"Well, this is an odd go!" exclaimed Thorpe, as he leaned against a
pillar and surveyed the darkness of the cathedral. "He can't have
melted away into a ghost, or dropped down into the crypt among the
coffins. Jenkins, I say!"

With a word of impatience at the continued silence, the sexton returned
to the entrance gates. All that could be done was to get a light and
search for him.

They procured a lantern, Ketch ungraciously supplying it; and the
sexton, taking two or three of the spectators with him, proceeded to
the search. "He has gone to sleep in the organ-loft, that is what he
has done," cried Thorpe, making known what the bishop had said.

Alas! Jenkins had not gone to sleep. At the foot of the steps, leading
to the organ-loft, they came upon him. He was lying there insensible,
blood oozing from a wound in the forehead. How had it come about? What
had caused it?

Meanwhile, the college boys, after driving Mr. Ketch nearly wild with
their jokes and ridicule touching the mystery of the keys, were scared
by the sudden appearance of the head-master. They decamped as fast as
their legs could carry them, bringing themselves to an anchor at a safe
distance, under shade of the friendly elm trees. Bywater stuck his back
against one, and his laughter came forth in peals. Some of the rest
tried to stop it, whispering caution.

"It's of no good talking, you fellows! I can't keep it in; I shall
burst if I try. I have been at bursting point ever since I twitched the
keys out of his hands in the cloisters, and threw the rusty ones down.