“It was because he is so big that he did not catch him, Richard Winthorpe,” said the engineer coldly. “The ice bore the person who fired the places, because he was skating.”
“Skating!” cried Dick, flushing up.
“Yes, skating!” said Mr Marston. “Bargle says that the man hobbled over the ground in his skates, but as soon as he reached the ice he went off like a bird. The ice cracked and splintered, but it seemed to bear him, and in less than a minute he was out of sight, but Bargle could hear him for a long time.”
“Well, it wasn’t me, Mr Marston,” said Tom, laughing. “I was skating along with Dick, but it was neither of us. We went to another fire.”
“Breakfast is getting cold,” said Mrs Winthorpe, who looked troubled, for the squire was frowning, and Dick turning pale and red by turns.
“Look here,” said the squire suddenly; “I cannot, and I will not, have unpleasantness of this kind in my house. I must speak plainly, Marston. You suspect my boy of firing your men’s huts last night?”
“I am very sorry, Mr Winthorpe, and I do it unwillingly, but appearances are very much against him.”
“They are,” said the squire gravely.
“I like Dick; I always did like Dick,” said the engineer; “and it seems to me horrible to have to suspect such a lad as he is; but put yourself in my place, Mr Winthorpe. Can you be surprised?”
“I am not surprised, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe, rising and going to her son’s side. “Dick was out last night skating with Tom here over the thin ice, and of course it must have been a very light person to cross last night in skates; but you are mistaken. My boy would not commit such a cowardly crime.”