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Project Gutenberg's The Jester of St. Timothy's, by Arthur Stanwood Pier
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Title: The Jester of St. Timothy's
Author: Arthur Stanwood Pier
Release Date: January 16, 2006 [EBook #17535]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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<div class="figcenter" style="width: 362px;">
<span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span>
<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="362" height="551" alt="[Illustration: Front Cover: The Jester of St. Timothy's]" title="Front Cover: The Jester of St. Timothy's" />
</div>
<h4><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i"></a><span class="pagenum" title="i"></span>OFFICERS OF THE NATIONAL COUNCIL.</h4>
<p class="block">Honorary President, THE HON. WOODROW WILSON<br />
Honorary Vice-President, HON. WILLIAM H. TAFT<br />
Honorary Vice-President, COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT<br />
President, COLIN H. LIVINGSTONE, Washington, D. C.<br />
Vice-President, B. L. DULANEY, Bristol, Tenn.<br />
Vice-President, MILTON A. McRAE, Detroit, Mich.<br />
Vice-President, DAVID STARK JORDAN, Stanford University, Cal.<br />
Vice-President, F. L. SEELY, Asheville, N. C.<br />
Vice-President, A. STAMFORD WHITE, Chicago, Ill.<br />
Chief Scout, ERNEST THOMPSON SETON, Greenwich, Connecticut<br />
National Scout Commissioner, DANIEL CARTER BEARD, Flushing, N. Y.</p>
<h3>NATIONAL HEADQUARTERS</h3>
<h2>BOY SCOUTS OF AMERICA</h2>
<p class="center">THE FIFTH AVENUE BUILDING, 200 FIFTH AVENUE<br/>
TELEPHONE GRAMERCY 546<br />
NEW YORK CITY</p>
<h4>FINANCE COMMITTEE</h4>
<p class="block">John Sherman Hoyt, Chairman<br />
August Belmont<br />
George D. Pratt<br />
Mortimer L. Schiff<br />
H. Rogers Winthrop</p>
<p class="block"><br />GEORGE D. PRATT, Treasurer<br />
JAMES E. WEST, Chief Scout Executive</p>
<h4>ADDITIONAL MEMBERS OF THE EXECUTIVE BOARD</h4>
<p class="block">Ernest P. Bidwell<br />
Robert Garrett<br />
Lee F. Hanmer<br />
John Sherman Hoyt<br />
Charles C. Jackson<br />
Prof. Jeremiah W. Jenks<br />
William D. Murray<br />
Dr. Charles P. Neill<br />
George D. Porter<br />
Frank Presbrey<br />
Edgar M. Robinson<br />
Mortimer L. Schiff<br />
Lorillard Spencer<br />
Seth Sprague Terry</p>
<p style="text-align: right; margin-top: 3em;">July 31st, 1913.
</p>
<p>TO THE PUBLIC:—</p>
<p>In the execution of its purpose to give educational value and
moral worth to the recreational activities of the boyhood of America,
the leaders of the Boy Scout Movement quickly learned that to effectively
carry out its program, the boy must be influenced not only in his
out-of-door life but also in the diversions of his other leisure moments.
It is at such times that the boy is captured by the tales of daring
enterprises and adventurous good times. What now is needful is not
that his taste should be thwarted but trained. There should constantly
be presented to him the books the boy likes best, yet always the books
that will be best for the boy. As a matter of fact, however, the boy’s
taste is being constantly vitiated and exploited by the great mass of
cheap juvenile literature.</p>
<p>[Footer: “DO A GOOD TURN DAILY.” «over»]</p>
<p>To help anxiously concerned parents and educators to meet this
grave peril, the Library Commission of the Boy Scouts of America has
been organised. EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY is the result of their labors.
All the books chosen have been approved by them. The Commission is
composed of the following members: George F. Bowerman, Librarian, Public
Library of the District of Columbia, Washington, D. C.; Harrison W.
Graver, Librarian, Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh, Pa.; Claude G. Leland,
<a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii"></a><span class="pagenum" title="ii"></span>Superintendent, Bureau of Libraries, Board of Education, New York City;
Edward F. Stevens, Librarian, Pratt Institute Free Library, Brooklyn,
New York; together with the Editorial Board of our Movement, William
D. Murray, George D. Pratt and Frank Presbrey, with Franklin K. Mathiews,
Chief Scout Librarian, as Secretary.</p>
<p>In selecting the books, the Commission has chosen only such as
are of interest to boys, the first twenty-five being either works of
fiction or stirring stories of adventurous experiences. In later lists,
books of a more serious sort will be included. It is hoped that as
many as twenty-five may be added to the Library each year.</p>
<p>Thanks are due the several publishers who have helped to
inaugurate this new department of our work. Without their co-operation
in making available for popular priced editions some of the best books
ever published for boys, the promotion of EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY would
have been impossible.</p>
<p>We wish, too, to express our heartiest gratitude to the Library
Commission, who, without compensation, have placed their vast experience
and immense resources at the service of our Movement.</p>
<p>The Commission invites suggestions as to future books to be
included in the Library. Librarians, teachers, parents, and all others
interested in welfare work for boys, can render a unique service by
forwarding to National Headquarters lists of such books as in their
judgment would be suitable for EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY.</p>
<p style="margin-left: 20%;">Signed</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 393px;">
<img src="images/ii.png" width="196" height="54" alt="[Signature: James E. West]" title="James E. West" />
</div>
<p style="margin-left: 60%;">Chief Scout Executive.</p>
<hr />
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 423px;"><a name="Frontispiece" id="Frontispiece"></a><span class="pagenum" title="Front."></span>
<img src="images/front.jpg" width="423" height="652" alt="[Illustration: LAWRENCE LAUNCHED HIMSELF AND HURLED THE RUNNER BACKWARD (p. 194)]" title="LAWRENCE LAUNCHED HIMSELF AND HURLED THE RUNNER BACKWARD (p. 194)" />
<span>LAWRENCE LAUNCHED HIMSELF AND HURLED THE RUNNER BACKWARD (p. <a href="#Page_194">194</a>)</span>
</div>
<hr /><p class="center"><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii"></a><span class="pagenum" title="iii"></span>EVERY BOY’S LIBRARY—BOY SCOUT EDITION</p>
<h1>THE JESTER OF
ST. TIMOTHY’S</h1>
<h2>By
ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER</h2>
<p class="center">AUTHOR OF
BOYS OF ST. TIMOTHY’S,
HARDING OF ST. TIMOTHY’S. ETC.</p>
<p class="center">ILLUSTRATED</p>
<p class="center">NEW YORK</p>
<p class="center">GROSSET & DUNLAP</p>
<p class="center">PUBLISHERS</p>
<p class="center"><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv"></a><span class="pagenum" title="iv"></span>COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER</p>
<p class="center">ALL RIGHTS RESERVED</p>
<p class="center"><em>Published September 1911</em></p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a></div>
<h2><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v"></a><span class="pagenum" title="v"></span>CONTENTS</h2>
<div><table border="0" cellspacing="5%" summary="Table of Contents" title="Table of Contents">
<tr><td class="tocpg">I.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Irving sets forth on his Adventure</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">II.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">He achieves a Name for Himself</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_26">26</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">III.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">Westby’s Amusements</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">IV.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">The Baiting of a Master</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">V.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Master turns Pupil</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_96">96</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">VI.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">The Penalty for a Foul</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_120">120</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">VII.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">The Worm begins to turn</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">VIII.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">The Harvard Freshman</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_166">166</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">IX.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Westby in the Game</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tocpg">X.</td><td class="toctitle"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Master and Boy</a></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<hr />
<h2><a name="Page_vi" id="Page_vi"></a><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii"></a><span class="pagenum" title="vii"></span><a name="ILLUSTRATIONS" id="ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>ILLUSTRATIONS</h2>
<div><table border="0" cellspacing="5%" summary="List of Illustrations" title="List of illustrations">
<tr><td class="toctitle">Lawrence launched himself and hurled the runner backward <span style="font-variant: normal;">(p. <a href="#Page_194">194</a>)</span></td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Frontispiece"><em>Frontispiece</em></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="toctitle">The canoes swung about and made for Each Other</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_52f">52</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="toctitle">As to who had won, Irving had not the Slightest Idea</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_140f">140</a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="toctitle">A Shadow crossed Westby’s Face</td><td class="tocpg"><a href="#Page_220f">220</a></td></tr>
</table></div>
<p><em>From drawings by B. L. Bates</em><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii"></a></p>
<hr />
<h1><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1"></a><span class="pagenum" title="1"></span><a name="THE_JESTER_OF_ST_TIMOTHYS" id="THE_JESTER_OF_ST_TIMOTHYS"></a>THE JESTER OF ST. TIMOTHY’S</h1>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2>CHAPTER I</h2>
<h3>IRVING SETS FORTH ON HIS ADVENTURE</h3>
<p>In the post-office of Beasley’s general store
Irving Upton was eagerly sorting the mail.
His eagerness at that task had not been abated
by the repeated, the daily disappointments
which it had caused him. During the whole
summer month for which he had now been in
attendance as Mr. Beasley’s clerk, the arrival
of the mail had constituted his chief interest.
And because that for which he had been hoping
had failed to come, his thin face had
grown more worried, and the brooding look
was more constantly in his eyes.</p>
<p>This afternoon his hand paused; he looked
at the superscription on an envelope unbelievingly.
The letter came from St. Timothy’s
School and was addressed to him. He finished
<a name="Page_2" id="Page_2"></a><span class="pagenum" title="2"></span>distributing the other letters among the boxes,
for people were waiting outside the partition;
then he opened the envelope and read the
type-written enclosure. A flush crept up over
his cheeks, over his forehead; when he raised
his eyes, the brooding look was no longer
in them, but a quiet happiness instead, and
his lips, which had so long been troubled,
were smoothed out in a faint, contented smile.
He read the letter a second time, then put it
in his pocket, and stepped round behind the
counter to sell five cents’ worth of pink gumdrops
to little Abby Lawson.</p>
<p>When she had gone and the callers after
mail had been satisfied, Irving sat down at
the table in the back of the store. He read the
letter again and mused over it for a few moments
contentedly; then, with it lying open
before him, he proceeded to write an answer.</p>
<p>After finishing that, he drew from his
pocket some papers—French exercises, done
in a scrawling, unformed hand.</p>
<p>It was the noon hour, when the people of
the village were all eating their dinners; Mr.
<a name="Page_3" id="Page_3"></a><span class="pagenum" title="3"></span>Beasley had gone home, and Irving was undisturbed.
He helped himself to the crackers
and dried beef which were his luncheon
perquisites, and with these at his elbow and
nibbling them from time to time he set about
correcting his brother’s French.</p>
<p>He sighed in spite of the happiness which
was pervading him; would Lawrence always
go on confusing some of the forms of <em>être</em> and
<em>avoir</em>? Would he never learn to know the difference
between <em>ils ont</em> and <em>ils sont</em>?</p>
<p>Irving made his corrections in a neat, pretty
little hand, which of itself seemed to reprove
the student’s awkward scrawl. He turned then
to his own studies, which he was pursuing in a
tattered volume of Blackstone’s Commentaries
on the English Common Law. He did not get
on very fast with this book, and sometimes he
wondered what bearing it could have on the
practice of the law in Ohio at the present time.
But he had been advised to familiarize himself
with the work in the interval before he should
enter a law school—an interval of such doubtful
length!</p>
<p><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4"></a><span class="pagenum" title="4"></span>Mr. Beasley’s entrance caused him to look
up.</p>
<p>“I shall be leaving you in less than a
month now, Mr. Beasley,” he said.</p>
<p>“Got a job to teach, have you?” asked the
storekeeper.</p>
<p>“Yes—at St. Timothy’s School.”</p>
<p>“Where may that be?”</p>
<p>“Up in New Hampshire.”</p>
<p>“Quite a ways off. But I suppose you don’t
mind that much—having been away to college.”</p>
<p>“No, I think I’ll like it. Besides,—now
Lawrence will be able to go to college this fall,
and he and I will be pretty near each other.
We’ll be able to spend our holidays together.
I think it’s fine.”</p>
<p>“It does sound so,” agreed Mr. Beasley.
“Well, I’ll be sorry to lose you, Irving. The
folks all like to have you wait on ’em; you’re
so polite and tidy. But I know clerking in a
country store ain’t much of a job for a college
graduate, and I’m glad you’ve found something
better.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5"></a><span class="pagenum" title="5"></span>“I’m glad if I’ve been of any use to you,”
replied Irving. “I know you didn’t expect
I would be when you took me in. And your
giving me this chance has meant that I could
stay on here and tutor Lawrence this summer
and at the same time pay all my living expenses.
It’s been more of a help than you
know—to Lawrence as well as to me.”</p>
<p>“You’re both good boys,” said Mr. Beasley.
“But it seems like you’re too shy and quiet
ever to make much of a lawyer, Irving—or
a teacher,” he added, in candid criticism.</p>
<p>Irving blushed. “Maybe I’ll get over that
in time, Mr. Beasley.”</p>
<p>“You had better,” observed the storekeeper.
