For the growing boys of Stoneground, with whom he was on generally friendly terms, Mr. Batchel formed certain clubs to provide them with occupation on winter evenings; and in these clubs, in the interests of peace and good-order, he spent a great deal of time. Sitting one December evening, in a large circle of boys who preferred the warmth of the fire to the more temperate atmosphere of the tables, he found Thomas Richpin the sole topic of conversation. "We seen Mr. Richpin in Frenchman's Meadow last night," said one. "What time?" said Mr. Batchel, whose function it was to act as a sort of fly-wheel, and to carry the conversation over dead points. He had received the information with some little surprise, because Frenchman's Meadow was an unusual place for Richpin to have been in, but his question had no further object than to encourage talk. "Half-past nine," was the reply. This made the question much more interesting. Mr. Batchel, on the preceding evening, had taken advantage of a warmed church to practise upon the organ. He had played it from nine o'clock until ten, and Richpin had been all that time at the bellows. "Are you sure it was half-past nine?" he asked. "Yes," (we reproduce the answer exactly), "we come out o' night-school at quarter-past, and we was all goin' to the Wash to look if it was friz." "And you saw Mr. Richpin in Frenchman's Meadow?" said Mr. Batchel. "Yes. He was looking for something on the ground," added another boy. "And his trousers was tore," said a third. The story was clearly destined to stand in no need of corroboration. "Did Mr. Richpin speak to you?" enquired Mr. Batchel. "No, we run away afore he come to us," was the answer. "Why?" "Because we was frit." "What frightened you?" "Jim Lallement hauled a flint at him and hit him in the face, and he didn't take no notice, so we run away." "Why?" repeated Mr. Batchel. "Because he never hollered nor looked at us, and it made us feel so funny." "Did you go straight down to the Wash?" They had all done so. "What time was it when you reached home?" They had all been at home by ten, before Richpin had left the church. "Why do they call it Frenchman's Meadow?" asked another boy, evidently anxious to change the subject. Mr. Batchel replied that the meadow had probably belonged to a Frenchman whose name was not easy to say, and the conversation after this was soon in another channel. But, furnished as he was with an unmistakeable _alibi_, the story about Richpin and the torn trousers, and the flint, greatly puzzled him. "Go straight home," he said, as the boys at last bade him good-night, "and let us have no more stone-throwing." They were reckless boys, and Richpin, who used little discretion in reporting their misdemeanours about the church, seemed to Mr. Batchel to stand in real danger.