“Who is?” sharply asked Diggs. “They had better let me catch ‘em at it!” “Lots of folks,” was the response. “But if it was a dead dog, it couldn’t well have cried out.” Diggs went indoors to his mother’s chamber. “What time was it, this tale of yours?” asked he. “It was about half-past seven,” she answered. “The half-hour chimed out from the college, just before or just after, I forget which.” And then she related again what she knew he could not clearly comprehend over night: the fact of the fleet-sounding footsteps, and that they appeared to be young footsteps. “If I didn’t know the cloisters were shut at that hour, I should have thought they come direct from the west door--” The words were interrupted by a call from below; and the man hastened down. A boy’s cap--known, from its form, to belong to one of the collegiate scholars--had just been found under the lower bank, lodged in the mud. Then some one had been drowned! and it was a college boy. Where does a crowd collect from? I don’t believe any one can tell. Not three minutes after that trencher was picked up, people were gathering thick and threefold, retired though the spot was; and it was at this time that Mr. Bill Simms had passed, and heard the tale which turned his heart sick and his face white. Some time given to supposition, to comments, and to other gossip, indigenous to an event of the sort, and then Mr. Diggs started for the college school with the cap. Another messenger ran to the Channings’ house, the name in the cap proving to whom it had belonged. Diggs related the substance of this to the master, suppressing certain little points bearing upon himself. Mr. Pye took the cap in his hand, and looked inside. The name, “C. Channing,” was in Mrs. Channing’s writing; and, in the sprawling hand of one of the schoolboys--it looked like Bywater’s--“Miss” had been added. Charley had scratched the addition over with strokes from a pen, but the word might still be read. “The river must be dragged, Diggs,” said Hamish Channing. “The drags are being got ready now, sir. They’ll be in, by the time I get back.” Hamish strode to the door. Tom came up from his desk, showing some agitation, and looked at the master. “You will allow me to go, sir? I can do no good at my lessons in this suspense.” “Yes,” replied the master. He was going himself. The school rose with one accord. The under-masters rose. To think of study, in this excitement, was futile; and, in defiance of all precedent, the boys were allowed to leave the room, and troop down to the river. It was a race which should get there first; masters and boys ran together. The only one who walked pretty soberly was the head-master, who had to uphold his dignity.