“It’s of no manner of use to anybody—not
a particle. Lawrence, now, is different.”</p>
<p>Yes, Lawrence was different; the fact impressed
itself that evening on Irving when
his brother came home from the haying field
with his uncle. Lawrence was big and ruddy
and laughing; Irving was slight and delicate
and grave. The two boys went together to<a name="Page_6" id="Page_6"></a><span class="pagenum" title="6"></span>
their room to make themselves ready for supper.</p>
<p>“We finished the north meadow to-day,”
said Lawrence,—“the whole of it. So don’t
blame me if I go to sleep over French verbs
this evening.”</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you something that will wake you
up,” Irving replied. “I’m going to teach at
St. Timothy’s School—in New Hampshire.
So your going to college is sure, and we’ll be
only a couple of hours apart.”</p>
<p>“Oh, Irv!” In Lawrence’s exclamation
there was more expressiveness, more joy, than
in all his brother’s carefully restrained statement.
“Oh, Irv! Isn’t it splendid! I think
you’re the finest thing—!” Lawrence grasped
Irving’s hand and at the same time began
thumping him on the back. Then he opened
the door and shouted down the stairs.</p>
<p>“Uncle Bob! Aunt Ann! Irv has some
great news to-night.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Upton put her head out into the hall;
she was setting the table and held a plate of
bread.</p>
<p><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7"></a><span class="pagenum" title="7"></span>“What is it, Irv? Have you—have you
had a letter?”</p>
<p>There was an anxious, almost a regretful
note in her voice.</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Irving. “I’ll tell you about it
when I come down.”</p>
<p>At the supper table he expounded all the
details. Like Mr. Beasley, his uncle and his
aunt had never heard of St. Timothy’s School.
Irving was able to enlighten them. At college
he had become familiar with its reputation;
it was one of the big preparatory
schools in which the position of teacher had
seemed to him desirable almost beyond the
hope of attainment.</p>
<p>He recited the terms which had been offered
and which he had accepted: nine hundred dollars
salary the first year, with lodging, board,
washing all provided—so that really it was
the equivalent of fourteen or fifteen hundred
dollars a year. And then there would be the
three months’ vacation, in which he could prosecute
his law studies and earn additional
money.</p>
<p><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8"></a><span class="pagenum" title="8"></span>“Sounds good,” said Mr. Upton.</p>
<p>“Of course I’m very glad,” said Mrs. Upton.
“But how we shall miss you boys! I’ve
got used to having Irving away,—but to be
without Lawrence, too—”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said her husband with a twinkle in
his eyes, “we certainly shall miss Lawrence—especially
in haying time. I’m glad you didn’t
get this news till most of the hay crop was
in. No more farming for you this year, Lawrence.”</p>
<p>“Why, but there’s all the south meadow
uncut—”</p>
<p>“I’ll handle that. As long as there was so
much doubt as to whether you’d be able to go
to college or not, I felt that you might be
making yourself useful first of all and studying
only in the odd moments. Now it’s different;
you’ve got to settle down to hard study
and nothing else. And Irving had better devote
himself entirely to you, and leave Mr.
Beasley to struggle along without any college
help.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe he’ll miss me very much,”
Irving admitted. “And you’re right, Uncle
<a name="Page_9" id="Page_9"></a><span class="pagenum" title="9"></span>Bob; I can accomplish a great deal more
working with Lawrence this next month. I
ought to be able to get him entered in regular
standing.”</p>
<p>“If I can do that,” cried Lawrence, “perhaps
I’ll be able to earn my way as Irv did—tutoring
and so on—and not have to call on
you or him for any help.”</p>
<p>“What on earth should I do with nine hundred
a year?” Irving exclaimed.</p>
<p>“Save it for your law school fund,” said
Lawrence.</p>
<p>Irving shrugged his shoulders grandly.
“Oh, I can earn money.”</p>
<p>Lawrence gave him an affectionate push.
“Tut!” he said. “Be good to yourself once
in a while.”</p>
<p>It was a happy family that evening. The
uncle and the aunt rejoiced in the good news,
even while regretting the separation.</p>
<p>Mr. Upton, the younger brother of the
boys’ father, who had been the village clergyman,
shared his brother’s tastes; he read good<a name="Page_10" id="Page_10"></a><span class="pagenum" title="10"></span>
books, he would travel to hear a celebrated
man speak, he had ideas which were not
bounded by his farm. He had encouraged
Irving as well as Lawrence to seek a university
education. The two boys were proud, eager
to free themselves from dependence on the
uncle and aunt who, after their father’s
death, had given them a home. Irving had
worked his way through college, hardly ever
asking for help; he had been a capable scholar
and the faculty had found for him backward
students in need of tutoring.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Mr. Upton had been busily engaged
in developing and increasing his farm;
that he was beginning to be prosperous Irving
was aware; that he did not more earnestly insist
upon helping his nephews stimulated their spirit
of independence. They knew that they had
been left penniless; Irving sometimes suspected
his uncle of parsimony, yet this was a trait so
incongruous with Mr. Upton’s genial nature
that Irving never communicated the suspicion
to his brother. Irving felt, too, that his
uncle cared less for him than for Lawrence.<a name="Page_11" id="Page_11"></a><span class="pagenum" title="11"></span>
Well, that was natural; Irving was humble
there.</p>
<p>When the dean of the college had said that
it would be inadvisable for Lawrence to make a
start unless he had at least three hundred dollars
at command, it had seemed to Irving a little narrow
on his uncle’s part not to have come forward
at once with that sum. Instead he had merely
given Lawrence the opportunity to work harder
in the hay-field and so increase his small bank
account. And it had soon become apparent
to Irving that unless he and Lawrence could
between them raise the money, they need not
look to their uncle for help beyond that which
he was already giving. Therefore Irving went
into Mr. Beasley’s store, and hoped daily for
the letter which at last had come.</p>
<p>Day after day the two brothers worked together.
Irving, quick, impatient, sometimes
losing his temper; Lawrence, slow, calm, turning
the edge of the teacher’s sarcasm sometimes
with a laugh, sometimes with a quiet appeal.
Irving always felt ashamed after these
outbreaks and uneasily conscious that Lawrence<a name="Page_12" id="Page_12"></a><span class="pagenum" title="12"></span>
conducted himself with greater dignity. And
Lawrence forgot Irving’s irritations in gratitude
to him for his help. “It must be a trial
to teach such a numskull,” Lawrence thought;
and at the end of one particularly hard day
he undertook to console his brother by saying,
“Never mind, Irv; it won’t be long now before
you have pupils who aren’t country bumpkins
and don’t need to have things pounded
into their heads with an axe.”</p>
<p>It had been a rather savage remark that
had called this out; Irving threw down his
book and perching on the arm of his brother’s
chair, put his arm around his neck and begged
his forgiveness.</p>
<p>“As if I could ever like to teach anybody
else as much as I like to teach you!” he
exclaimed. “I’m sorry, Lawrence; I’ll try to
keep a little better grip on myself.”</p>
<p>Sometimes it seemed to Irving odd that Lawrence
should be so slow at his books; Irving
did not fail to realize that with the neighbors
or with strangers, in any gathering whatsoever,
Lawrence was always quick, sympathetic, in<a name="Page_13" id="Page_13"></a><span class="pagenum" title="13"></span>terested;
he himself was the one who seemed
dull and immature.</p>
<p>It had been so with him at college; he had
been merely the student of books. Social life
he had had none, and only now, with the difference
between his brother and himself enforcing
a clearer vision, had he become aware
of some deficiency in his education. In silence
he envied Lawrence and wished that he too
possessed such winning and engaging traits.</p>
<p>He realized the contrast with especial keenness
on the afternoon when he and Lawrence
began their eastward journey. There was a
party assembled at the station to see them off,—to
see Lawrence off, as Irving reflected, for
never on his own previous departures had he
occasioned any such demonstration.</p>
<p>Lawrence was presented on the platform
with various farewell gifts—a pair of knit
slippers from Sally Buxton, who was the prettiest
girl in the valley and who tried to slip
them into his hand when no one else was looking,
and blushed when Nora Carson unfeelingly
called attention to her shy attempt; a<a name="Page_14" id="Page_14"></a><span class="pagenum" title="14"></span>
pair of mittens from old Mrs. Fitch; a pocket
comb and mirror from the Uptons’ hired man;
a paper bag of doughnuts from Mrs. Brumby.</p>
<p>There were no gifts for Irving; indeed, he
had never cared or thought much, one way or
the other, about any of these people clustered
on the platform. Only this summer, seeing them
so frequently in Mr. Beasley’s store, he had felt
the first stirrings of interest in them; now for
the first time he was aware of a wistfulness
because they did not care for him as they did
for Lawrence.</p>
<p>Mr. Beasley came up to him. “So you’re
off—both of you. Funny thing—I guess
from the looks of you two, if a stranger was to
come along, he’d pick Lawrence out for the
teacher and you for the schoolboy. Lawrence
looks as old as you, and handles himself more
grown up, somehow.”</p>
<p>“He’s bigger,” Irving sighed.</p>
<p>“Yes, ’t ain’t only that,” drawled Mr. Beasley.
“Though ’t is a pity you’re so spindling;
good thing for a teacher to be able to lay on
the switch good and hard when needed.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15"></a><span class="pagenum" title="15"></span>“I don’t believe they punish with the switch
at St. Timothy’s.”</p>
<p>“Then I guess they don’t learn the boys
much. How you going to keep order among
boys if you don’t use the switch?”</p>
<p>At that moment the train came whistling
round the bend. Irving caught up his bag,
turned and grasped Mr. Beasley’s hand, then
plunged into the crowd which had closed about
his brother. His aunt turned and flung her
arms about him and kissed him; his uncle
gave him a good-natured pat on the back and
then stooped and said in his ear, “Irv, if you
ever get into trouble,—go to Lawrence.”</p>
<p>There was the merry, kindly twinkle in his
eyes, the quizzical, humorous smile on his lips
that made Irving know his uncle meant always,
deep in his heart, to do the right thing.</p>
<p>In the train he pondered for a few moments
that last word of advice, wondering if it had
been sincere. It rather hurt his dignity, to be
referred to his younger brother in that way—and
yet it pleased him too; he was glad to
have Lawrence appreciated.</p>
<p><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16"></a><span class="pagenum" title="16"></span>Irving spent a day in Cambridge, helping
his brother to get settled in the rooms which
he himself had occupied for four years. Then
he bade Lawrence good-by and resumed his
journey to New Hampshire.</p>
<p>It was a pleasant September morning when
he presented himself, a sallow, thin-cheeked,
narrow-shouldered, bespectacled youth, before
Dr. Davenport, the rector of St. Timothy’s
School. The sunlight streamed in through the
southern windows of the spacious library,
throwing mellow tints on the bindings of the
books which lined the opposite wall from floor
to ceiling. It was all so bright that Irving,
who was troubled with weak eyes, advanced
into it blinking; and perhaps that was one
reason for the disappointment which flitted
across the rector’s face—and which Irving,
who was acutely sensitive, perceived in his
blinking glance. He flushed, aware that somehow
his appearance was too timorous.</p>
<p>But Dr. Davenport chatted with him pleasantly,
told him how highly the college authorities
had recommended him, and only laughingly<a name="Page_17" id="Page_17"></a><span class="pagenum" title="17"></span>
intimated a surprise at finding him so young-looking.</p>
<p>“I hope that teaching won’t age you prematurely,”
he added. “You will probably have
some trying times with the boys—we all do.
But it oughtn’t to be hard for you—especially
as you will be thrown most of all with the
older boys. Mr. Williams, who has had charge of
the Sixth Form dormitory at the Upper School,
is ill with typhoid fever and will probably not
come back this term. So I’m going to put
you in charge there. You will have under you
twenty fellows, some of them the best in the
school. But just because they are in some
ways pretty mature, don’t be—don’t be self-effacing.”</p>
<p>“I understand,” said Irving. He sat on the
edge of his chair, and crumpled his handkerchief
nervously in his hands. And all the time—with
his singular clearness of intuition—he
was aware of the doubt and distrust passing
through Dr. Davenport’s mind.</p>
<p>“Don’t be afraid of the boys or show embarrassment
or discomfort before them,” con<a name="Page_18" id="Page_18"></a><span class="pagenum" title="18"></span>tinued
Dr. Davenport, “and on the other hand
don’t try to cultivate dignity by being cold
and austere. Be natural with them—but always
be the master.—There!” he broke off,
smiling, for he saw that Irving looked worried
and seemed to be taking all this as personal
criticism—“that’s the talk that I always give
to a new master; and now I’m done. Here is
a printed copy of the rules and regulations
which I advise you to study; you must try to
familiarize yourself with our customs before
any of the boys arrive. To-morrow the new
boys will come, and you will report for duty
at the Gymnasium, where the entrance examinations
will be held. You will find your room
in the Sixth Form dormitory, at the Upper
School. I hope you will like the life here, Mr.
