"It's all out, mum; you don't need to be frightened any more," Jacob said, looking ruefully at his singed and blackened garments. "But how on earth did the things take fire?"
Mrs. Rayburn looked round. There stood Frank—and Frank (against his will, for he tried not to do it) looked at the matchbox that lay open on the floor.
"It was your doing!" she cried excitedly. "Well, that settles the matter! My lord will insist on my sending you away, and I have nowhere to send you but to the poorhouse. The boy who could set fire to things that way certainly will not be kept here. You might have burned down the Castle. It's an offence you might be sent to prison for."
"Indeed, I wish my lord would insist upon his being sent to prison, the wicked little cub," said Jacob; "but I'm sure he'll send him out of the Castle. Lock him up safe, mum, till my lord comes."
"I shall, Jacob; but he really ought to get a good flogging at once. I never thought he'd do such a wicked thing."
"I'll give him a flogging that he won't forget in a hurry," said Jacob, who, having been much frightened, was now very angry. He laid hands on the supposed culprit, and led him out into the hall. There he took a whip from its place on the wall, and desired Frank to take off his jacket, which Frank, trembling and tearful but silent, was doing, when, from some hiding-place, Fred rushed out, crying—
"'Twas me did it; you s'ant beat Fwank."
"You! I don't believe it," said Mrs. Rayburn; "why, you're only a baby."
"I'm not!" cried Fred. "I stwuck a match and set your cap in a blaze, and then I wan for Fwank to put it out."
"Hold your tongue, Fred," said the elder boy; "he'd kill you; you're too little to bear it."