"If hailing goes by deserts, you should hail Paradyne," interposed Gall. "But for his withdrawal, Trace would have come off second-best. I know it."
"I'll shake hands with the whole of you with pleasure as Trace's deputy," heartily called out George Paradyne.
Lamb stepped forward. Never had his face been more virtuous, his voice so candid. "I can't let the opportunity pass without declaring a thing that is in my keeping," he smoothly began. "In that matter of the pistol, fifteen months ago, when Lord Shrewsbury was shot—you all remember it well. It was Trace who did it."
Gall wheeled round on Lamb. The rest stood in wonder, listening for more.
"And it was Trace who inked that Latin essay of Paradyne's," continued the estimable young man. "I saw him do that, and I know he did the other. As he is gone, it's as well the truth should be known. Trace was a sneak."
A good swinging blow in the chest, which sent Mr. Lamb staggering backwards. It came from Bertie Loftus. Never before had Bertie been seen to strike gratuitously.
"You are the sneak," he said to Lamb. "Can't you let a fallen fellow alone? Trace is in misfortune, and absent. But for that, you'd not have dared to traduce him, you coward."
"It was he who fired off the pistol," roared Lamb, smarting under the blow. "I swear it was. There! It's only lately I got to suspect it, and I taxed Trace with it the morning he left, and he couldn't deny it: he didn't seem to care to; he was too down. You hold your row, Loftus major."
In dodging away from Bertie, Mr. Lamb contrived to back amidst the throng, and tread upon their feet. It only wanted that to set them on. This last announcement, so exceedingly characteristic of him, was as the climax of his sins, and they thought the time had come to pay him out. Trace had never been a favourite; and perhaps he really had something of the sneak about him; but this did not make Lamb less of one. Hissing, pushing, striking, calling him every derisive name they could lay their tongues on, buffeting, kicking, the lot set to on the miserable Lamb. And Bertie helped in it.
His ears were tingling, his hair was pulled, his eyes were smarting. One whacked him here, another kicked him yonder; his back was already growing blue; his voice, poor wretch, was raised in a howl, piteously shrieking for quarter. Suddenly the onslaught was interrupted. Somebody had interposed to part them, and so stopped the fray. One look round, and the boys fell back in very astonishment.