasping the reins intently.
They all seemed closer now, with their first real adventure.
“But one more thing, boys n girl,” said the cheerful highwayman.
Jack Skanks slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a beautiful white lace handkerchief, with a little flourish, which he offered to Count Armande, very graciously.
“For you, my dearest Count,” he said, in a funny voice, “courtesy of our finest English nobility too, by gad. Sink me if it aint from an aristo of the Soul.”
Henry grinned, for he had often used grand words and phrases like by gad , gadzooks and sink me , to imitate who Henry thought was the famous, aristocratic Scarlet Pimpernel.
Hal nudged Armande, who took it rather gracelessly, noticing it had some initials sown into the corner: PS. Gracelessly, until Armande suddenly realised that such a fine handkerchief might make him a worthy leader of the Pimpernels.
Skanks reached into his other pocket now and chucked something to Spike, who caught the bag of shillings that the highwayman had taken from Francis.
Then Jack Skanks produced a long metal object, that he handed straight to Francis.
“Proper equipment, lad,” he cried, “A little telescope, to ‘elp you keep your eye in, for stargazing, and watching for dangerous spies too, but avoiding the sight of blood. Pinched it off a navy captain, just near Dover. Well, his pretty wife really.”
Skanks winked and Francis was delighted with the thing, as Henry looked a little jealous, until Skanks slipped his hand into his belt, pulled out one of his own pistols and pointed it in Henry’s face. At Hal’s look of utter horror, Jack Skanks laughed again.
“It aint loaded, lad. Bullets can go off in all sorts of unlucky ways, so I only keeps one loaded, as a last resort. The rest’s just show. Like you’ll all need now. Good disguises.”
Skanks flipped it over, and offered Henry the brass handle.
Hal grinned foolishly, as he took it, but now Skanks looked admiringly up at Skipper, whose nose was still sore and red with cold, and streaming badly.
“An’ you don’t need nothing, Skip,” said Skanks rather fondly, “’cept to show all that courage you’s got in bucket loads.”
Skipper Holmwood, feeling left out before, gave a delighted if toothless grin and felt like a Lord on top of the carriage.
“There,” said Jack Skanks, popping his hat on Francis Simpkins’s head too, although extracting the feather and sticking it behind his ear, “And remember
Count Armande had straightened but Skanks laughed and jumped up, looking down kindly at the funny faced French lad, with his heavy eyebrows. He was sitting on his valise, to keep his britches clean.
“Nope Siree,” he cried. “Except a Lord of the open road, Count Armande. Lord J Skanks, that’s me, or Highway Jack. The Green ‘anky, some call me, or The Swingin’ Lantern. Up north though it’s Roadside Roger, the Nighthawk, or Botany Bay Jim. Just a few of me aliases, lads.”
The brave Pimpernel Club wondered how many aliases and disguises funny Jack Skanks had, but they all thought it miraculous too, and that night they slept in a neat row under the stars, the newly formed Club, five of them now, wrapped in their blankets in the damp grass, by the fading embers and around them the Universe felt quite gigantic.
A warm summer morning, twittering with birdsong, found them on the edge of the Dover road again, with a dry and rested Skipper, ready to get cracking again in pursuit of their vanishing quarry.
Henry Bonespair’s eye looked much better too, now that it was turning a gentler purple, with the healing effects of the raw steak.
“Good luck to yer then, Pimples,” cried Skanks, chuckling as he sat on dappled Betsy, as Nellie sat in the back of the coach with the boys and Skipper perched up front again, dry as straw and clasping the reins intently.
They all seemed closer now, with their first real adventure.
“But one more thing, boys n girl,” said the cheerful highwayman.
Jack Skanks slipped his hand into his pocket and drew out a beautiful white lace handkerchief, with a little flourish, which he offered to Count Armande, very graciously.
“For you, my dearest Count,” he said, in a funny voice, “courtesy of our finest English nobility too, by gad. Sink me if it aint from an aristo of the Soul.”
Henry grinned, for he had often used grand words and phrases like by gad , gadzooks and sink me , to imitate who Henry thought was the famous, aristocratic Scarlet Pimpernel.
Hal nudged Armande, who took it rather gracelessly, noticing it had some initials sown into the corner: PS. Gracelessly, until Armande suddenly realised that such a fine handkerchief might make him a worthy leader of the Pimpernels.
Skanks reached into his other pocket now and chucked something to Spike, who caught the bag of shillings that the highwayman had taken from Francis.
Then Jack Skanks produced a long metal object, that he handed straight to Francis.
“Proper equipment, lad,” he cried, “A little telescope, to ‘elp you keep your eye in, for stargazing, and watching for dangerous spies too, but avoiding the sight of blood. Pinched it off a navy captain, just near Dover. Well, his pretty wife really.”
Skanks winked and Francis was delighted with the thing, as Henry looked a little jealous, until Skanks slipped his hand into his belt, pulled out one of his own pistols and pointed it in Henry’s face. At Hal’s look of utter horror, Jack Skanks laughed again.
“It aint loaded, lad. Bullets can go off in all sorts of unlucky ways, so I only keeps one loaded, as a last resort. The rest’s just show. Like you’ll all need now. Good disguises.”
Skanks flipped it over, and offered Henry the brass handle.
Hal grinned foolishly, as he took it, but now Skanks looked admiringly up at Skipper, whose nose was still sore and red with cold, and streaming badly.
“An’ you don’t need nothing, Skip,” said Skanks rather fondly, “’cept to show all that courage you’s got in bucket loads.”
Skipper Holmwood, feeling left out before, gave a delighted if toothless grin and felt like a Lord on top of the carriage.
“There,” said Jack Skanks, popping his hat on Francis Simpkins’s head too, although extracting the feather and sticking it behind his ear, “And remember
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