"I didn't shoot him," said Dick.
"You were the cause of it, sir. If Talbot dies, and the thing comes to trial, were I the judge on the bench, I should transport you for seven years, Dick Loftus, as accessory in a second degree."
"Talbot isn't going to die," debated hardy Dick.
"And serve him right," put in Loftus, answering the semi-threat of Sir Simon. "Transportation for seven years would be just the thing Dick deserves. What right had the young idiot to meddle with my pistols?"
"What right had you to have pistols to be meddled with?" cried Sir Simon, retorting on Bertie. "And to keep 'em loaded? And to put 'em where Dick could get to them? I'd transport you for fourteen."
Mr. Loftus did not like the tables being turned on him. He drew his head up with a jerk.
"And you the senior, save one, of the school, who might have been expected to be a pattern to the rest!" added Sir Simon, mercilessly. "You'd not have done it would you Gall?"
The senior boy, quietly looking on, lifted his eyes at being addressed. "I don't think I should, Sir Simon."
It was an inoffensive answer enough, in regard to words; but the quiet tone of condemnation, the half compassionate smile that accompanied it, angered Loftus out of his pride and his prudence.
"It's not likely he would. Pistols would be of no use to him. What do those city tradespeople want with pistols?"