The school rose with one accord. The under-masters rose. To think of study, in this excitement, was futile; and, in defiance of all precedent, the boys were allowed to leave the room, and troop down to the river. It was a race which should get there first; masters and boys ran together. The only one who walked pretty soberly was the head-master, who had to uphold his dignity.
The drags were already in the river, and the banks were lined; police, friends, spectators, gentlemen, mob, and college boys, jostled each other. Arthur Channing, pale and agitated, came running from his home. The old vergers and bedesmen came; some of the clergy came; Judy came; and the dean came. Hamish, outwardly self-possessed, and giving his orders with quiet authority, was inwardly troubled as he had never been. The boy had been left to his charge, and how should he answer for this to his father and mother?
He went in and saw the old woman; as did the renowned Mr. Butterby, who had appeared with the rest. She related to them she had heard the previous night. “I could have told, without having heard it now, that it was the steps of a college boy,” she said. “I don’t listen so often to ‘em that I need mistake. He seemed to be coming from the west door o’ the cloisters—only that the cloisters are shut at night; so he may have come round by the front o’ the college. Desperate quick he ran, and leapt down the steps; and, a minute after, there was a cry and a splash, and the footsteps were heard no more. One might fancy that in turning the corner to run along the towing-path he had turned too quick, and so fell over the bank.”
“Did you hear no noise afterwards?” questioned Hamish.
“I didn’t. I called out, but nobody came nigh to answer it: and then I hid my ears. I was afraid, ye see.”
They left the old woman’s bedside, and returned to the crowd on the bank. The dean quietly questioned Hamish about the facts, and shook his head when put in possession of them. “I fear there is little hope,” he said.
“Very little. My father and mother’s absence makes it the more distressing. I know not, Mr. Dean, how—”
Who was this, pushing vehemently up, to the discomfiture of every one, elbowing the dean with as little ceremony as he might have elbowed Ketch, thrusting Hamish aside, and looking down on the river with flashing eyes? Who should it be, but Roland Yorke? For that was his usual way of pushing through a crowd; as you have heard before.
“Is it true?” he gasped. “Is Charles Channing in the water!—sent there through the tricks of the college boys—of Tod?”
“There is little doubt of its truth, Roland,” was the answer of Hamish.