"Please, sir, I don't know exact. We had our tea at four: it wasn't over-long after that." "Did you recognize the other voice?" "No, sir. It was a boy's voice." "Was it one you had ever heard before?" "I couldn't tell, sir; I wasn't near enough to hear or to catch the words. King Sanker spoke last, just as I got over the spot." "You heard of the accident the next morning, you say. Did you hear of it early?" "It was afore breakfast, sir. Some of our boys that waited for the last van telled me; and Ferrar, he telled me. They said they had helped to look for him." "And then it came into your mind, that it was King Sanker you had heard speak?" "Yes, sir, it did. It come right into my mind, all sudden like, that he might have been throwed over." "Well now, Mr. Harry Dance, how was it that you did not at once hasten to report this? How is it that you have kept it in till now?" Harry Dance looked too confused and frightened to answer. He picked at the band of his grey cap and stood, first on one foot, then on the other. The coroner pressed the question sharply, and he replied in confusion. Didn't like to tell it. Knew people were saying it might have been one of their boys that had pitched him over. Was afraid to tell. Did say a word to Mark Ferrar; not much: Ferrar wanted to know more, and what it was he meant, but didn't tell him. That was yesterday morning. Had felt uncomfortable ever since then, wanting to tell, but not liking to. This afternoon, in school, writing their copies at the desk, he had told Tom Wood'art, the carpenter's son, who sat next him; leastways, had said the college boy had not fell of himself, but been pitched over; and Tom Wood'art had made him tell it to another boy, Collins; and then the two had went up to the desk and telled their master, Mr. Jones; and Mr. Jones, after calling him up to ask about it, had ordered him home to tell it all to his father; and his father said he must come and tell it here. The father, John Dance, spoke up again to confirm this, so far as his part went. He was so anxious it should be told to the gentlemen at once, he repeated, that he had come out all untidy as he was, not stopping to put himself to rights in any way. The next person to step forward was Mr. Jones, in his white cravat and black clothes. He stated that the two boys, Thomas Woodward and James Collins, had made this strange communication to him. Upon which he had questioned Dance, and at once despatched him home to acquaint his father. "What sort of a boy is Harry Dance, Mr. Jones?" inquired the coroner. "A truthful boy?--one to be depended on? Some boys, as I dare say you know, are capable of romancing in the most unaccountable manner: inventing lies by the bushel." "The boy is truthful, sir; a sufficiently good boy," was the reply. "Some of them are just what you describe; but Dance, so far as I believe, may be relied upon."