“Less of that last, Tom Croftly, and more explanation,” said Master Peasegood, sternly.
“Yes, Mas’ Peasegood, I’ll tell thee,” gasped the poor fellow. “I sharpened up as usual—the big knife, you know—and went to cut the ’lowance for the horse and pony, when I couldn’t have been looking; and he must have got up there to sleep.”
“He? Who? What?” cried the founder.
“It’s not I as can say, master,” stammered the poor fellow; “the knife went down hard, but I thrust the more, and then, taking up the truss of hay, his head rolled down.”
“What?” roared the founder.
“Heaven forgive me, master,” cried Croftly, sinking on his knees, “I’ve cut a man’s head clean from his body.”
The founder and Master Peasegood stared at him aghast, as if believing he was mad, but the poor fellow was sane enough; and, on following him to the little stack, there was the horrible truth; but Croftly was relieved on finding his knife had decapitated the dead, and not some sleeping man.
“Was he dead, then?” he faltered, in answer to a few words spoken by Master Peasegood.
“Dead, man! ay, months ago. Heaven have mercy on us, it’s a horrible thing.”
“You’re right,” said the founder, turning away with a shudder; “the poor wretch must have lain down when we were making the stack, and more hay have been thrown upon him. He must have been smothered.”