"Who blew you up?"
"Some on 'em," answered Jim, doing his best to evade the question.
"Well, what is this about Mr. Rupert? If you are afraid to tell me, tell your master there," suggested Bowen. "I'm sure he is a kind master to you; all the parish knows that."
"It must be told, Jim," said George Ryle, impressively, as he laid his hand upon the boy's shoulder. "What are you afraid of?"
"Mr. Chattaway might kill me for telling, sir," said unwilling Jim.
"Nonsense! Mr. Chattaway would be as anxious to know the truth as we are."
"But if it was him did it?" whispered Jim, glancing fearfully round the whitewashed walls of the room, as he had glanced around those of his mother's cottage.
A blank pause. Mr. Bowen looked at George, whose face had turned hectic with the surprise, the dread the words had brought. "You must speak out, Jim," was all he said.
"It was in the little grove last night," rejoined the boy. "I was running home after Nora Dickson turned me out o' the tallet, and when I got up to 'em they was having words——"
"Who were having words?"