“Awfully good of you,” said Silk. “Of course I wanted you. The fact is, young un,” said he, becoming a little mysterious, “there’s rather an awkward thing turned up. I hope it won’t come to anything, I’m sure, but it doesn’t do to be too sure.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Wyndham, looking alarmed. “I mean,” said Silk, slowly, “that last time you took Gilks and me down to Beamish’s—”
“I took you!” exclaimed Wyndham. “You took me—you made me go.”
Silk laughed.
“Well, the last time we three went to Beamish’s, if you like—the Saturday before the race; last Saturday, in fact—somebody saw us, or rather saw you.”
“What!” cried Wyndham, turning pale. “Who was it?”
“It wouldn’t do you any good to know,” said Silk, “but it seems to be a fact.”
“Who was it? a master or a monitor, or who?” asked the boy, anxiously.
“Neither. I don’t fancy you know the fellow at all; I do, though.”
Silk, as he concocted this lie, would probably have been as astonished as any one to discover that the escapade in question had really been witnessed by two boys from the box of the doctor’s own fly!