's words.

"Oh, I say, don't talk like that," cried Gilmore. "It isn't likely, and
you shouldn't have turned against poor old Distie as you did."

"I couldn't help it," said Macey, sadly. "You'd have thought the same
if the doctor had let you go up to see poor old Weathercock. It was
horrid. His face is dreadful, and his arms are black and blue from the
wrist to the shoulder."

"But Dis declared that he hadn't seen him," cried Gilmore.

"I hope he hadn't, for it's too horrid to think a fellow you mix with
could be such a wretch."

Gilmore turned sharply round to his companion, but it was too dark to
see his face. There was something, however, in his tone of voice which
struck him as being peculiar. It did not sound confident of Distin's
innocence. There was a want of conviction in his words too, and this
set Gilmore thinking as to the possibility of Distin having in a fit of
rage and dislike quarrelled with and then beaten Vane till the stick was
broken and his victim senseless.

The idea grew rapidly as he stood there beside Macey in the darkness,
and he recalled scores of little incidents all displaying Distin's
dislike of his fellow-pupil; and as Gilmore thought on, a conscious
feeling of horror, almost terror, crept over him till his common sense
began to react and argue the matter out so triumphantly that in a voice
full of elation he suddenly and involuntarily exclaimed:

"It's absurd! He couldn't."

"What's absurd? Who couldn't," cried Macey, starting from a reverie.

"Did I say that aloud?" said Gilmore, wonderingly.

"Why, you shouted it."

"I was thinking about whether it was possible that the constable was
right."

"That's queer," said Macey; "I was thinking just the same."

"And that Distie had done it?"

"Yes."

"Well, don't you see that it is impossible?"

"No, I wish I could," said Macey sadly; "can you?"

"Why, of course. Vane's as strong as Distie, isn't he?"

"Yes, quite."

"And he can use his fists."

"I should rather think he can. I put on the gloves with him one day and
he sent me flying. But what has that got to do with it?"

"Everything. Do you think Distie could have pitched into Vane with a
stick and not got something back?"

"Why, of course he couldn't."

"Well, there you are, then. He hasn't got a scratch."

"Hist! What's that," said Macey, softly.

"Sounded like a window squeaking."

"Come away," whispered Macey taking his companion by the arm,