“Here, I say, some one,” cried Burton, “run and tell old Slegge that they have found his cricket-bat drowned in the well like a dead dog in a pond.”
“Hush! Hush! Oh no. Hold your tongue!” whispered another of the boys excitedly. “Let him find it out for himself. Don’t let the cat out of the bag.”
“Bat out of the bag, you mean,” said Glyn, who knew of the disappearance of the bat and began to see through what had been done. “Which of you did this?”
There was no reply.
“Do you hear?” cried Glyn, catching Burton by the collar of his jacket.
“I shan’t tell,” replied the little fellow. “Serve him right for loading the old bat with lead.—Chuck it down again, somebody.”
“Nay,” cried Wrench; “I am not going to have any more things drowned in my well. Now then, stand aside, some of you! Clear out, and take that bat away.”
“Here,” cried Burton. “Come on, boys! Bring it along.”
“Stop a moment,” said Glyn. “Here’s a painted wooden label here. What’s this on it?”
“B—e—a—s—t,” said Wrench, “only it’s turned nearly black with being in the water, and very badly done; but that’s it, sure enough, sir—beast.”