“I should even have expected,” went on the doctor, “to hear that the boy had heard the report of a firearm.”
Every one looked towards the unhappy boy, Charles Wallett, who, having given his evidence, was now sitting in court. On the suggestion of one of the jurymen, he was called and questioned again. But he maintained, with hot blushes of confusion at the notice thus directed to him, that he had noticed no noise; that he had seen or heard nothing to attract his attention until he came upon the man lying on his face at the side of the road.
“At least—” He stopped short, and from crimson became very pale.
Then he heard a murmur in the court behind, and he began to look scared and to tremble.
“That’s right, my boy,” said the coroner, encouragingly, “think well before you answer; and then tell us everything, even the slightest thing that came under your notice.”
“Sir,” said the boy, turning red and white alternately, “I did hear something. It was just before I turned the bend and saw the man; but I never thought of it before this minute.”
“And what was that?”
“It was what I took for Mr. Wells shooting at the birds, sir. He’s always about there with his gun, and so I never give it a thought.”
There was truth on the face of this statement, drawn forth so tardily and so unwillingly. Hearing, as he said, the firing at the birds so often, the sound had no significance for him, and it had not even struck him as singular that the farmer should have been out shooting so late.
There was a shade of disappointment in the court at the idea that Jem Stickels might have been shot by accident, after all, in mistake for a sparrow. But this notion was quickly put to flight by the calling of Mr. Wells himself, who was in court, as a witness. He was never out shooting after dark, and on the previous day he had been at Canterbury, and had not returned home until past nine o’clock.