Upton—and I wish you every possible success
in it.”</p>
<p>The rector gave him an encouraging handshake
and another friendly smile. But Irving
departed feeling depressed and afraid. He
had seen that the rector was disappointed in
him—in his appearance, in his manner. And<a name="Page_19" id="Page_19"></a><span class="pagenum" title="19"></span>
the rector’s little speech had given him the
clue. Until now, he had not much considered
how large a part of his work would be in the
management and the discipline of the boys;
the mere teaching of them was what had been
in his mind, and for that he felt perfectly
competent. In college, that was all that the
tutoring, in which he had been so successful,
meant. But, confronted by the necessity of
establishing and maintaining friendly human
relations with a lot of strange boys, Irving
for the first time questioned his qualifications,
realizing that the rector too was questioning
them.</p>
<p>He became more cheerful the next day,
when the new boys began to arrive and he
found himself at once with work to do. He
had mastered pretty thoroughly the names of
the buildings and the geography of the place,
and it was rather pleasant to be able to give
information and directions to those younger
and more ignorant than himself.</p>
<p>It was pleasant, too, to have one mother who
was wandering round vaguely with her small<a name="Page_20" id="Page_20"></a><span class="pagenum" title="20"></span>
son and to whom he shyly proffered assistance,
show such appreciation of his courtesy
and end by appealing to him to keep always
a friendly eye on her little forlorn Walter.
As it turned out, Irving never afterwards
came much into contact with the boy, who
lived in a different building and was not in
any of his classes; he asked about him from
time to time, and discovered that Walter was
a mischievous person, not troubled by homesickness.</p>
<p>But most agreeable and reassuring was it
to take charge of the examination-room, where
the new boys were undergoing the tests of
their scholarship. Most of them were candidates
for the Second, Third, and Fourth
Forms, and their ages ranged from twelve to
fifteen; Irving sat at a desk on the platform
and surveyed them while they worked, or tiptoed
down the aisle in response to an appeal
from some uplifted hand.</p>
<p>He had come so recently from examination-rooms
where he had been one of the pupils
that this experience exhilarated him; it conferred<a name="Page_21" id="Page_21"></a><span class="pagenum" title="21"></span>
upon him an authority that he enjoyed.
He liked to be addressed by these nice-mannered
young boys as “sir,” and to be recognized
by them so unquestioningly as a person
to whom deference must be shown. Altogether
this first day with the new boys inspired
him with confidence, and at the end of
it he attacked the pile of examination books
enthusiastically.</p>
<p>Mr. Barclay aided him in that task; Mr.
Barclay was a young master also, comparatively,
though he had had several years’ experience.
Irving was attracted to him at once,
and was grateful for the way in which he
made suggestions when there was some uncertainty
as to how a boy should be graded.</p>
<p>Irving liked, too, the genial chuckle which
preceded an invitation to inspect some candidate’s
egregious blunder; Irving would read
and smile quietly, unaware that Barclay was
watching him and wondering how appreciative
he might be of the ludicrous.</p>
<p>Two nights Irving spent all alone in the
Sixth Form dormitory; it amused him to walk<a name="Page_22" id="Page_22"></a><span class="pagenum" title="22"></span>
up and down the corridors with the list of
those to whom rooms there had been assigned.
“Collingwood, Westby, Scarborough, Morrill,
Anderson, Baldersnaith, Hill”—some
of them had occupied these rooms as Fifth
Formers, and Irving had asked Mr. Barclay
about them.</p>
<p>Louis Collingwood was captain of the school
football team; Scarborough was captain of
the school crew.</p>
<p>“Neither of them will give you any trouble,”
said Barclay. “Scarborough used to be a
cub, but he has developed very much in the
last year or two, and now he and Collingwood
are the best-liked fellows in the school. They
have a proper sense of their responsibility as
leaders of the school, and are more likely to
help you than to make trouble. Morrill is
their faithful follower, though a little harum-scarum
at times. Westby—” the master hesitated
over that name and looked at Irving
with a measuring glance—“Westby is what
you might call the school jester. He’s very
popular with the boys—not equally so with<a name="Page_23" id="Page_23"></a><span class="pagenum" title="23"></span>
all the masters. Personally I’m rather fond
of him. He’s almost too quick-witted sometimes.”</p>
<p>That evening Barclay took the new master
home to dine with him. Mrs. Barclay was as
cordial and as kind as her husband; Irving
began to feel more than satisfied with his
surroundings.</p>
<p>“Pity you’re not married, Upton,” Barclay
said, half jokingly. “You’d escape
keeping dormitory if you were—which you’ll
find the meanest of all possible jobs. And
then if your wife’s the right kind—the boys
have to be pretty decent to you in order to
keep on her good side.”</p>
<p>Mrs. Barclay laughed. “I suppose that’s
the only reason they’re pretty decent to you,
William!—You’ll find it easy, Mr. Upton,—for
the reason that they’re a pretty decent
lot of boys.”</p>
<p>The next day at noon the old boys began to
arrive. Irving was coming out of the auditorium,
where he had been correcting the last set
of examination papers, when a barge drew up<a name="Page_24" id="Page_24"></a><span class="pagenum" title="24"></span>
before the study building and boys clutching
hand-bags tumbled out and hurried into the
building to greet the rector.</p>
<p>Irving stood for a few moments looking on
with interest: other barges kept coming over
the hill, interspersed with carriages, in which
a few arrived more magnificently.</p>
<p>It occurred to Irving that perhaps he had
better hasten to his dormitory in order to be
on hand when his charges should begin to appear;
he was just starting away when three
boys arm in arm rushed out of the study
building. They came prancing up to him, all
smiles and twinkles; they were boys of seventeen
or eighteen. They confronted him, blocking
his path; and the one in the middle, a
slim, straight fellow in a blue suit, said,—</p>
<p>“Hello, new kid! What name?”</p>
<p>A blush of embarrassment mounted in Irving’s
cheeks; feeling it, he conceived it all
the more advisable to assert his dignity. So he
said without a smile, in a constrained voice,—</p>
<p>“I am not a new kid. I am a master.”</p>
<p>The three boys who had been beaming on<a name="Page_25" id="Page_25"></a><span class="pagenum" title="25"></span>
him with good humor in their eyes stared
blankly. Then the one in the middle, with a
sudden whoop of laughter, swung the two
others round and led them off at a run; and
as they went, their delighted laughter floated
back to Irving’s ears.</p>
<p>His cheeks were tingling, almost as if they
had been slapped. He followed the boys at
a distance; they moved towards the Upper
School. His heart sank; what if they were in
his dormitory?</p>
<p>He entered the building just as the last of
the three was going up the Sixth Form dormitory
stairs.</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26"></a><span class="pagenum" title="26"></span>CHAPTER II</h2>
<h3>HE ACHIEVES A NAME FOR HIMSELF</h3>
<p>At the foot of the staircase Irving hesitated
until the sound of the voices and
footsteps had ceased. The three boys had not
seen him when he had entered; he was wondering
whether he had better be courageous,
go right up after them, and introduce himself,—just
as if they had not caught him off his
guard and put him into a ridiculous position,—or
delay a little while in the hope that
their memory of it would be less keen.</p>
<p>He decided that he had better be courageous.
When he reached the top floor, he
went into his room; he was feeling nervous
over the prospect of confronting his charges,
and he wished to be sure that his hair and his
necktie looked right. While he was examining
himself in the mirror, he heard a door open on
the corridor and a boy call, “Lou! Did you
<a name="Page_27" id="Page_27"></a><span class="pagenum" title="27"></span>know that Mr. Williams won’t be back this
term?”</p>
<p>Farther down the corridor a voice answered,
“No! What’s the matter?”</p>
<p>“Typhoid. Mr. Randolph told me.”</p>
<p>“Who’s taken his place?” It was another
voice that asked this question.</p>
<p>“A new man—named Upton. I haven’t
laid eyes on him yet.”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t it be a joke—!” The speaker
paused to laugh. “Suppose it should turn out
to be the new kid!”</p>
<p>“‘I am not a new kid; I am a master.’”</p>
<p>The mimicry was so accurate that Irving
winced and then flushed to the temples. In
the laughter that it produced he closed his
door quietly and sat down to think. He
couldn’t be courageous now; he felt that he
could not step out and face those fellows
who were laughing at him. Of course they
were the ones who ought to be embarrassed
by his appearance, not he; but Irving felt
they would lend one another support and
brazen it through, and that he would be the<a name="Page_28" id="Page_28"></a><span class="pagenum" title="28"></span>
one to exhibit weakness. He decided that he
must wait and try to make himself known to
each one of them separately—that only by
such a beginning would he be likely to engage
their respect.</p>
<p>It was the first time that he had been
brought face to face with his pitiable diffidence.
He was ashamed; he thought of how
differently Lawrence would have met the situation—how
much more directly he would
have dealt with it. Irving resolved that hereafter
he would not be afraid of any multitude
of boys. But he refrained from making his
presence known in the dormitory that afternoon.</p>
<p>At half past five o’clock he went downstairs
to the rooms of Mr. Randolph, who had
charge of the Upper School. Mr. Marcy, the
Fifth Form dormitory master, and Mr. Wythe,
the Fourth Form dormitory master, were also
there. They were veterans, comparatively, and
it was to meet them and benefit by what they
could tell him that Irving had been invited.
All three congratulated him on his good<a name="Page_29" id="Page_29"></a><span class="pagenum" title="29"></span>
fortune in obtaining the Sixth Form dormitory.</p>
<p>“The older they are, the less trouble they
are,” said Wythe. “My first year I was over
at the Lower School, looking after the little
kids. Half the time they’re sick and whimpering
and have to be coddled, and the rest of
the time they have to be spanked.”</p>
<p>“It hardly matters what age they are,”
lamented Marcy, pessimistically. “There’s
bound to be a dormitory disorder once in
so often.”</p>
<p>“What do you do in that case?” asked
Irving.</p>
<p>“Jump hard on some one,” answered Wythe.
“Try to get the leader of it, but if you can’t
get him, get somebody. Report him,—give
him three sheets.”</p>
<p>“That means writing Latin lines for three
hours on half-holidays?”</p>
<p>“Yes, and six marks off in Decorum for
the week. Of course they’ll come wheedling
round you, wanting to be excused; you have
to use your own discretion about that.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30"></a><span class="pagenum" title="30"></span>“Do you have any Sixth Form classes?”
asked Marcy.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Irving answered. “In Geometry.”</p>
<p>“That means you’ll have to take the upper
hand and hold it, right from the start. If you
have one crowd in dormitory to look after and
another crowd in class, you can afford to relax
a little now and then; but when it’s the
same boys in both—they watch for any sign
of weakening.”</p>
<p>“There will be only two of them at your
table, any way, Mr. Upton,” said Randolph.
He passed over a list. “The others are all
Fourth and Fifth Formers—only Westby
and Carroll from the Sixth!”</p>
<p>“Westby!” Wythe sighed. “Maybe we
were premature in congratulating you. I’d
forgotten about Westby.”</p>
<p>“What is the matter with him?” asked
Irving.</p>
<p>“His cleverness, and his attractiveness. He
smiles and smiles and is a villain still. He was
in my dormitory year before last and kept it in
a constant turmoil. And yet if you have any
<a name="Page_31" id="Page_31"></a><span class="pagenum" title="31"></span>sense of humor at all you can’t help being
amused by him—even sympathizing with him—though
it’s apt to be at your own expense.”</p>
<p>“He’s perfectly conscienceless,” declared
Marcy.</p>
<p>“And yet there’s no real harm in him,”
said Randolph.</p>
<p>“He seems to be something of a puzzle.”
