The howl which arose from the agitated crowd at this amazing piece of news—amazing even to those who had most freely raised the cry of foul play—was one the like of which Willoughby never heard before or since. Mingled rage, scorn, incredulity, derision, all found vent in that one shout—and then suddenly died into silence as Parson began again.
“They’ve looked at the place where it broke,” he gasped. “It’s a clean cut half-way through. I knew it was foul play!”
Once again the shout drowned his voice.
“Who did it?” shrieked a voice, before Parson could resume.
Parson glared round wrathfully for the speaker.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “Sorry for him if I did!”
This valiant invective from the honest little fag failed even to appear ludicrous in the midst of the general excitement. Further words were now interrupted by the appearance of the Parretts’ crew coming slowly up the walk.
This was the signal for a general cheer and rush in their direction, in the midst of which the defeated heroes with difficulty struggled up to the school. Wrath and indignation were on all their faces. In reply to the hundred inquiries showered upon them they said nothing, but forced their way through the press sullenly, heedless of the cheers of their sympathisers or the silence of their opponents.
The crowd slowly fell back to let them pass, and watched them disappear into the school. Then they turned again towards the path from the river, and waited with grim purpose.
The news announced by Parson and confirmed by the black looks of the injured crew had fallen like a thunderbolt, and for the moment Willoughby was stunned. The boys could not—would not—believe that one of their number could be guilty of such an act. And yet, how could they disbelieve it?