Now, his old boots were in the cupboard under the staircase by the front door. And the reader understands at last why it is I have taken so much trouble to describe Master Simson’s movements on this particular morning.
It was so rare an event for any boy to be up at six o’clock on a winter morning in Railsford’s, that no one had ever thought about making a rule to prevent the early birds leaving the house at that hour, if they could succeed in getting out. Simson, who had interest with the cook, believed he could get an exeat through the kitchen window; meanwhile he must get his boots. He armed himself with a match—the last one in the box—and quietly felt his way along the corridor and down the stairs. There was a glimmer of light from under the maids’ door as he passed, which told him they were up and that he would not have long to wait downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he turned sharp round, and following the wall with his hand, came at length on the familiar handle of the “boot-box.” To his surprise the door was locked, but the key was on the outside.
“A sell if I hadn’t been able to get in,” said he to himself, opening the door.
Now Simson, like a cautious youth, aware of the frailty of matches, wisely resolved to penetrate as far as possible into the interior of the cupboard, in the direction in which he knew his particular boots to be, before striking a light.
But at the first step he tripped on something and fell prostrate over a human carcase, which emitted a muffled gasp and moved heavily as he tumbled upon it. Then there went up a yell such as curdled the blood of half Railsford’s as they lay in their beds, and made the domestics up-stairs cling to one another in terror, as if their last moment had come.
Simson, with every hair on his head erect, made a frantic dive out of that awful den, banging the door and locking it behind him in a frenzy of fright. Then he dashed up-stairs, and plunged, as white as his shirt, into the dormitory.
Another yell signalised his arrival. Not his, this time, but the joint performance of the other occupants of the room, who, sitting up with their chins on their knees, half petrified by the horror of the first shriek, now gave themselves up for lost when the door broke open in the dark, and a gasping something staggered into the room.
“There’s some—bo—dy been mur—dered,” gasped Simson, “in the bo—ot-box!”
Everybody was on his feet in a moment.
“Murdered?”