insolent young jackanapes! Now! what do you mean? You don't stir from
here till you tell me."

"I'll tell you, Mr. Yorke; I'd rather tell," cried the boy, sinking his
voice to a whisper. "I was here when you came peeping out of the
college doors this afternoon, and I saw you come up to this niche, and
fling away an ink-bottle."

Yorke's face flushed scarlet. He was a tall, strong fellow, with a pale
complexion, thick, projecting lips, and black hair, promising fair to
make a Hercules--but all the Yorkes were finely framed. He gave young
Channing a taste of his strength; the boy, when shaken, was in his
hands as a very reed. "You miserable imp! Do you know who is said to be
the father of lies?"

"Let me alone, sir. It's no lie, and you know it's not. But I promise
you on my honour that I won't split. I'll keep it in close; always, if
I can. The worst of me is, I bring things out sometimes without
thought," he added ingenuously. "I know I do; but I'll try and keep in
this. You needn't be in a passion, Yorke; I couldn't help seeing what I
did. It wasn't my fault."

Yorke's face had grown purple with anger. "Charles Channing, if you
don't: unsay what you have said, I'll beat you to within an inch of
your life."

"I can't unsay it," was the answer.

"You can't!" reiterated Yorke, grasping him as a hawk would a pigeon.
"How dare you brave me to my presence? Unsay the lie you have told."