Mr Frampton’s face clouded over.
“Jeffreys is a clumsy fellow, is he not?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Scarfe; “and if it had been any one else than Forrester, we should all have put it down to his stupidity.”
“You mean,” said the head-master, “that he had a quarrel with Forrester?”
“He hated Forrester. Every one knew that. Forrester used to make fun of him and enrage him.”
“And you mean to tell me you believe this big boy of nineteen, out of revenge, deliberately ran over young Forrester in the way you describe?”
“I’m sure of it, sir,” said Farfield unhesitatingly.
“No one doubts it,” said Scarfe.
Mr Frampton took an uneasy turn up and down the room. He hated tale-bearers; but this seemed a case in which he was bound to listen and inquire further.
“Scarfe and Farfield,” said he, after a long pause, “you know of course as well as I do the nature of the charge you are bringing against your schoolfellow—the most awful charge one human being can bring against another. Are you prepared to repeat all you have said to me in Jeffreys’ presence to-morrow, and before the whole school?”