Then it was that the hubbub arose, converting the cloisters into an arena. One word led to another. Fiery blood bubbled up; harsh things were said. Gerald Yorke and his party reproached Tom Channing with being a _disgrace_ to the school’s charter, through his brother Arthur. Huntley and a few more warmly espoused Tom’s cause, of whom saucy Bywater was one, who roared out cutting sarcasms from his gymnasium on the window-frame. Tom controlled himself better than might have been expected, but he and Gerald Yorke flung passionate retorts one to the other. “It is not fair to cast in a fellow’s teeth the shortcomings of his relations,” continued Bywater. “What with our uncles and cousins, and mothers and grandmothers, there’s sure to be one among them that goes off the square. Look at that rich lot, next door to Lady Augusta’s, with their carriages and servants, and soirées, and all the rest of their grandeur!--their uncle was hanged for sheep-stealing.” “I’d rather steal a sheep and be hanged for it, than help myself to a nasty bit of paltry money, and then deny that I did it!” foamed Gerald. “The suspicion might have fallen on my brother, but that he happened, by good luck, to be away that afternoon. My opinion is, that Arthur Channing intended suspicion to fall upon him.” A howl from Bywater. He had gone over, head foremost, to make acquaintance with the graves. They were too much engrossed to heed him. “Your brother was a great deal more likely to have helped himself to it, than Arthur Channing,” raged Tom. “He does a hundred dirty things every day, that a Channing would rather cut off his arm than attempt.” The disputants’ faces were almost touching each other, and very fiery faces they were--that is, speaking figuratively. Tom’s certainly was red enough, but Gerald’s was white with passion. Some of the bigger boys stood close to prevent blows, which Gaunt was forbidding. “I _know_ he did it!” shrieked Gerald. “There!” “You can’t know it!” stamped Tom. “You don’t know it!” “I _do_. And for two pins I’d tell.” The boast was a vain boast, the heat of passion alone prompting it. Gerald Yorke was not scrupulously particular in calm moments; but little recked he what he said in his violent moods. Tom repudiated it with scorn. But there was another upon whom the words fell with intense fear. And that was Charley Channing. Misled by Gerald’s positive and earnest tone, the boy really believed that there must be some foundation for the assertion. A wild fear seized him, lest Gerald should proclaim some startling fact, conveying a conviction of Arthur’s guilt to the minds of the school. The blood forsook his face, his lips trembled, and he pushed his way through the throng till he touched Gerald. “Don’t say it, Gerald Yorke! Don’t!” he imploringly whispered. “I have kept counsel for you.” “What?” said Gerald, wheeling round. “I have kept your counsel about the surplice. Keep Arthur’s in return, if you do know anything against him.”