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“What boy among you has been guilty of this outrage?” he asked, sternly.

There was no answer. Some of the little ones took out their handkerchiefs and began to whimper, fearing condign punishment. The doctor repeated his question. The boys looked from one to another, but there was still no reply. Laurence Aspinall edged farther behind his coadjutor, but he had not the manliness either to confess or regret. His only fear was detection, or betrayal by a traitor. There was little fear of that; grammar-school boys have a detestation of a “sneak.”

“Boys, we cannot permit the perpetrator of such an outrage to remain in your midst; he must be expelled!”

Still no one spoke.

“Do you think you could recognise your assailant—the boy who kicked you after you were down?” (a murmur ran round the school as the classes were ordered to defile slowly past Dr. Smith’s desk).

Ben Travis walked with head erect—he would have scorned such a deed—and Laurence tried to do the same, but his cruel blue eyes could not meet those of his possible accuser.