“Hurst had no business to sing it,” was the vexed rejoinder of the master. “You know your voice is gone, Hurst. You should have gone up to the organist, stated the case, and had another anthem put up.”
“But, sir, I was expecting Bywater in every minute. I thought he’d be sure to find his surplice somewhere,” was Hurst’s defence. “And when he did not come, and it grew too late to do anything, I thought it better to take the anthem myself than to give it to a junior, who would be safe to have made a mess of it. Better for the judges and other strangers to hear a faded voice in Helstonleigh Cathedral, than to hear bad singing.”
The master did not speak. So far, Hurst’s argument had reason in it.
“And—I beg your pardon for what I am about to say, sir,” Hurst went on: “but I hope you will allow me to assure you beforehand, that neither I, nor my juniors under me, have had a hand in this affair. Bywater has just told me that the surplice is found, and how; and blame is sure to be cast upon us; but I declare that not one of us has been in the mischief.”
Mr. Pye opened his eyes. “What now?” he asked. “What is the mischief?”
“I found the surplice afterwards, sir,” Bywater said. “This is it.”
He spoke meaningly, as if preparing them for a surprise, and pointed to a corner of the vestry. There lay a clean, but tumbled surplice, half soaked in ink. The head-master and Mr. Yorke, lay-clerks and choristers, all gathered round, and stared in amazement.
“They shall pay me the worth of the surplice,” spoke Bywater, an angry shade crossing his usually good-tempered face.
“And have a double flogging into the bargain,” exclaimed the master. “Who has done this?”
“It looks as though it had been rabbled up for the purpose,” cried Hurst, in schoolboy phraseology, bending down and touching it gingerly with his finger. “The ink has been poured on to it.”