"I'd have saved him from it, sir, if I had been there, instead of harming him. When he sent me away he was all right, and not sitting anigh the edge. If it was me that had done it, sir, he'd not have asked for me to go up to him in his room--and shook hands--and said I should see him in heaven." Mark Ferrar broke down at the remembrance, and sobbed like a child. I don't think one single person present thought it was he, especially the coroner and jury. But the question was--which of the other boys could it have been? Several of them were called before the coroner. One and all declared they had done no harm to the deceased--had not been near him to do it--would not have done it if they had been--did not know he had been sitting in the place talked of--did not (most of them) know where the spot was now. In short, they denied it utterly. Mr. Jones stepped forward then. He told the coroner and jury that he had done his best to come to the bottom of the affair, but could not find out anything. He did not believe one of his boys had been in it; they were mischievous enough, as he well knew, and sometimes deceitful enough; but they all seemed to be, and he honestly believed _were_, innocent of this. The room was cleared while the jury deliberated. Their verdict was to the effect that Kingsley Sanker had died from falling over a portion of one of the Malvern hills; but whether the fall was caused by accident, or not, there was not sufficient evidence to show. It was late when it was over. Growing dusk. In turning out of the inn passage to the street, I remember the great buzz around, and the people pushing one's elbows; and I can't remember much more. If one Frog was there, it seemed to me that there were hundreds. I stayed at Captain Sanker's again that night. We all went up to bed after supper and prayers--which the captain read. He said he could not divest himself of the idea that it was a pure accident--for who would be likely to harm a helpless lad?--and that what Dance heard must have been some passing dispute connected with other people. "Come along, Johnny: this one candle'll do for us both," cried Dan, taking up a bed candlestick and waiting for me to follow him. I kept close to him as we went by the room--_the_ room, you know--for Dan was worse than any of them for passing it. He and King had been much together. King followed him in age; they had always slept together and gone to school together; the rest were older or younger--and naturally Dan felt it most. "I shan't be a minute, Johnny, and then you can take the candle," said he, when we got to the top. "Come in." Before I had well turned round, after getting in, I declare Dan had rushed all his things off in a heap and leaped into bed. Poor King used not to be so quick, and Dan always made him put the light out. "Good-night, Dan." "Good-night, Johnny. I hope I shall get to sleep."