It took a good deal to bring tears to Martin’s eyes, but they were perilously near at that instant. Though the words almost choked him, he faltered:
“Is that true, Mr. Benson?”
“True? It’s true eneuf, lad. Didn’t ye know?”
“No, they never told me.”
A mist obscured his sight. The presence of the magistrate and superintendent ceased to have any awe-inspiring effect. What disgrace was this so suddenly blurted out by this stolid policeman? Whose child was he, then, if not theirs? Could he ever hold up his head again in face of the youthful host over which he lorded it by reason of his advanced intelligence and greater strength? There was comfort in the thought that no one had ever taunted him in this relation. The veiled hint in Pickering’s words to the farmer was the only reference he could recall.
Benson seemed to regard the facts as to his birth as matters of common knowledge. Perhaps there was some explanation which would lift him from the sea of ignominy into which he had been pitched so unexpectedly.
He was aroused by Mr. Beckett-Smythe saying:
“Now, my lad, was it you who fought my son last night?”
“Yes—sir,” stammered Martin.
The question sharpened his wits to some purpose. A spice of dread helped the process. Was he going to be tried on some dire charge of malicious assault?