“Well, let them. Sometimes I wish,” continued Tooke, twisting himself about in the uneasiness of his mind, “sometimes I wish that everybody knew now. They say murderers cannot keep their secret. They are sure to tell, when they cannot bear it any longer.”
“That is because of their consciences,” said Hugh. “But you are not guilty of anything, you know. I am sure I can keep a secret easily enough, when I am not to blame in it.”
“Yes! You have shown that. But—”
“Come! Don’t let us talk any more about that—only just this. Has anybody accused you? Because I must know,—I must be on my guard.”
“Nobody has said a word, because my father put us all upon honour never to mention it: but I always feel as if all their eyes were upon me all day,—and sometimes in the night.”
“Nonsense! I don’t believe anybody has pitched on you particularly. And when school opens again, all their eyes will be on me, to see how I manage. But I don’t mean to mind that. Anybody may stare that likes.”
Hugh sighed, however, after saying this; and Tooke was silent. At length he declared,—
“Whatever you say against it, I shall always take your part: and you have only to ask me, and I will always run anywhere, and do anything for you. Mind you that.”
“Thank you,” said Hugh. “Now tell me about the new usher; for I dare say you know more than the other boys do. Holt and I shall be under him altogether, I suppose.”
“Yes: and you will be well off, by what I hear. He is as little like Mr Carnaby as need be.”