"he knows
as well as I do what will be the consequence to him. Now go to
breakfast. I shall have more to say about this matter presently."

If Dr Plummer had been anxious to save his tea and bread-and-butter
from too fierce an inroad he could hardly have selected a better method.
Dangerfield College was completely "off its feed" this morning.
Indeed, Ramsbottom, the usher, had almost to bully the victuals down the
boys' throats in order to get the meal over. The only boy who made any
pretence to an appetite was the Dux, who ate steadily, much to my
amazement, in the intervals of the conversation.

"It's a bit of a go, ain't it?" observed Dicky Brown, who, despite his
educational advantages, could never quite master the politest form of
his native tongue.

"Rather," said I--"awkward for somebody."

Then, as my eyes fell once more on Tempest, complacently cutting another
slice off the loaf, an idea occurred to me.

"You know, Dicky," said I, feeling that I was walking on thin ice, "I
almost fancied I heard a sound of a gun in the night."

Dicky laughed.

"Trust you for knowing all about a thing after it's happened. It would
have been a rum thing if you hadn't."

This was unfeeling of Dicky. I am sure I have never pretended to know
as much about anything as he did.

"Oh, but I really did--a shot, and a yell too," said I.

"Go it, you're getting on," said Dicky. "You can pile it up, Tom. Why
don't you say you saw me do it while you are about it?"

"Because I didn't."

"All I can say," said the Dux, buttering his bread liberally, "I'm
precious glad the beast is off the hooks. I always hated him. Which of
you kids did it?"

We both promptly replied that he was quite under a wrong impression. We
were pained by the very suggestion.

"All right," said he, laughing in his reckless way, and talking quite
loud enough for Plummer to hear him if he happened to come in, "you've
less to be proud of than I fancied. If you didn't do it, who did, eh?"

That was the question which was puzzling every one, except perhaps
myself, who was undergoing a most uncomfortable mental argument as I
slowly recalled the events of last night.

"Give it up; ask another," said Faulkner. "I'm precious glad I've not
got a pistol." Here the Dux coloured a little, and relapsed into
silence. He disliked Faulkner, and objected to his cutting into the
conversation.

"One comfort," said I, endeavouring to change the topic: "we m