Mr. Sycamore went on as though she had not spoken. “There was a lot of bullying and nasty behaviour among the boys, and the masters inflicted punishments without rhyme or reason.”
“How can you know anything of the sort?”
“On the best authority—the boy’s.”
“But how could he—”
“He was thrashed absurdly and set an impossible task for not answering to a silly nickname. There was no one to whom he could complain. He ran away. He had an idea of reaching Limpsfield, but when he realized that night was coming on, being really a very sensible little boy, he selected a kindly-looking house, asked to see the lady of the house, and told her he had run away from home and wanted to go back. He gave his aunt’s address at The Ingle-Nook, and he was sent home in the morning. He arrived home this morning.”
Lady Charlotte made a strange noise, but Mr. Sycamore hurried on. “How this delusion about a boat and a weir got into the story I don’t know. He says nothing about them. Indeed, he says very little about anything. He’s a reserved little boy. We have to get what we can out of him.”
“You mean to say that the boy is still alive!” cried Lady Charlotte.
“Happily!”
“In face of these telegrams!”
“I saw him not two hours ago.”