Pip. Ian Hay

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СКАЧАТЬ was a death-like silence, suddenly broken by piercing shrieks from one Gwendoline Harvey, aged seven, for whose infant nerves the strain had proved too great.

      "Please, it wasn't me," she wailed, "and—and—and I've lost my hankey!"

      Tender-hearted Miss Arabella supplied the deficiency, and led her out, still sobbing. The inquisition was resumed.

      "I shall give the culprit one more minute," announced Mr. Pocklington in the tones of a Grand Inquisitor.

      There was another tense silence. The inmates of Wentworth House School breathed hard, looked straight before them, and waited with their small mouths wide open. One or two little girls—and small boys, for that matter—gripped the benches convulsively, and with difficulty refrained from screaming.

      "The minute has elapsed," proclaimed the Grand Inquisitor. "Philip, stand up!"

      "Ah!" A long, shuddering sigh, partly of relief and partly of apprehension, ran round the room. Pipette turned deathly pale. Pip rose slowly to his feet, staring intently in his disconcerting way at the besotted features of Julius Cæsar.

       "Philip," said Mr. Pocklington, "you were seen coming out of the Study at one-twenty. What have you to say?"

      Pip had nothing to say, but transferred his gaze to Mr. Pocklington. As a matter of fact he had not entered the Study. He had spent some time, it was true, in the passage outside the door, but that was because he was waiting for Thomas Oates, having arranged to meet him there for five minutes, for the purpose of adjusting a small difference on a matter of a purely personal character, calling for plenty of elbow-room and freedom from publicity. Tommy Oates had not appeared, and Pip had been late for luncheon in consequence.

      "Do you confess to this outrage?" inquired Mr. Pocklington, coming suddenly to the point.

      Pip collected himself. Then as common politeness seemed to demand some sort of reply, he said, "No."

      Another slight shudder passed round the room.

      "Do you know anything about the matter?"

      Pip was about to reply with another negative, when it suddenly flashed across his mind that as he stood outside the Study waiting for Master Oates he had experienced considerable difficulty in getting rid of Isabel Dinting, who had hovered around him in a highly flattering but most embarrassing fashion just when he wished to compose and concentrate his faculties for his coming interview with Tommy. What was she doing there? What could her business have been? In plain truth she had come to avert a possible battle between Pip and Tommy, but this never occurred to Pip: he had not thought it possible that any one should take such a close interest in his movements. Anyhow this was no concern of his. Accordingly he said, "No" a second time.

      Then came another question.

      "Do you deny having been in the Study?"

      "Yes."

      "But you were seen coming from the passage leading to the Study door."

      No answer.

      "Do you admit that you were in that passage?"

      "Yes." (Sensation.)

      "Philip," said Mr. Pocklington, "that passage leads only to the Study. What other motive can have taken you there?"

      No answer. It is difficult on the spur of the moment to frame a plausible excuse for having in cold blood arranged a sanguinary encounter outside your Principal's study door.

      "Do you decline to answer?"

      Again no reply from Pip. Another pause. Mr. Pocklington, now as excited as a terrier halfway down a rabbit-hole, with difficulty refrained from pronouncing sentence on the spot. However, he restrained himself so far as to remember to sum up.

      "Appearances are against you, Philip," he began. "You were seen leaving the—the scene of the outrage in a suspicious manner shortly after that outrage was committed. You decline to state what business took you there. No one else visited the spot during the time under consideration—at least—by the way, did you see any one else while you—during that period?"

      This chance shot hit Pip hard. That Isabel Dinting should have painted Julius Cæsar's nose red seemed almost beyond the bounds of human probability. Still she undoubtedly had been there, and with Mr. Pocklington in his present state the sudden revelation of such a fact would probably cause a perfect eruption. Pip hesitated.

      "Was any one else there?" reiterated Mr. Pocklington.

      Pip was essentially a truthful boy, and the idea of saying, "No" never occurred to him. Accordingly he said nothing, as before.

      The eruption immediately took place.

      "Philip," thundered Mr. Pocklington, "I have asked you two questions. You have answered neither of them. Do you decline to do so?"

       A very long pause this time. Then—"Yes," said Pip briefly.

      "In that case," replied Mr. Pocklington, metaphorically assuming the black cap, "I must pronounce you guilty. Still, I would rather you confessed than were convicted. I will give you one more minute."

      Sixty palpitating seconds passed. Forty juvenile hearts bumped tumultuously, and Pip still stood up, a very straight, very silent, and not undignified little figure.

      "Have you anything further to say?" inquired Mr. Pocklington at last, now almost convinced that he was the Lord Chief Justice himself.

      Pip shook his head. He seldom wasted words.

      "Then I pronounce you guilty. You have committed an offence against decency and good taste that I have never known paralleled in the history of this school. Your punishment"—the children held their breath—"must be a matter for consideration. Meanwhile—"

      Mr. Pocklington paused, and frowned at Isabel Dinting, who was groping for something in her desk.

      "Meanwhile," he continued, having suddenly decided to keep Pip in durance vile until a punishment could be devised in keeping with his crime, "you will be incarcerated—Well, Isabel?"

       Isabel Dinting was standing up in her place, with her small countenance flushed and apprehensive, but bravely waving one hand in the air to attract attention. In the other she grasped a rather grubby and bulgy envelope.

      "Please, may I speak to Pi—Philip?" she gasped.

      Mr. Pocklington was too surprised to be pedantic.

      "To Philip? Why, my child?"

      "Because—well, because I've got somefing to give him."

      "This is hardly the time for an exchange of gifts," remarked Mr. Pocklington severely.

      "But may I?" persisted Isabel, with a boldness which surprised herself.

      "I cannot imagine what your gift can be, but if it has any bearing on the present deplorable case, I should be only too thankful to permit—"

      But long before this homily was completed Isabel had slipped СКАЧАТЬ