"Little Chester, after all!" said some.
"Ain't I glad I am not Joe Chester?" and similar expressions, were exchanged by the boys, until Mr. Andrews began to distribute black marks, which had a tendency to restore order, as a certain number of these marks would prevent participation in the summer gipsying, and some of the boys were alarmingly near the limit.
The eighty-five tongues were stilled, but twice eighty-five eyes were continually straying towards the study door behind the desk. In the meantime, Drayton could only conceal his anxiety and alarm by pretending to be very much engaged looking up a Latin translation, while all the time he was saying over and over to himself, "Joe promised to be mum! Joe promised to be mum!" and the minutes seemed hours.
"What could teacher and scholar be doing?"
The boys were all asking themselves that question, as they studied, or tried to study, in obedience to Mr. Andrews's orders.
It was a full hour before Joe appeared and came across the platform.
He did not glance up as he came down the room, and hastily seated himself, bending over his book, with both hands thrust through his short curls.
Mr. Bernard did not appear at once, and the lessons went on as usual.
When the usual hour for closing came, Mr. Bernard addressed the school again:--
"I am aware that among boys there is a code of honour in regard to information that will implicate a companion, and I have respect for it; but in this case, if the boy who is guilty will not confess, I deem it my duty to the school to hunt him down, and it seems to me that ordinary scruples ought not to prevent justice. This lie rests like a cloud over the whole school. Chester refuses to tell me what he knows."