Here the nine-o'clock bell cut short the narrative, but Ted and Dan had heard enough.
Without daring to look at one another, they went in and took their seats. But instead of studying, they sat most of the time gazing in a dazed sort of way at Percy Vance's vacant seat.
At recess Tom Wayne, whose father was justice of the peace, came running breathlessly into the yard with the news that Percy had been "brought up," and firmly denied the crime charged against him.
"And just as I left," concluded Tom, "they had the coachman up as a witness. He declared there were two boys standing at the horses' heads, so they couldn't have started off of their own accord. But the queer part of it is that nobody knows who these two boys were except Percy, who vows he will never tell."
At these words Ted and Dan started as if struck, and then, regardless of the bell that had already begun to ring, made off on a run for Judge Wayne's office.
As if by a common impulse, they gave themselves no time for thought, but on reaching the door passed inside at once, to be greeted with the exclamation:
"An' shure here are the young gintlemin to spake for thimselves. Now, thin, me byes, step forward and testify as to how this young scapegrace tried to stale me tame, givin' me at the same toime this big bump on the back of me head."
Neither of the lads ever forgot Percy's look at that moment. He was sitting by a sad-faced lady, dressed in the deepest mourning, and as Ted and Dan entered the room, his large gray eyes gave them both a brief piercing glance, then instantly dropped toward the floor.
"Let Percy Vance go. It was all our fault," cried Dan, in a loud voice; and then he went on to tell how he and Ted had started the horses.
"But how—why, boys, I don't understand," exclaimed the bewildered judge, who knew both lads well. "What did you do such a thing for?"