Irving spoke uneasily. “And he’s to be at
my table—I’m to have a table?”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes. In fact, one or two of the Sixth
Formers—Scarborough, for instance—have
tables. But we don’t let all the Sixth Formers
eat together; we try to scatter them. And
Westby and Carroll have fallen to your lot.”</p>
<p>“If you happen to see either of them before
supper, I should like to meet them,” Irving
said.</p>
<p>He felt that if he could make their acquaintance
separately and without witnesses,
he could produce a better impression than if
he waited and confronted them before a whole
table of strange faces.</p>
<p>But as it happened, that was just the way<a name="Page_32" id="Page_32"></a><span class="pagenum" title="32"></span>
that he did meet Westby and Carroll. When
the supper bell sounded, the hallway of the
Upper School was crowded with boys, examining
the schedule which had been posted and
which assigned them to their seats in the
dining-room. Irving, after waiting nervously
until more than half the number had entered
the dining-room and deriving no help from
any of the other masters, went in and stood
at the head of the third table, as he had been
instructed to do. Four or five boys were already
standing there at their places; they
looked at him with curiosity and bowed to him
politely. The crowd as it entered thinned;
Irving was beginning to hope that Westby and
Carroll had gone elsewhere,—and then, just
as Mr. Randolph was mounting to the head
table on the dais, two boys slipped in and stood
at the seats at Irving’s right. He recognized
them as having been two of the three who
had laughed when he had proclaimed himself a
master. One was the slim, tall fellow who had
called him “new kid.”</p>
<p>For a moment at Irving’s table, after the<a name="Page_33" id="Page_33"></a><span class="pagenum" title="33"></span>
boys had rattled into their seats, there was
silence. In front of Irving were a platter of
cold tongue and a dish of beans, and he began
to put portions of each on the plates piled before
him. Then as he passed the first plate
along the line he looked up and said, “I think
we’d better find out who everybody is. So
each fellow, as he gets his plate, will please
sing out his name.”</p>
<p>That was not such a bad beginning; there
was a general grin which broadened into a
laugh when the first boy blushingly owned to
the name of Walnut. Then came Lacy and
Norris, and then Westby.</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Irving. “I think you’re to be
in my dormitory, aren’t you?”</p>
<p>“I believe so.” Westby looked at him quizzically,
as if expecting him to make some reference
to their encounter; but Irving passed
on to his next neighbor, Carroll, and then began
with the other side of the table.</p>
<p>He liked the appearance of the boys; they
were quiet-looking and respectful, and they
had been responsive enough to his suggestion<a name="Page_34" id="Page_34"></a><span class="pagenum" title="34"></span>
about announcing their names. A happy inspiration
told him that so long as he could
keep on taking the initiative with boys, he
would have no serious trouble. But it was one
thing to recognize an effective mode of conduct,
and another to have the resourcefulness
for carrying it out. Irving was just thinking
what next he should say, when Westby fell
upon him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton,”—Westby’s voice was curiously
distinct, in spite of its quietness,—“wasn’t
it funny, our taking you for a new
kid this afternoon?”</p>
<p>Because the question was so obviously
asked in a lull to embarrass him, Irving was
embarrassed. The interest of all the boys at
the table had been skillfully excited, and
Westby leaned forward in front of Carroll,
with mischievous eyes and smile. Irving felt
his color rising; he felt both abashed and
annoyed.</p>
<p>“Why, yes,” he said hesitatingly. “I—I
was a little startled.”</p>
<p>“Did they take you for a new kid, Mr. Up<a name="Page_35" id="Page_35"></a><span class="pagenum" title="35"></span>ton?”
asked Blake, the Fifth Former, who
sat on Irving’s left.</p>
<p>“For a moment, yes,” admitted Irving,
anxious not to pursue the subject.</p>
<p>But Westby proceeded to explain with
gusto, while the whole table listened. “Lou
Collingwood and Carrie here and I were in
front of the Study, and out came Mr. Upton.
And Lou wanted to nail him for the Pythians,
so we all pranced up to him, and I said,
‘Hello, new kid; what name, please?’—just
like that; didn’t I, Mr. Upton?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Irving grudgingly. He had an
uneasy feeling that he was being made an
object of general entertainment; certainly the
eyes of all the boys at the table were fixed
upon him smilingly.</p>
<p>“What happened then?” asked the blunt
Blake.</p>
<p>“Why, then,” continued Westby, “Mr.
Upton told us that he wasn’t a new kid at
all, but a new master. You may imagine we
were surprised—weren’t we, Mr. Upton?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I could hardly tell—”</p>
<p><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36"></a><span class="pagenum" title="36"></span>“The joke was certainly on us. As the
French say, it was a <em>contretemps</em>. To think
that after all the years we’d been here, we
couldn’t tell a new kid from a new master!”</p>
<p>Irving was mildly bewildered. He could
not quite determine whether Westby was telling
the story more as a joke on himself or on
him. Anyway, in spite of the temporary embarrassment
which they had caused him, there
seemed to be nothing offensive in the remarks.
He liked Westby’s face; it was alert
and good-humored, and the cajoling quality
in the boy’s voice and the twinkle in his eyes
were quite attractive. In fact, his manner
during supper was so agreeable that Irving
quite forgot it was this youth whom he had
overheard mimicking him: “I am not a new
kid; I am a master.”</p>
<p>After supper there were prayers in the
Common Room; then all the boys except the
Sixth Formers went to the Study building to
sit for an hour under the eyes of a master, to
read or write letters. On subsequent evenings
they would have to employ this period in<a name="Page_37" id="Page_37"></a><span class="pagenum" title="37"></span>
studying, but as yet no lessons had been
assigned; the classroom work had not begun.
The Sixth Form were exempt from the necessity
of attending Study, and had the privilege
of preparing their lessons in their own
rooms. Irving found, on going up to his
dormitory, that the boys were visiting one
another, helping one another unpack, darting
up and down the corridor and carrying on
loud conversations. He decided, as there were
no lessons for them to prepare, not to interfere;
their sociability seemed harmless enough.</p>
<p>So, leaving the door of his room open that
he might hear and suppress any incipient
disorder, he began a letter to Lawrence. He
thought at first that he would confide to his
brother the little troubles which were annoying
him. But when he set about it, they
seemed really too petty to transcribe; surely
he was man enough to bear such worries
without appealing to a younger brother for
advice.</p>
<p>There was a loud burst of laughter from a
room in which several boys had gathered. It<a name="Page_38" id="Page_38"></a><span class="pagenum" title="38"></span>
was followed by the remark in Westby’s
pleasant, persuasive voice,—</p>
<p>“Look out, fellows, or we’ll have Kiddy
Upton down on us.”</p>
<p>“Kiddy Upton!” another voice exclaimed
in delight, and there was more laughter.</p>
<p>Kiddy Upton! So that was to be his name.
Of course boys gave nicknames to their
teachers,—Irving remembered some appellations
that had prevailed even at college.
But none of them seemed so slighting or so
jeering as this of Kiddy; and Irving flushed
as he had done when he had been taken for a
“new kid.” But now his sensitiveness was
even more hurt; it wounded him that Westby,
that pleasant, humorous person, should have
been the one to apply the epithet.</p>
<p>Westby began singing “The Wearing of
the Green,” to an accompaniment on a banjo.
Presently four or five voices, with extravagant
brogues, were uplifted in the chorus:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“’Tis the most disthressful counthry<br /></span>
<span class="i0">That ever there was seen;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For they’re hanging men and women too<br /></span>
<span class="i0">For wearin’ of the green.”<br /></span></div></div>
<p><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39"></a><span class="pagenum" title="39"></span>There was much applause; boys from other
rooms went hurrying down the corridor. The
banjo-player struck up “The Road to Mandalay;”
again Irving recognized Westby’s
voice.</p>
<p>Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned;
it was his part to step up, be genial,
make himself known to all these boys who
were to be under his care, and show them that
he wished to be friendly. He did not wait to
debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve
or to consider how he should proceed;
he acted on the impulse. He walked down
the corridor to the third room on the left—the
door of Westby’s room, from which the
sounds of joviality proceeded. He knocked;
some one called “Come in;” and Irving
opened the door.</p>
<p>Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the
bed; Westby himself was squatting cross-legged
on the window seat, with the banjo
across his knees. They all rose politely when
Irving entered.</p>
<p>“I thought I would drop in and make your
<a name="Page_40" id="Page_40"></a><span class="pagenum" title="40"></span>acquaintance,” said Irving. “We’re bound
to know one another some time.”</p>
<p>“My name’s Collingwood,” said the boy
nearest him, offering his hand. He was a
healthy, light-haired, solidly put together
youth, with a genial smile. “This is Scarborough,
Mr. Upton.”</p>
<p>The biggest of them all came forward at
that and shook hands. Irving thought that
his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly
direct in their gaze; and a lock of black hair
overhung his brow in a far from propitiating
manner. Yet his bearing was dignified and
manly; Irving felt that he might be trusted
to show magnanimity.</p>
<p>“Here’s Carroll,” continued Collingwood;
and Irving said, “Oh, I know Carroll; we sat
together at supper.” Carroll said nothing,
merely smiled in an agreeable, non-committal
manner; so far it was all that Irving had
discovered he could do.</p>
<p>“That fellow with the angel face is Morrill,”
Collingwood went on, “and the one next
to him, with the aristocratic features, is Baldersnaith,<a name="Page_41" id="Page_41"></a><span class="pagenum" title="41"></span>
and this red-head here is Dennison,—and
that’s Westby.”</p>
<p>Irving, shaking hands round the circle, said,
“Oh, I know Westby.”</p>
<p>“Sit down, won’t you, Mr. Upton?” Westby
pushed his armchair forward.</p>
<p>“Thank you; don’t let me interrupt the
singing.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you’ll join us?”</p>
<p>Irving shook his head. “I wish I could.
But please go on.”</p>
<p>Westby squatted again on the window-seat
and plucked undecidedly at the banjo-strings.
Then he cleared his throat and launched upon
a negro melody; he sang it with the unctuous
abandon of the darkey, and Irving listened
and looked on enviously, admiring the display
of talent. Westby sang another song, and then
turned and pushed up the window.</p>
<p>“Awfully hot for this time of year, isn’t
it?” he said. “Fine moonlight night; wouldn’t
it be great to go for a swim?”</p>
<p>“Um!” said Morrill, appreciatively.</p>
<p>“Will you let us go, Mr. Upton?” Westby<a name="Page_42" id="Page_42"></a><span class="pagenum" title="42"></span>
asked the question pleadingly. “Won’t you
please let us go? It’s such a fine warm moonlight
night—and it isn’t as if school had
really begun, you know.”</p>
<p>“But I think the rules don’t permit your
being out at this time of night, do they?”
said Irving.</p>
<p>“Well, but as I say, school hasn’t really
begun yet. And besides, Scabby here is almost
as good as a master—and so is Lou Collingwood;
I’m the only really irresponsible one
in the bunch—”</p>
<p>“Where do you go to swim?”</p>
<p>“In the pond, just beyond the isthmus—only
about a quarter of a mile from here.
Come on, fellows, Mr. Upton’s going to let
us go.”</p>
<p>Irving laughed uneasily. “Oh, I didn’t say
that. If Mr. Randolph is willing that you
should go, I wouldn’t object.”</p>
<p>“You’re in charge of this dormitory,” argued
Westby. “And if you gave us permission,
Mr. Randolph wouldn’t say anything.”</p>
<p>“I don’t feel that I can make an exception
to the rules,” said Irving.</p>
<p><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43"></a><span class="pagenum" title="43"></span>“But school hasn’t really begun yet,” persisted
Westby.</p>
<p>“I think it really has, so far as observing
the rules is concerned,” replied Irving.</p>
<p>“You might go with us, sir—and that
would make it all right.”</p>
<p>“But I don’t believe I want to go in swimming
this evening.”</p>
<p>“I’m awfully afraid you’re going to be
just like granite, Mr. Upton,” sighed Westby,—“the
man with the iron jaw.” He turned
on the others a humorous look; they all were
smiling. Irving felt uncomfortable again, suspecting
that Westby was making game of him,
yet not knowing in what way to meet it—except
by silence.</p>
<p>“I’ll tell you what I will do with you to-morrow,
Wes,” said Collingwood. “I’ll challenge
you to that water duel that we were to
have pulled off last June.”</p>
<p>“All right, Lou,” said Westby. “Carrie
here will be my trusty squire and will paddle
my canoe.”</p>
<p>Carroll grinned his assent.</p>
<p><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44"></a><span class="pagenum" title="44"></span>“I’ll pick Ned Morrill for my second,”
said Collingwood. “And Scabby can be referee.”</p>
<p>“What’s a water duel?” asked Irving.</p>
<p>“They go out in canoes, two in each canoe,”
answered Scarborough. “One fellow
paddles, and the other stands up in the bow
with a long pole and a big fat sponge tied to
the end of it. Then the two canoes manœuvre,
and try to get within striking distance, and
the fellow or canoe that gets upset first loses.
We had a tournament last spring, and these
two pairs came through to the finals, but never
fought it out—baseball or tennis or something
always interfered.”</p>
<p>“It must be quite an amusing game,” said
Irving.</p>
<p>“Come up to the swimming hole to-morrow
afternoon if you want to see it,” said Collingwood,
hospitably. “I’ll just about drown
Westby. It will be a good show.”</p>
<p>“Thank you; I’d like to—”</p>
<p>“But don’t you think, Mr. Upton,”—again
it was Westby, with his cajoling voice and his<a name="Page_45" id="Page_45"></a><span class="pagenum" title="45"></span>
wheedling smile,—“that I might have just
one evening’s moonlight practice for it?”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t believe you need any practice.”</p>
<p>“But you said I might if Mr. Randolph
would consent. I don’t see why you shouldn’t
be independent, as well as liberal.”</p>
<p>There was a veiled insinuation in this, for
all the good-natured, teasing tone, and Irving
did not like it.</p>
<p>“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid
I can’t let you go swimming to-night.—I’m
glad to have met you all.” And so he took
his departure, and presently the sound of
banjo and singing rose again from Westby’s
room.</p>
<p>Irving proceeded to visit the other rooms of
the dormitory and to make the acquaintance
of the occupants—boys engaged mostly in
arranging bureau drawers or hanging pictures.
