The drags were already in the river, and the banks were lined; police, friends, spectators, gentlemen, mob, and college boys, jostled each other. Arthur Channing, pale and agitated, came running from his home. The old vergers and bedesmen came; some of the clergy came; Judy came; and the dean came. Hamish, outwardly self-possessed, and giving his orders with quiet authority, was inwardly troubled as he had never been. The boy had been left to his charge, and how should he answer for this to his father and mother? He went in and saw the old woman; as did the renowned Mr. Butterby, who had appeared with the rest. She related to them she had heard the previous night. “I could have told, without having heard it now, that it was the steps of a college boy,” she said. “I don’t listen so often to ‘em that I need mistake. He seemed to be coming from the west door o’ the cloisters--only that the cloisters are shut at night; so he may have come round by the front o’ the college. Desperate quick he ran, and leapt down the steps; and, a minute after, there was a cry and a splash, and the footsteps were heard no more. One might fancy that in turning the corner to run along the towing-path he had turned too quick, and so fell over the bank.” “Did you hear no noise afterwards?” questioned Hamish. “I didn’t. I called out, but nobody came nigh to answer it: and then I hid my ears. I was afraid, ye see.” They left the old woman’s bedside, and returned to the crowd on the bank. The dean quietly questioned Hamish about the facts, and shook his head when put in possession of them. “I fear there is little hope,” he said. “Very little. My father and mother’s absence makes it the more distressing. I know not, Mr. Dean, how--” Who was this, pushing vehemently up, to the discomfiture of every one, elbowing the dean with as little ceremony as he might have elbowed Ketch, thrusting Hamish aside, and looking down on the river with flashing eyes? Who should it be, but Roland Yorke? For that was his usual way of pushing through a crowd; as you have heard before. “Is it true?” he gasped. “Is Charles Channing in the water!--sent there through the tricks of the college boys--of Tod?” “There is little doubt of its truth, Roland,” was the answer of Hamish. Roland said no more. Off went his coat, off went his waistcoat, off went other garments, leaving him nothing but his drawers and his shirt; and in he leaped impetuously, before any one could stop him, and dived below, searching after Charles, paying no heed to the shouts that the drags would get hold of him. But neither drags nor Roland could find Charles. The drags were continued, but without result. Very few had expected that there would be any result, the probability being that the current had carried the body down the stream. Hamish had been home to soothe the grief of his sisters--or rather to attempt to soothe it--and then he came back again.