April 30th.—There's been a most awful row, and the fellows say I turned rat—at least, Jackson and Collins have sent me to Coventry over it; but I should do it again if there was the same occasion, for how could I let a poor servant lose her place and her character through one of my larks? The governor must be a drivelling donkey not to suspect us instead of the servants.
I always fancied that Swain did smell a rat until Young came tearing up to me with the tale that the police were to be sent for to search the kitchen-maid's boxes.
"Why, what's the row now?" I asked.
"They can't find out anything clear about those pies; but it's pretty certain the kitchen-maid has been giving away bread and meat, which, it seems, is against the rules, and they think she has handed the pies away too—sold them, perhaps."
"Sold your grandmother! Young, you're not such a muff as to think the servants did that, are you?"
"I don't know what to think. It couldn't be burglars, you know."
"Of course not, it was us. I did most of the business, and I'm off to the governor now to tell him all about it;" and, leaving Young staring with all his eyes, I rushed indoors past Swain, who stood near the schoolroom door, and bolted on to the master's study. I could hardly wait for him to say "Come in;" but when I opened the door all my courage seemed to have gone, and I felt ready to run away again.
"Did you wish to speak to me, Stewart?"
"Yes, sir; please, sir, it's about the pies," I said, hardly knowing how to begin.
"You mean the robbery that has been committed lately?"