They were all friendly enough; it
seemed to him that he could get on with boys
individually; it was when they faced him in
numbers that they alarmed him and caused<a name="Page_46" id="Page_46"></a><span class="pagenum" title="46"></span>
his manner to be hesitating and embarrassed.
One big fellow named Allison was trying to
hang a picture when Irving entered; it was a
large and heavy picture, and Irving held it
straight while Allison stood on a chair and set
the hook on the moulding. Allison thanked
Irving with the gratitude of one unaccustomed
to receiving such consideration; indeed, his
uncouthness and unkemptness made him one
of those unfortunate boys who suffered now
and then from persecution. Irving learned afterwards
that the crowd he had met in Westby’s
room hung together and were the leaders
not merely in the affairs of the dormitory, but
of the school.</p>
<p>At half past nine the big bell on the Study
building rang twice—the signal for the boys
to go to their respective rooms. Irving had
been informed of the little ceremony which
was the custom; he stepped out in front of his
door at the end of the corridor, and one after
another the boys came up, shook hands with
him, and bade him good-night. Westby came
to him with the engaging and yet somewhat<a name="Page_47" id="Page_47"></a><span class="pagenum" title="47"></span>
disquieting smile which recalled to Irving Mr.
Wythe’s words, “He smiles and smiles, but
is a villain still.” It was a smile which seemed
to suggest the discernment and enjoyment of
all one’s weak spots.</p>
<p>“<em>Good</em>-night, Mr. Upton,” said Westby,
and his voice was excessively urbane. It made
Irving look forward to a better acquaintance
with both expectancy and apprehension.</p>
<p>The first morning of actual school work
went well enough; Irving met his classes,
which were altogether in mathematics, assigned
them lessons, and managed to keep
them and himself busy. From one of them he
brought away some algebra exercises, which
he spent part of the afternoon in correcting.
When he had finished this work, the invitation
to witness the water duel occurred to his mind.</p>
<p>He found no other master to bear him company,
so he set off by himself through the
woods which bordered the pond behind the
Gymnasium. He came at last to the “isthmus”—a
narrow dyke of stones which cut off a
long inlet and bridged the way over to a<a name="Page_48" id="Page_48"></a><span class="pagenum" title="48"></span>
wooded peninsula that jutted out into the
pond. On the farther side of this peninsula,
secluded behind trees and bushes, was the
swimming hole.</p>
<p>As Irving approached, he heard voices; he
drew nearer and saw the bare backs of boys
undressing and heard then the defiances
which they were hurling at one another—phrased
in the language of Ivanhoe.</p>
<p>“Nay, by my halidome, but I shall this day
do my devoir right worthily upon the body of
yon false knight,” quoth Westby, as he carefully
turned his shirt right side out.</p>
<p>“A murrain on thee! Beshrew me if I do
not spit thee upon my trusty lance,” replied
Collingwood, as he drew on his swimming
tights.</p>
<p>Then some one trotted out upon the spring-board,
gave a bounce and a leap, and went
into the water with a splash.</p>
<p>“How is it, Ned?” called Westby; and
Irving came up as Morrill, reaching out for a
long side stroke, shouted, “Oh, fine—warm
and fine.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49"></a><span class="pagenum" title="49"></span>“Hello, Mr. Upton.” It was Baldersnaith
who first saw him; Baldersnaith, Dennison,
and Smythe were fully dressed and were sitting
under a tree looking on.</p>
<p>“You’re just in time,” said Collingwood.</p>
<p>Scarborough, stripped like Westby and
Carroll and Morrill and Collingwood, was out
on the pond, paddling round in a canoe. He
was crouched on one knee in the middle, and
the canoe careened over with his weight, so
that the gunwale was only an inch or two
above the surface. He was evidently an expert
paddler, swinging the craft round, this
way and that, without ever taking the paddle
out of the water.</p>
<p>Two other canoes were hauled up near the
spring-board; Carroll was bending over one of
them.</p>
<p>“Bring me my lethal weapon, Carrie,”
Westby commanded. “I want to show Mr.
Upton.—Is the button on tight?”</p>
<p>Carroll produced from the canoe a long
pole with an enormous sponge fastened to one
end; he pulled at the sponge and announced,<a name="Page_50" id="Page_50"></a><span class="pagenum" title="50"></span>
“Yes, the button’s on tight,” and passed the
pole over to Westby.</p>
<p>Westby made one or two experimental
lunges with it and remarked musingly, “When
I catch him square above the bread line with
this—!”</p>
<p>“Come on, then!” said Collingwood. “Come
here, Ned!”</p>
<p>Morrill swam ashore and pushed off in one
of the canoes with Collingwood—taking the
stern seat and the paddle. Collingwood knelt
in the bow, with his spear laid across the gun-wales
in front of him. In like manner Westby
and Carroll took to the water.</p>
<p>“This is the best two bouts out of three,”
called Scarborough, as he circled round.
“Don’t you want to come aboard, Mr. Upton,
and help judge?”</p>
<p>“Why, yes, thank you,” said Irving.</p>
<p>So Scarborough called, “Wait a moment,
fellows,” and paddling ashore, took on his
passenger. Then he sped out to the middle of
the bay; the two other canoes were separated
by about fifty feet.</p>
<p><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51"></a><span class="pagenum" title="51"></span>“Charge!” cried Scarborough, and Morrill
and Carroll began paddling towards each other,
while in the bows Collingwood and Westby
rose to their feet and held their spears in
front of them. They advanced cautiously and
then swung apart, evading the collision—each
trying to tempt the other to stab and overreach.</p>
<p>“Oh, you’re both scared!” jeered Baldersnaith
from the shore.</p>
<p>The canoes swung about and made for each
other again; and this time passed within striking
distance. Westby’s aim missed, his sponge-tipped
lance slid past Collingwood’s shoulder,
and the next instant Collingwood’s sponge—well
weighted with water—smote Westby full
in the chest and hove him overboard. For one
moment Carroll struggled to keep the canoe
right side up, but in vain; it tipped and filled,
and with a shout he plunged in head foremost
after his comrade.</p>
<p>They came up and began to push their
canoe ashore; the two other canoes drew alongside
and assisted, Scarborough and Morrill<a name="Page_52" id="Page_52"></a><span class="pagenum" title="52"></span>
paddling, while Irving and Collingwood laid
hold of the thwarts.</p>
<p>“That’s all right; I’ll get you this time,”
spluttered Westby. “We’re going to use
strategy now.”</p>
<p>They emptied the water out of the canoe
and proceeded again to the battleground. Then,
when Scarborough gave the word, Carroll
began paddling madly; he and Westby bore
down upon their antagonists at a most threatening
speed. Morrill swung to the right to get
out of their path; and then suddenly Carroll
swung in the opposite direction—with what
strategic purpose neither Irving nor Scarborough
had time to conjecture. For they were
loitering close on that side, not expecting any
such manœuvre; the sharp turn drove the bow
of Carroll’s canoe straight for the waist of
Scarborough’s, and Westby with an excited
laugh undertook to fend off with his pole, lost
his balance, and trying to recover it, upset
both canoes together.</p>
<p>Irving felt himself going, heard Westby’s
laughing shout, “Look out, Mr. Upton!” and
then went under.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 431px;"><a name="Page_52f" id="Page_52f"></a><span class="pagenum" title="Facing 52"></span>
<img src="images/052.jpg" width="431" height="631" alt="[Illustration: THE CANOES SWUNG ABOUT AND MADE FOR EACH OTHER]" title="THE CANOES SWUNG ABOUT AND MADE FOR EACH OTHER" />
<span>THE CANOES SWUNG ABOUT AND MADE FOR EACH OTHER</span>
</div>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53"></a><span class="pagenum" title="53"></span>CHAPTER III</h2>
<h3>WESTBY’S AMUSEMENTS</h3>
<p>The water was warm, but Irving swallowed
a good deal of it and also was conscious
of the fact that he had on a perfectly good
suit of clothes. So he came to the surface,
choking and annoyed; and when he recovered
his faculties, he observed first of all Westby’s
grinning face.</p>
<p>“You can swim all right, can’t you, Mr.
Upton?” said Westby. “I thought for a moment
we might have to dive for you.”</p>
<p>Irving clutched at the stern of the capsized
canoe and said, rather curtly, “I’m not
dressed to enjoy swimming.”</p>
<p>“I’m awfully sorry,” said Scarborough.
“But I never thought they were going to turn
that way; I don’t know what Carrie thought
he was doing—”</p>
<p>“I’d have shown you some strategy if
<a name="Page_54" id="Page_54"></a><span class="pagenum" title="54"></span>you hadn’t blundered into us,” declared
Carroll.</p>
<p>“Blundered into you! There was no need
for Wes to give us such a poke, anyhow.”</p>
<p>Westby replied merely with an irritating
chuckle—irritating at least to Irving, who felt
that he should be showing more contrition.</p>
<p>Collingwood and Morrill came alongside,
both laughing, jeering at Westby and offering
polite expressions of solicitude to the master.
They told him to lay hold of the tail of their
canoe, and then they towed him ashore as rapidly
as possible. When he drew himself up,
dripping, on the bank, Baldersnaith, Dennison,
and Smythe were all on the broad grin, and
from the water floated the sound of Westby’s
merriment.</p>
<p>Irving stood for a moment, letting himself
drip, quite undecided as to what he should do.
He had never been ducked before, with all his
clothes on; the clammy, weighted sensation
was most unpleasant, the thought of his damaged
and perhaps ruined suit was galling, the
indignity of his appearance was particularly<a name="Page_55" id="Page_55"></a><span class="pagenum" title="55"></span>
hard to bear. He felt that Baldersnaith and
the others were trying to be as polite and
considerate as possible, and yet they could not
refrain from exhibiting their amusement, their
delight.</p>
<p>Scarborough, who had swum ahead of the
others, waded ashore and looked him over. “I
tell you what you’d better do, Mr. Upton,” he
said. “You’d better take your clothes off,
wring them out, and spread them out to dry.
They’ll dry in this sun and wind. And while
they’re doing that, you can come in swimming
with us.”</p>
<p>Irving hesitated a moment; instinct told him
that the advice was sensible, yet he shrank from
accepting it; he felt that for a master to do
what Scarborough suggested would be undignified,
and might somehow compromise his
position. “I think I’d better run home and
rub myself down and put on some dry things,”
he replied.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Scarborough, “just as you
say. Sorry I got you into this mess.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s all right,” said Irving.</p>
<p><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56"></a><span class="pagenum" title="56"></span>He walked away, with the water trickling
uncomfortably down him inside his clothes
and swashing juicily in his shoes. He liked
Scarborough for the way he had acted, but he
felt less kindly towards Westby. He was by no
means sure that Westby had not deliberately
soused him and then pretended it was an accident.
He remembered Westby’s mirthful laugh
just when the thing was happening; and certainly
if it had really been an accident Westby
had shown very little concern. He had been
indecently amused; he was so still; his clear
joyous laugh was ringing after Irving even
now, and Irving felt angrily that he was at
this moment a ridiculous figure. To be running
home drenched!—probably it would
have been better if he had done what Scarborough
had suggested, less undignified, more
manly really. But he couldn’t turn back
now.</p>
<p>He was cold and his teeth had begun to
chatter, so he started to run. He hoped that
when he came out of the woods he might be
fortunate enough to elude observation on the<a name="Page_57" id="Page_57"></a><span class="pagenum" title="57"></span>
way to the Upper School, but in this he was
disappointed. As he jogged by the Study
building, with his clothes jouncing and slapping
heavily upon his shoulders, out came the
rector and met him face to face.</p>
<p>“Upset canoeing?” asked the rector with a
smile.</p>
<p>“Yes,” Irving answered; he stood for a moment
awkwardly.</p>
<p>“Well, it will happen sometimes,” said the
rector. “Don’t catch cold.” And he passed
on.</p>
<p>There was some consolation for Irving in
this matter-of-fact view. In the rector’s eyes
apparently his dignity had not suffered by the
incident. But when a moment later he passed
a group of Fourth Formers and they turned
and stared at him, grinning, he felt that his
dignity had suffered very much. He felt that
within a short time his misfortune would be
the talk of the school.</p>
<p>At supper it was as he expected it would
be. Westby set about airing the story for the
benefit of the table, appealing now and then to<a name="Page_58" id="Page_58"></a><span class="pagenum" title="58"></span>
Irving himself for confirmation of the passages
which were least gratifying to Irving’s vanity.
