“You never found that bottle upon the surplice! I don’t believe it!” foamed Gerald.
“I found the little piece of glass. I put it into my trousers pocket, wet with ink as it was, and here are the stains of ink still,” added Bywater, turning out that receptacle for the benefit of Mr. Pye. “It was this same pair of trousers I had on that day.”
“Bywater,” said the master, “why did you not say, at the time, that you found the piece of glass?”
“Because, sir, the bit, by itself, would have told nothing. I thought I’d wait till the bottle itself turned up. Old Jenkins, the bedesman, found it a few days ago in the college burial-ground, pretty near to the college gates; just in the spot where it most likely would be, sir, if one came out of the college in a fright and dashed it over.”
“Does this belong to you, Yorke?” inquired the master, scrutinizing that gentleman’s countenance, as he had previously scrutinized Bywater’s.
Gerald Yorke took the phial in his hand and examined it. He knew perfectly well that it was his, but he was asking himself whether the school, apart from Bywater, could contradict him, if he said it was not. He feared they might.
“I had a phial very much like this, sir,” turning it over and over in his hand, apparently for the purpose of a critical inspection. “I am not sure that this is the same; I don’t think it is. I lost mine, sir: somebody stole it out of my pocket, I think.”
“When did you lose it?” demanded Mr. Pye.
“About the time that the surplice got inked, sir; a day or two before it.”
“Who is telling lies now?” cried bold Bywater. “He had the bottle that very day, sir, at his desk, here, in this schoolroom. The upper boys know he had it, and that he was using it. Channing”—turning round and catching Tom’s eye, the first he did catch—“you can bear witness that he was using it that morning.”