“Some gipsy, perhaps,” said Master Peasegood, whose broad face looked white.
“Here be a bottle by him,” said Tom Croftly, lifting one from beside the body, “and here be a strap. Why, master, master!” he cried, rising up with a scrap of clothing in his hand.
“What is it, Tom?” said the founder, shuddering. “Come away, man, come away.”
“Ay, I’ll come away, Mas’ Cobbe, but I’ve found out who it be.”
“You have?” cried Master Peasegood, excitedly, as the man opened and smelt the bottle.
“Ay, I have,” said Croftly. “That be strong waters in this bottle; and him as lay down,” he continued, sagaciously, “I say, him as lay down upon that half-built stack was drunk, and the steam of the moist hay stifled him.”
“But who think you it was?” cried the founder.
“Him as was missed,” cried Croftly, triumphantly.
“Thank God!” cried Master Peasegood; “then Gil was as innocent as the day.”
“Innocent—as the day?” cried the founder, in a puzzled voice, as he looked from one to the other. “Poor creature, how do you know? But I don’t understand. Some one who was missed? Good God!” he cried, as a light flashed upon him, and he took a step or two up the short ladder by the stack, and then leaped down. “’Tis Abel Churr!”