“I didn’t accuse Arthur Channing to the school. I only repeated to my desk what Butterby said.”
“It is that ‘only repeating’ which does three parts of the mischief in this world,” said Gaunt, giving the boys a little touch of morality gratis, to their intense edification. “As to you, Pierce senior, you’ll get more than you bargain for, some of these days, if you poke your ill-conditioned nose so often into other people’s business.”
Tom Channing had marched away towards his home, head erect, his step ringing firmly and proudly on the cloister flags. Charley ran by his side. But Charley’s face was white, and Tom caught sight of it.
“What are you looking like that for?”
“Tom! you don’t think it’s true, do you?”
Tom turned his scorn upon the boy. “You little idiot! True! A Channing turn thief! You may, perhaps—it’s best known to yourself—but never Arthur.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean, can it be true that the police suspect him?”
“Oh! that’s what your face becomes milky for? You ought to have been born a girl, Miss Charley. If the police do suspect him, what of that?—they’ll only have the tables turned upon themselves, Butterby might come out and say he suspects me of murder! Should I care? No; I’d prove my innocence, and make him eat his words.”
They were drawing near home. Charley looked up at his brother. “You must wipe your face, Tom.”
Tom took out his handkerchief, and gave his face a rub. In his indignation, his carelessness, he would have done nothing of the sort, had he not been reminded by the boy. “Is it off?”