“Now, sir,” he said, “Billy is a poor witness.  I desire to hear what happened.”

The stiffened hardness of the speaker in a measure affected the boy.  He stood for a moment silent.  The Captain, impatient, exclaimed, “Now, I want the simple truth and nothing else.”

The boy felt himself flush.  “I do not lie, sir.  I always tell the truth.”

“Of course—­of course,” returned Penhallow.  “This thing has annoyed me.  Sit down and tell me all about it.”

Rather more at his ease John said, “I went to swim with some of the village boys, sir.  We played tag in the water—­”

The Squire had at once a divergent interest, “Tag—­tag—­swimming?  Who invented that game?  Good idea—­how do you play it?”

John a little relieved continued, “You see, uncle, you can dive to escape or come up under a fellow to tag him.  It’s just splendid!” he concluded with enthusiasm.

Then the Captain remembered that this was a domestic court-martial, and self-reminded said, “The tag has nothing to do with the matter in question; go on.”

“We got tired and sat on the bank.  Billy was wandering about.  He never can keep still.  I proposed that I should hide in the bushes and the boys should tell Billy I was drowned.”

“Indeed!”

“We went into the water; I hid in the bushes and the boys called out I was drowned.  When Billy heard it, he gathered up all my clothes and my shoes, and before I could get out he just yelled, ’John’s drowned, I must take his clothes home to his poor aunt.’  Then he ran.  The last I heard was, ‘He’s drowned, he’s drowned!’”

“And then?”

“Well, the other fellows put on something and went after him; they caught him in the cornfield and took away my clothes.  Then Billy ran to the house.  That is all I know.”

The Squire was suppressing his mirth.  “Aren’t you ashamed?”

“No, sir, but I am sorry.”

“I don’t like practical jokes.  Billy kept on lamenting your fate.  He might have told Leila or your aunt.  Luckily I received his news, and no one else.  You will go to Westways and say there is to be no swimming for a week in my pool.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You are not to ride Dixy or any other horse for ten days.”  This was terrible.  “Now, be off with you, and tell Mr. Rivers to come in.”

“Yes, sir.”

When Rivers sat down, the Squire suppressing his laughter related the story.  “The boy’s coming on, Mark.  He’s Penhallow all over.”

“But, Squire, by the boy’s looks I infer you did not tell him that.”

“Oh, hardly.  I hate practical jokes, and I have stopped his riding for ten days.”

“I suppose you are right,” and they fell to talking politics and of the confusion of parties with three candidates in the field.