“You <em>did</em> look so woe-begone when you stood
up on shore, Mr. Upton,” was the genial statement
which Irving especially resented. To
have Westby tell the boys the first day how he
had called the new master a new kid and the
second day how he had ducked him was a little
too much; it seemed to Irving that Westby
was slyly amusing himself by undermining his
authority. But the boy’s manner was pleasantly
ingratiating always; Irving felt baffled. Carroll
did not help him much towards an interpretation;
Carroll sat by self-contained,
quietly intelligent, amused. Irving liked both
the boys, and yet as the days passed, he seemed
to grow more and more uneasy and anxious in
their society.</p>
<p>In the classroom he was holding his own;
he was a good mathematical scholar, he prepared
the lessons thoroughly, and he found
it generally easy to keep order by assigning
problems to be worked out in class. The
weather continued good, so that during play<a name="Page_59" id="Page_59"></a><span class="pagenum" title="59"></span>
time the fellows were out of doors instead of
loafing round in dormitory. They all had their
own little affairs to organize; athletic clubs
and literary societies held their first meetings;
there was a process of general shaking down;
and in the interest and industry occasioned by
all this, there was not much opportunity or
disposition to make trouble.</p>
<p>But the first Sunday was a bad day. In a
boys’ school bad weather is apt to be accompanied
by bad behavior; on this Sunday it
poured. The boys, having put on their best
clothes, were obliged, when they went out to
chapel, to wear rubbers and to carry umbrellas—an
imposition against which they rebelled.
After chapel, there was an hour before dinner,
and in that hour most of the Sixth Formers
sought their rooms—or sought one another’s
rooms; it seemed to Irving, who was trying to
read and who had a headache, that there was
a needless amount of rushing up and down the
corridors and of slamming of doors. By and
by the tumult became uproarious, shouts of
laughter and the sound of heavy bodies being<a name="Page_60" id="Page_60"></a><span class="pagenum" title="60"></span>
flung against walls reached his ears; he emerged
then and saw the confusion at the end of the
corridor. Allison was suspended two or three
feet above the floor, by a rope knotted under
his arms; it was the rope that was used for
raising trunks up to the loft above. In lowering
it from the loft some one had trespassed
on forbidden ground. Westby, Collingwood,
Dennison, Scarborough, and half a dozen
others were gathered, enjoying Allison’s ludicrous
struggles. His plight was not painful,
only absurd; and Irving himself could not at
first keep back a smile. But he came forward
and said,—</p>
<p>“Oh, look here, fellows, whoever is responsible
for this will have to climb up and release
Allison.”</p>
<p>Westby turned with his engaging smile.</p>
<p>“Yes, but, Mr. Upton, who do you suppose
is responsible? I don’t see how we can fix the
responsibility, do you?”</p>
<p>“I will undertake to fix it,” said Irving.
“Westby, suppose you climb that ladder and
let Allison down.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61"></a><span class="pagenum" title="61"></span>“I don’t think you’re approaching this
matter in quite a judicial spirit, Mr. Upton,”
said Westby. “Of course no man wants to be
arbitrary; he wants to be just. It really seems
to me, Mr. Upton, that no action should be
taken until the matter has been more thoroughly
sifted.”</p>
<p>The other boys, with the exception of Allison,
were chuckling at this glib persuasiveness.
Westby stood there, in a calmly respectful,
even deferential attitude, as if animated only
by a desire to serve the truth.</p>
<p>“We will have no argument about it,
Westby,” said Irving. “Please climb the ladder
at once and release Allison.”</p>
<p>“I beg of you, Mr. Upton,” said Westby
in a tone of distress, “don’t, please don’t,
confuse argument with impartial inquiry;
nothing is more distasteful to me than argument.
I merely ask for investigation; I court
it in your own interest as well as mine.”</p>
<p>Irving grew rigid. His head was throbbing
painfully; the continued snickering all round
him and Westby’s increasing confidence and<a name="Page_62" id="Page_62"></a><span class="pagenum" title="62"></span>
fluency grated on his nerves. He drew out his
watch.</p>
<p>“I will give you one minute in which to
climb that ladder,” he said.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton, you wish to be a just man,”
pleaded Westby. “Even though you have the
great weight of authority—and years”—Westby
choked a laugh—“behind you, don’t
do an unjust and arbitrary thing. Allison himself
wouldn’t have you—would you, Allison?”</p>
<p>The victim grinned uncomfortably.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton,” urged Westby, “you
wouldn’t have me soil these hands?” He displayed
his laudably clean, pink fingers. “Of
course, if I go up there I shall get my hands
all dirty—and equally of course if I had been
up there, they would be all dirty now. Surely
you believe in the value of circumstantial
evidence; therefore, before we fix the responsibility,
let us search for the dirty pair of hands.”</p>
<p>“Time is up,” said Irving, closing his watch.</p>
<p>“But what is time when justice trembles in
the balance?” argued Westby. “When the<a name="Page_63" id="Page_63"></a><span class="pagenum" title="63"></span>
innocent is in danger of being punished for
the guilty, when—”</p>
<p>“Westby, please climb that ladder at once.”</p>
<p>“So young and so inexorable!” murmured
Westby, setting his foot upon the ladder.</p>
<p>Irving’s face was red; the tittering of the
audience was making him angry. He held his
eyes on Westby, who made a slow, grunting
progress up three rungs and then stopped.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!” Westby’s
voice was ingratiating. “Mayn’t Allison sing
for us, sir?”</p>
<p>Allison grinned again foolishly and sent a
sprawling foot out towards his persecutor; the
others laughed.</p>
<p>“Keep on climbing,” said Irving.</p>
<p>Westby resumed his toilsome way, and as he
moved he kept murmuring remarks to Allison,
to the others, to Irving himself, half audible,
rapid, in an aggrieved tone.</p>
<p>“Don’t see why you want to be conspicuous
this way, Allison.—Won’t sing—amuse anybody—ornamental,
I suppose—good timekeeper
though—almost hear you tick. Mr.<a name="Page_64" id="Page_64"></a><span class="pagenum" title="64"></span>
Upton—setting watch by you now—awfully
severe kind of man—”</p>
<p>So mumbling, with the responsive titter still
continuing below and Irving standing there
stern and red, Westby disappeared into the
loft. There was a moment’s silence, then a
sudden clicking of a ratchet wheel, and Allison
began to rise rapidly towards the ceiling.</p>
<p>“A-ay!” cried Allison in amazement.</p>
<p>The boys burst out in delighted laughter.</p>
<p>“Westby! Westby! Stop that!” Irving’s
voice was shrill with anger.</p>
<p>Allison became stationary once more, and
Westby displayed an innocent, surprised face
at the loft opening.</p>
<p>“If there is any more nonsense in letting
Allison down, I shall really have to report
you.” Irving’s voice rose tremulously to a high
key; he was trying hard to control it.</p>
<p>Westby gazed down with surprise. “Why,
I guess I must have turned the crank the
wrong way, don’t you suppose I did, Mr.
Upton?—Don’t worry, Allison, old man;<a name="Page_65" id="Page_65"></a><span class="pagenum" title="65"></span>
I’ll rescue you, never fear. I’ll try to lower
you gently, so that you won’t get hurt; you’ll
call out if you find you’re coming down too
fast, won’t you?”</p>
<p>He withdrew his head, and presently the
ratchet wheel clicked and slowly, very slowly,
Allison began to descend. When his feet were
a couple of inches from the floor, the descent
stopped.</p>
<p>“All right now?” called Westby from
above.</p>
<p>“No!” bawled Allison.</p>
<p>“Ve-ry gently then, ve-ry gently,” replied
Westby; and Allison, reaching for the floor
with his toes, had at last the satisfaction of
feeling it. He wriggled out of the noose and
smoothed out his rumpled coat.</p>
<p>“Saved!” exclaimed Westby, peering down
from the opening, and then he added sorrowfully,
“Saved, and no word of gratitude to his
rescuer!”</p>
<p>“Now, boys, don’t stand round here any
longer; we’ve had enough nonsense; go to
your rooms,” said Irving.</p>
<p><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66"></a><span class="pagenum" title="66"></span>“Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, Mr. Upton, sir!”
clamored Westby, and the boys lingered.</p>
<p>Irving looked up in exasperation. “What
is it now?”</p>
<p>“May I come down, please, sir?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, sir.”</p>
<p>Carefully Westby descended the ladder,
mumbling all the time sentences of which the
lingerers caught fragmentary scraps: “Horrible
experience that of Allison’s—dreadful
situation to have been in—so fortunate that
I was at hand—the man who dares—reckless
courage, ready resource—home again!” He
dropped to the floor, and raising his hand to
his forehead, saluted Irving.</p>
<p>“Come, move on, all you fellows,” said
Irving; the others were still hanging about
and laughing; “move on, move on! Carroll,
you and Westby take that ladder down and
put it back where you got it.”</p>
<p>He stayed to see that the order was carried
out; then he returned to his room. He felt
that though he had conquered in this instance,<a name="Page_67" id="Page_67"></a><span class="pagenum" title="67"></span>
he had adopted the wrong tone, and that he
must offer something else than peevishness
and irritation to ward off Westby’s humor;
already it gave indications of becoming too
audacious. Yet on the whole Irving was
pleased because he had at least asserted himself—and
had rather enjoyed doing it. And
an hour later it seemed to him that he had
lost all that he had gained.</p>
<p>Roast beef was the unvarying dish at Sunday
dinner; a large and fragrant sirloin was
set before the head of each table to be carved.
Irving took up the carving knife and fork
with some misgivings. Hitherto he had had
nothing more difficult to deal with than steaks
or chops or croquettes or stews; and carving
was an art that he had never learned; confronted
by the necessity, he was amazed to
find that he had so little idea of how to proceed.
The first three slices came off readily
enough, though they were somewhat ragged,
and Irving was aware that Westby was surveying
his operations with a critical interest.
The knife seemed to grow more dull, the meat<a name="Page_68" id="Page_68"></a><span class="pagenum" title="68"></span>
more wobbly, more tough, the bone got more
and more in the way; the maid who was passing
the vegetables was waiting, all the boys
except the three who had been helped first
were waiting, coldly critical, anxiously apprehensive;
silence at this table had begun to
reign.</p>
<p>Irving felt himself blushing and muttered,
“This knife’s awfully dull,” as he sawed
away. At last he hacked off an unsightly slab
and passed it to Westby, whose turn it was
and who wrinkled his nose at it in disfavor.</p>
<p>“Please have this knife sharpened,” Irving
said to the maid. She put down the potatoes
and the corn, and departed with the instrument
to the kitchen.</p>
<p>Irving glanced at the other tables; everybody
seemed to have been served, everybody
was eating; Scarborough, who was in charge
of the next table, had entirely demolished his
roast.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry to keep you fellows waiting,”
Irving said, “but that’s the dullest knife I
ever handled.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69"></a><span class="pagenum" title="69"></span>He addressed the remark to the totally unprovided
side of his table; he turned his head
just in time to catch Westby’s humorous mouth
and droll droop of an eyelid. The other boys
smiled, and Irving’s cheeks grew more hot.</p>
<p>“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Upton, if I don’t
wait, won’t you?” said Westby. “Don’t get
impatient, fellows.”</p>
<p>The maid returned with the carving knife;
Westby paused in his eating to observe. Irving
made another unsuccessful effort; the
meat quivered and shook and slid under his
attack, and the knife slipped and clashed
down upon the platter.</p>
<p>“Perhaps if you would stand up to it, sir,
you would do better,” suggested Westby, in
an insidious voice. “Nobody else does, but if
it would be easier—”</p>
<p>“Thank you, but the suggestion is unnecessary,”
Irving retorted. He added to the
other boys, while he struggled, “It’s the
meat, I guess, not the knife, after all—”</p>
<p>“Why, I shouldn’t say it was the meat,” interposed
Westby. “The meat’s quite tender.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70"></a><span class="pagenum" title="70"></span>Irving glanced at him in silent fury, clamped
his lips together, and went on sawing. He
finally was able to hand to Carroll a plate on
which reposed a mussy-looking heap of beef.
Carroll wrinkled his nose over it as Westby
had done.</p>
<p>“If I might venture to suggest, sir,” said
Westby politely, “you could send it out and
have it carved in the kitchen.”</p>
<p>Irving surrendered; he looked up and said
to the maid,—</p>
<p>“Please take this out and have it carved
outside.”</p>
<p>He felt that he could almost cry from the
humiliation, but instead he tried to assume
cheerfulness and dignity.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have to keep you
fellows waiting; we’ll try to arrange things so
that it won’t happen again.”</p>
<p>The boys accepted the apology in gloomy
silence. At Scarborough’s table their plight
was exciting comment; Irving was aware of
the curious glances which had been occasioned
by the withdrawal of the roast. It seemed to<a name="Page_71" id="Page_71"></a><span class="pagenum" title="71"></span>
him that he was publicly disgraced; there was
a peculiar ignominy in sitting at the head of a
table and being unable to perform the simplest
duty of host. Worst of all, in the encounter
with Westby he had lost ground.</p>
<p>The meat was brought on again, sliced in a
manner which could not conceal the unskillfulness
of the original attack.</p>
<p>“Stone cold!” exclaimed Blake, the first
boy to test it.</p>
<p>Irving’s temper flew up. “Don’t be childish,”
he said. “And don’t make any more
comments about this matter. It’s of no importance—and
cold roast beef is just as good
for you as hot.”</p>
<p>“If not a great deal better,” added Westby
with an urbanity that set every one snickering.</p>
<p>After dinner Irving was again on duty for
two hours in the dormitory, until the time for
afternoon chapel. During part of this period
the boys were expected to be in their rooms,
preparing the Bible lesson which had to be
recited after chapel to the rector. Irving made<a name="Page_72" id="Page_72"></a><span class="pagenum" title="72"></span>
the rounds and saw that each boy was in his
proper quarters, then went to his own room.
