“What do you say?” burst forth Tom Channing, darting forward as the words caught his ear. “You, Jackson! speak up; what is it?”
Not Jackson’s voice especially, but several other voices arose then; a word from one, a word from another, half sentences, disjointed hints, forming together an unmistakable whole. “The theft of old Galloway’s bank-note has been traced to Arthur Channing.”
“Who says it? Who dares to say it?” flashed Tom, his face flaming, and his hand clenched.
“The police say it. Butterby says it.”
“I don’t care for the police; I don’t care for Butterby,” cried Tom, stamping his foot in his terrible indignation. “I ask, who dares to say it here?”
“I do, then! Come, Mr. Channing, though you are a senior, and can put me up to Pye for punishment upon any false plea that you choose,” answered a tall fellow, Pierce senior, who was chiefly remarkable for getting into fights, and was just now unusually friendly with Mark Galloway, at whose desk he sat.
Quick as lightning, Tom Channing turned and faced him. “Speak out what you have to say,” cried he; “no hints.”
“Whew!” retorted Pierce senior, “do you think I am afraid? I say that Arthur Channing stole the note lost by old Galloway.”
Tom, in uncontrollable temper, raised his hand and struck him. One half-minute’s struggle, nothing more, and Pierce senior was sprawling on the ground, while Tom Channing’s cheek and nose were bleeding. Gaunt had stepped in between them.
“I stop this,” he said. “Pierce, get up! Don’t lie there like a floundering donkey. Channing, what possessed you to forget yourself?”