“You can’t know it!” stamped Tom. “You don’t know it!”
“I do. And for two pins I’d tell.”
The boast was a vain boast, the heat of passion alone prompting it. Gerald Yorke was not scrupulously particular in calm moments; but little recked he what he said in his violent moods. Tom repudiated it with scorn. But there was another upon whom the words fell with intense fear.
And that was Charley Channing. Misled by Gerald’s positive and earnest tone, the boy really believed that there must be some foundation for the assertion. A wild fear seized him, lest Gerald should proclaim some startling fact, conveying a conviction of Arthur’s guilt to the minds of the school. The blood forsook his face, his lips trembled, and he pushed his way through the throng till he touched Gerald.
“Don’t say it, Gerald Yorke! Don’t!” he imploringly whispered. “I have kept counsel for you.”
“What?” said Gerald, wheeling round.
“I have kept your counsel about the surplice. Keep Arthur’s in return, if you do know anything against him.”
I wish you could have witnessed the change in Gerald Yorke’s countenance! A streak of scarlet crossed its pallor, his eyes blazed forth defiance, and a tremor, as of fear, momentarily shook him. To the surprise of the boys, who had no notion what might have been the purport of Charley’s whisper, he seized the boy by the arm, and fiercely dragged him away up the cloisters, turning the corner into the west quadrangle.
“Get down!” he hissed; “get down upon your knees, and swear that you’ll never breathe a syllable of that calumny again! Do you hear me, boy?”
“No, I will not get down,” said brave Charley.