For an hour he enjoyed quiet. Then the bell
rang announcing that the study period was at
an end. Instantly there was a commotion in
the corridors—legitimate enough; but soon
it centred in the north wing and grew more
and more clamorous, more and more mirthful.</p>
<p>With a sigh Irving went forth to quell it.
He determined that whatever happened he
would not this time lose his temper; he would
try to be persuasive and yet firm.</p>
<p>The noise was in Allison’s room; the unfortunate
Allison was again being persecuted.
Loud whoops of laughter and the sound of
vigorous scuffling, of tumbling chairs and
pounding feet, came to Irving’s ears. The
door to Allison’s room was wide open; Irving
stood and looked upon a pile of bodies heaped
on the bed, with struggling arms and legs;
even in that moment the foot of the iron bedstead
collapsed, and the pile rolled off upon
the floor. There were Morrill and Carroll and<a name="Page_73" id="Page_73"></a><span class="pagenum" title="73"></span>
Westby and Dennison and at the bottom Allison—all
looking very much rumpled, very
red.</p>
<p>“Oh, come, fellows!” said Irving in what he
intended to make an appealing voice. “Less
noise, less noise—or I shall really have to report
you—I shall really!”</p>
<p>But he did not speak with any confidence;
his manner was hesitating, almost deprecating.
The boys grinned at him and then sauntered,
rather indifferently, out of the room.</p>
<p>There was no more disorder that day. But
some hours later, when Irving came up to the
dormitory before supper, he heard laughter in
the west wing, where Collingwood and Westby
and Scarborough had their rooms. Then he
heard Westby’s voice, raised in an effeminate,
pleading tone: “Less noise, fellows, less noise—or
I shall have to report you—I shall
really!”</p>
<p>There was more laughter at the mimicry,
and Irving heard Collingwood ask,</p>
<p>“Where did you get that, Wes?”</p>
<p>“Oh, from Kiddy—this afternoon.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74"></a><span class="pagenum" title="74"></span>“Poor Kiddy! He seemed to be having an
awful time at noon over that roast beef.”</p>
<p>“He’s such a dodo—he’s more fun than
a goat. I can put him up in the air whenever I
want to,” boasted Westby. “He’s the easiest
to get rattled I ever saw. I’m going to play
horse with him in class to-morrow.”</p>
<p>“How?” asked Collingwood; and Irving
basely pricked up his ears.</p>
<p>“Oh, you’ll see.”</p>
<p>Irving closed the door of his room quietly.
“We’ll see, will we?” he muttered, pacing
back and forth. “Yes, I guess some one will
see.”</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75"></a><span class="pagenum" title="75"></span>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<h3>THE BAITING OF A MASTER</h3>
<p>The room in which the Sixth Form assembled
for the lesson in Geometry was
on the top floor of the Study building; the
windows overlooked the pond behind the Gymnasium.
The teacher’s desk was on a platform
in the corner; a blackboard extended along
two walls; and there were steps beneath the
blackboard on which the students stood to
make their demonstrations.</p>
<p>Irving arrived a minute before the hour and
found his class already assembled—a suspicious
circumstance. There was, too, he felt,
an air of subdued, joyous expectancy. He took
his seat and, adjusting his spectacles, peered
round the room; his eyesight was very bad,
and he had, moreover, like so many bookworms,
never trained his faculty of observation.</p>
<p><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76"></a><span class="pagenum" title="76"></span>He read the roll of the class; every boy
was there.</p>
<p>“Scarborough, you may go to the blackboard
and demonstrate the Fifth Theorem;
Dennison, you the Sixth; Westby, you the
Eighth. The rest of you will solve at your
seats this problem.”</p>
<p>He mounted to the blackboard himself and
wrote out the question. While he had his back
turned, he heard some whispering; he looked
over his shoulder. Westby was lingering in
his seat and had obviously been holding
communication with his neighbor.</p>
<p>“Westby,”—Irving’s voice was sharp,—“were
you trying to get help at the last moment?”</p>
<p>“I was not.” Westby’s answer was prompt.</p>
<p>“Then don’t delay any longer, please; go
to the blackboard at once.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>Westby moved to the blackboard on the side
of the room—the one at right angles to that
on which Irving and Scarborough were at
work.</p>
<p><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77"></a><span class="pagenum" title="77"></span>Irving finished his writing, dusted the chalk
from his fingers, and returned to his seat. The
boys before him were now bent industriously
over their tablets; Scarborough, Westby, and
Dennison were drawing figures on the blackboard,
using the long pointers for rulers and
making beautiful circles by means of chalk attached
to pieces of string. A glance at Westby
showed that youth apparently intent upon
solving the problem assigned him and at work
upon it intelligently. Irving began to feel
serene; he proceeded to correct the algebra
exercises of the Fourth Form, which he had
received the hour before.</p>
<p>A sudden titter from some one down in front,
hastily suppressed and transformed into a
cough, caused him to look up. Morrill, with
his mouth hidden behind his hand, was glancing
off toward Westby, and Irving followed
the direction of the glance.</p>
<p>Westby had completed his geometrical figures
and was now engaged in labeling them
with letters. But instead of employing the
usual geometrical symbols A, B, C, and so on,<a name="Page_78" id="Page_78"></a><span class="pagenum" title="78"></span>
he was skipping about through the alphabet,
and Irving immediately perceived that he was
not choosing letters at random. Irving observed
that the initials of his own name, I, C, U,
formed, as it were, the corner-stone of the
geometrical edifice.</p>
<p>At that moment Westby coughed—an unnatural
cough. And instantly a miracle happened;
every single wooden eraser—there
were half a dozen of them—leaped from its
place on the shelf beneath the blackboard and
tumbled clattering down the steps to the floor.
At the same instant Westby flung up both
arms, tottered on the topmost step, and succeeded
in regaining his poise with apparently
great difficulty.</p>
<p>The class giggled.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton, sir! Mr. Upton, sir!” cried
Westby excitedly. “Did you feel the earthquake?
It was very noticeable on this side of
the room. Do you think it’s safe for us to stay
indoors, sir? There may be another shock!”</p>
<p>“Westby,” Irving’s voice had a nervous
thrill that for the moment quieted the laugh<a name="Page_79" id="Page_79"></a><span class="pagenum" title="79"></span>ter,
“did you cause those erasers to be pulled
down?”</p>
<p>“Did I cause them to be pulled down? I
don’t understand, sir. How could I, sir? Six
of them all at once!”</p>
<p>“Bring me one of those erasers, please.”</p>
<p>Westby stooped; there was a sound of snapping
string. Then he came forward and presented
the eraser.</p>
<p>“You tied string to all these erasers, did
you?” Irving examined the fragment that
still clung to the object. “And then arranged
to have them pulled down?”</p>
<p>“You see how short that string is, sir; nobody
could have reached it to pull it. Didn’t
you feel the earthquake, sir? Didn’t you see
how it almost threw me off my feet? Really,
I don’t believe it’s quite safe to stay here—”</p>
<p>“You may be right; I shouldn’t wonder
at all if there was a second shock coming
to you soon,” said Irving, and the subdued
chuckle that went round the class told him he
had scored. “You may now demonstrate to
the class the Theorem assigned you.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80"></a><span class="pagenum" title="80"></span>“Yes, sir.” Westby turned and took up the
pointer.</p>
<p>“We have here,” he began, “the two triangles
I C U and J A Y—with the angle I C U
of the one equal to the angle J A Y of the
other.” The class tittered; Westby went on
glibly, bending the lath-like pointer between
his hands: “Let us now erect the angle K I D,
equal to the angle I C U; then the angle K I D
will also be equal to the angle J A Y—things
equal to the same thing are equal to each other.”</p>
<p>Westby stopped to turn a surprised, questioning
look upon the snickering class.</p>
<p>“Yes, that will do for that demonstration,”
said Irving. He rose from his seat; his lips
were trembling, and the laughter of the class
ceased. “You may leave the room—for your
insolence—at once!”</p>
<p>He had meant to be dignified and calm, but
his anger had rushed to the surface, and his
words came in a voice that suggested he was
on the verge of tears.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think
I quite understand,” said Westby suavely.</p>
<p><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81"></a><span class="pagenum" title="81"></span>“You understand well enough. I ask you
to leave the room.”</p>
<p>“I’m afraid, Mr. Upton, that my little
pleasantries—usually considered harmless—do
not commend themselves to you. But you
hurt my feelings very much, sir, when you
apply such a harsh word as insolence to my
whimsical humor—”</p>
<p>“I’ll hold no argument with you,” cried
Irving; in his excitement his voice rose thin
and thrill. “Leave the room at once.”</p>
<p>Westby laid the pointer and the chalk on
the shelf, blew the dust from his fingers, and
walked towards his seat. Irving took a step
forward; his face was white.</p>
<p>“What do you mean!—What do you
mean! I told you to leave the room.”</p>
<p>Westby faced him with composure through
which showed a sneer; for the first time the
boy was displaying contempt; hitherto his attitude
had been jocose and cajoling.</p>
<p>“I was going for my cap,” he said, and his
eyes flashed scornfully. Then, regardless of
the master’s look, he continued past the row<a name="Page_82" id="Page_82"></a><span class="pagenum" title="82"></span>
of his classmates, took up his cap, and retraced
his steps towards the door. Irving stood watching
him, with lips compressed in a stern line;
the line thinned even more when he saw
Westby bestow on his friends a droll, drooping
wink of the left eyelid.</p>
<p>And then, while all the class sat in silence,
Westby did an audacious thing—a thing that
set every one except Irving off into a joyous
titter. He went out of the door doing the
sailor’s hornpipe,—right hand on stomach,
left hand on back, left hand on stomach, right
hand on back, and taking little skips as he
alternated the position. And so, skipping merrily,
he disappeared down the corridor.</p>
<p>Irving returned to his platform. His hands
were trembling, and he felt weak. When he
spoke, he hardly knew his own voice. But he
struggled to control it, and said,—</p>
<p>“Scarborough, please go to the board and
demonstrate your theorem.”</p>
<p>There was no more disorder in class that
day; in fact, after Westby’s disappearance
the boys were exceptionally well behaved.<a name="Page_83" id="Page_83"></a><span class="pagenum" title="83"></span>
Slowly Irving recovered his composure, yet
the ordeal left him feeling as if he wanted
to shut himself up in his room and lie down.
He knew that he had lost command of his
temper; he regretted the manner in which he
had stormed at Westby; but he thought nevertheless
that the treatment had been effective
and therefore not entirely to be deplored.
The boys had thought him soft; he had shown
them that he was not; and he determined that
from this time forth he would bear down upon
them hard. If by showing them amiability
and kindliness he had failed to win their respect,
he would now compel it by ferocity. He
would henceforth show no quarter to any
malefactor.</p>
<p>Walking up to his room, he fell in with
Barclay, who was also returning from a class.</p>
<p>“What is the extreme penalty one can inflict
on a boy who misbehaves?” he asked.</p>
<p>“For a single act?” asked Barclay.</p>
<p>“For one that’s a climax of others—insolence,
disobedience, disorder—all heaped into
one.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84"></a><span class="pagenum" title="84"></span>Irving spoke hotly, and Barclay glanced at
him with a sympathetic interest.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Barclay, “three sheets and
six marks off in decorum is about the limit.
After that happens to a boy two or three
times, the rector is likely to take a hand.—If
you don’t mind my saying it, though—in
my opinion it’s a mistake to start in by being
extreme.”</p>
<p>“In ordinary cases, perhaps.” Irving’s tone
did not invite questioning, and he did not
confide to Barclay what extraordinary case he
had under consideration.</p>
<p>When he reached his room, he wrote out on
a slip of paper, “Westby, insolence and disorder
in class, three sheets,” and laid the paper
on his desk. Then he undertook to correct
the exercises in geometry which had been the
fruit of the Sixth Form’s labors in the last
hour; but after going through five or six of
them, his mind wandered; it reverted uneasily
to the thought of his future relations with
those boys. He rose and paced about the
room, and hardened his heart. He would be<a name="Page_85" id="Page_85"></a><span class="pagenum" title="85"></span>
just as strict and stern and severe with them
all as he possibly could be. When he had
them well trained, he might attempt to win
their liking—if that seemed any longer worth
having! It did not seem so to him now; all
he wanted to know now was that he had
awakened in them respect and fear.</p>
<p>Respect and fear—could he have inspired
those, by his excitable shriekings in the class
room, by his lack of self-control in dormitory
and at the dinner table, by his incompetence
when confronted with a roast of beef! Each
incident that recurred to him was of a kind
to bring with it the sting of mortification;
his cheeks tingled. He must at least learn
how to perform the simple duties expected
of a master; he could not afford to continue
giving exhibitions of ignorance and incompetence.</p>
<p>Moved by this impulse, he descended to the
kitchen—precincts which he had never before
entered and in which his appearance created
at first some consternation. The cook, however,
was obliging; and when he had confessed<a name="Page_86" id="Page_86"></a><span class="pagenum" title="86"></span>
himself the incapable one who had sent out
the mutilated beef to be carved, she was most
reassuring in her speech, and taking the cold
remains of a similar cut from the ice chest, she
gave him an object lesson. She demonstrated
to him how he should begin the attack, how
he might foil the bone that existed only to
baffle, how slice after slice might fall beneath
his sure and rapid slashes.</p>
<p>“I see,” said Irving, taking the knife and
fork from her and making some imaginary
passes. “The fork so—the knife so. And
you will always be sure to have a sharp carving
knife for me—very sharp?”</p>
<p>The cook smiled and promised, and he extravagantly
left her contemplating a dollar
bill.</p>
<p>Shortly after he had returned to his room
the bell on the Study building rang, announcing
the end of the morning session. There
was half an hour before luncheon; soon the
boys came tramping up the stairs and past
Irving’s closed door. Soon also a racketing
began in the corridors; Irving suspected an<a name="Page_87" id="Page_87"></a><span class="pagenum" title="87"></span>
intention to bait him still further; it was
probably Westby once again. He waited until
the noise became too great to be ignored—shouting
and battering and scuffling; then he
went forth to quell it.</p>
<p>To his surprise Westby was not engaged in
the disturbance—was, in fact, not visible.
Collingwood, with his back turned, was in the
act of hurling a football to the farther end of
the corridor, where Scarborough and Morrill
and Dennison were gathered. The forward
pass was new in football this year, and although
the playing season had not yet begun,
Irving had already seen fellows practicing for
it, in front of the Study and behind the dormitory.
Collingwood, he knew, was captain of
the school football eleven, and naturally had
all the latest developments of the game, such
as the forward pass, very much on his mind.
Still that was no excuse for playing football
in the corridor.</p>
<p>Morrill had caught the ball, and as Irving
approached, undertook to return it. But it
ricochetted against the wall and bounced down<a name="Page_88" id="Page_88"></a><span class="pagenum" title="88"></span>
at Collingwood’s feet. Collingwood seized it
and was poising it in his hand for another
throw when Irving spoke behind him—sharply,
for he was mindful of his resolve to
be severe:—</p>
<p>“No more of that, Collingwood.”</p>
<p>The boy turned eagerly and said,—</p>
<p>“Oh, Mr. Upton, I’m just getting on to
how to do it. Here, let me show you. You
take it this way, along the lacings—the trouble
is, my hand’s not quite long enough to
get a good grip—and then you take it like
this—”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Irving coldly; he had an idea
that Collingwood had adopted Westby’s method
and was engaged in chaffing him. “You
needn’t show me.”</p>
<p>And he turned abruptly and went into his
room, closing the door behind him.</p>
<p>Collingwood stood, looking round over his
shoulder after Irving and holding the ball out
in the arrested attitude of one about to throw.
On his face was an expression of utter amazement,
which rapidly gave place to indignation.<a name="Page_89" id="Page_89"></a><span class="pagenum" title="89"></span>
Collingwood had a temper, and sometimes—even
when he was not on the football field—it
flared up.</p>
<p>“Of all the chumps!” he muttered; and he
turned, and poising the ball again, flung it
with all his strength at the master’s door. It
went straight to the mark, crashed against the
upper panel with a tremendous bang, and rebounded
to Collingwood’s feet.</p>
<p>Irving opened the door and came out with a
leap.</p>
<p>“Collingwood,” he cried, and his voice was
quivering as it had quivered that morning in
class, “did you throw that ball?”</p>
<p>“I did,” said Collingwood.</p>
<p>“Very well. I shall report you. I will have
no more of this insolence.”</p>
<p>He swung round and shut himself again
in his room. The fellows at the other end
of the corridor had stood aghast; now they
came hurrying up. Collingwood was laughing.</p>
<p>“Kiddy’s getting to be a regular lion,” he
said, and when Morrill and Dennison were for<a name="Page_90" id="Page_90"></a><span class="pagenum" title="90"></span>
expressing their indignation, he only laughed
the more.</p>
<p>It was not very pleasant for Irving at luncheon.
Westby gave him an amused glance when
he came in—more amused than hostile—and
Irving preserved his dignity by returning an
unflinching look. Westby made no further
overtures for a while; the other boys chattered
among themselves, about football and tennis,
and Irving sat silent at the head of the table.
At last, however, Westby turned to him.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton,” said Westby deferentially,
“how would you explain this? There’s a dog,
and he must be doing one of two things; either
he’s running or he’s not running. If he’s not
doing the one, he is doing the other, isn’t
he?”</p>
<p>“I suppose so,” said Irving.</p>
<p>“Well, he’s not running. Therefore—he
is running. How do you explain that, Mr.
Upton?”</p>
<p>Irving smiled feebly; the other boys were
thinking it over with puzzled faces.</p>
<p>“That’s an old quibble,” said Irving. “The
<a name="Page_91" id="Page_91"></a><span class="pagenum" title="91"></span>alternative for running is not running. Therefore
when he’s not running—he’s <em>not</em> running.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see that that explains it,” answered
Westby. “That’s just making a statement—but
it isn’t logic.”</p>
<p>“He’s not running is the negative of he’s
running; he’s not not-running is the negative
of he’s not running—”</p>
<p>“Then,” said Westby, “how fast must a dog
travel that is not not-running to catch a dog that
is not exactly running but only perhaps?”</p>
<p>The boys laughed; Irving retorted, “That’s
a problem that you might work out on the
blackboard sometime.”</p>
<p>Thereupon Westby became silent, and Irving
more than half repented of his speech; he
knew that in its reference it had been ill-natured.</p>
<p>He noticed later in the day when he went
up to the dormitory that the boys tiptoed about
the corridors and conversed in whispers; there
was an extravagant air of quiet. When they
went down to supper, they tiptoed past Irving’s<a name="Page_92" id="Page_92"></a><span class="pagenum" title="92"></span>
room in single file, saying in unison, “Sh!
Sh! Sh!” They all joined in this procession—from
Collingwood to Allison. Irving felt that
he had taken Allison’s place as the laughing-stock,
the butt of the dormitory.</p>
<p>In the evening they came to bid him good-night—not
straggling up as they usually did,
but in a delegation, expectant and amused.
Westby and Collingwood were in the van when
Irving opened his door in response to the
knock.</p>
<p>“We didn’t know whether you’d shake
hands with two such reprobates or not,” said
Westby. “We thought it wasn’t quite safe to
come up alone—so we’ve brought a bodyguard.”</p>
<p>Irving did not smile, though, all the boys
were grinning. He shook hands formally with
Collingwood, then with Westby, then with the
others, saying good-night to each; as they left
him, they tiptoed to their rooms. He thought
grimly that, whatever might be the sentiments
entertained towards him, he would not long be
living in an atmosphere of ridicule.</p>
<p><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93"></a><span class="pagenum" title="93"></span>Irving had charge of the “big study,” as it
was called, during the hour immediately after
morning chapel. The boys filed in from chapel
and seated themselves at their desks; the members
of the Sixth Form, who were privileged
to study in their rooms and therefore had no
desks in the schoolroom, occupied the stalls
along the wall under the big clock. Last of all
the rector entered and, mounting the platform,
read the “reports” for the day—that is, the
names of those who had transgressed and the
penalties imposed. After the reading, the Sixth
Form went upstairs to their Latin class with
Mr. Barclay, and the day’s work began.</p>
<p>On the morning following his encounters
with Westby and with Collingwood, Irving as
usual took charge of the Study. The boys assembled;
Irving rang the bell, reducing them to
quiet; Dr. Davenport came in, mounted the
platform, and took up the report book—in
which Irving had just finished transcribing
his entries.</p>
<p>Dr. Davenport began reading in his clear,
emphatic voice, “Out of bounds, Mason, Ster<a name="Page_94" id="Page_94"></a><span class="pagenum" title="94"></span>rett,
Coyle, one sheet; late to study, Hart,
McQuiston, Durfee, Stratton, Kane, half a
sheet; tardy to breakfast—” and so on. None
of the offenses were very serious; and the
rector read them out rapidly. But at last he
paused a moment; and then, looking up from
the book, he said, with grave distinctness,
“Disorderly in class and insolent, Westby,
three sheets; disorderly in dormitory and insolent,
Collingwood, three sheets.”</p>
<p>He closed the book; a stir, a thrill of interest,
ran round the room. For a Sixth Former
to be charged with such offenses and condemned
to such punishment was rare: for
Collingwood, who was in a sense the leader of
the school, to be so charged and punished was
unprecedented.</p>
<p>Collingwood, sitting directly under the
clock, and facing so many curious questioning
eyes, turned red; Westby, standing by the
door, looked at him and smiled. At the same
time, Dr. Davenport, closing the report-book,
leaned towards Irving and said quietly in his
ear,—</p>
<p><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95"></a><span class="pagenum" title="95"></span>“Mr. Upton, I should like to see you about
those last two reports—immediately after
this study hour.”</p>
<p>Irving reddened; the rector’s manner was
not approving.</p>
<p>Dr. Davenport descended from the platform
and walked slowly down the aisle. As he approached,
he looked straight at Westby; and
Westby returned the look steadily—as if he
was ashamed of nothing.</p>
<p>The rector passed through the doorway;
the Sixth Form followed; the day’s work began.</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96"></a><span class="pagenum" title="96"></span>CHAPTER V</h2>
<h3>MASTER TURNS PUPIL</h3>
<p>The rector received Irving with a smile.
“Well,” he said, “I think you must
be a believer in the maxim, ‘Hit hard and hit
first.’ Would you mind telling me what was
the trouble?”</p>
<p>“It wasn’t so much any one thing,” replied
Irving. “It was a culmination of little
things.—Oh, I suppose I started in wrong
with the fellows somehow.”</p>
<p>He was silent for a moment, in dejection.</p>
<p>“A good many do that,” said Dr. Davenport.
“There would be small progress in the
world if there never was any rectifying of
false starts.”</p>
<p>“I can hardly help it if I look young,” said
Irving. “That’s one of my troubles. I suppose
I ought to avoid acting young. I haven’t,
altogether. They call me Kiddy.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97"></a><span class="pagenum" title="97"></span>“We get hardened to nicknames,” observed
the rector. “But often they’re affectionate.
At least I like to cherish that delusion with
regard to mine; my legs have the same curve
as Napoleon’s, and I have been known as ‘Old
Hoopo’ for years.”</p>
<p>“But they don’t call you that to your face.”</p>
<p>“No, not exactly. Have they been calling
you ‘Kiddy’ to your face?”</p>
<p>“It amounts to that.” Irving narrated the
remarks that he had overheard in dormitory,
and then described Westby’s performance at
the blackboard.</p>
<p>“That certainly deserved rebuke,” agreed
the rector. “Though I think Westby was attempting
to be facetious rather than insolent;
I have never seen anything to indicate that
he was a malicious boy.—What was it that
Louis Collingwood did?”</p>
<p>Irving recited the offense.</p>
<p>“Weren’t you a little hasty in assuming
that he was trying to tease you?” asked the
rector. “When he persisted in wanting to
show you how the forward pass is made? I<a name="Page_98" id="Page_98"></a><span class="pagenum" title="98"></span>
think it’s quite likely he was sincere; he’s
so enthusiastic over football that it doesn’t
occur to him that others may not share his interest.
I don’t think Collingwood was trying
to be ‘fresh.’ Of course, he shouldn’t have
lost his temper and banged the ball at your
door—but I think that hardly showed malice.”</p>
<p>“It seemed to me it was insolent—and disorderly.
I felt the fellows all thought they
could do anything with me and I would be
afraid to report them. And so I thought I’d
show them I wasn’t afraid.”</p>
<p>“At the same time, three sheets is the
heaviest punishment, short of actual suspension,
that we inflict. It seems hardly a penalty
for heedless or misguided jocularity.”</p>
<p>“I think perhaps I was hard on Collingwood,”
admitted Irving.</p>
<p>“If he comes to you about it—maybe
you’ll feel disposed to modify the punishment.
And possibly the same with Westby.”</p>
<p>“I don’t feel sure that I’ve been too hard
on Westby.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99"></a><span class="pagenum" title="99"></span>The rector smiled; he was not displeased
at this trace of stubbornness.</p>
<p>“Well, I won’t advise you any further about
that. Use your own judgment. It takes time
for a young man to get his bearings in a place
like this.—If you don’t mind my saying it,”
added the rector mildly, “couldn’t you be a
little more objective in your interests?”</p>
<p>“You mean,” said Irving, “less—less self-centred?”</p>
<p>“That’s it.” The rector smiled.</p>
<p>“I’ll try,” said Irving humbly.</p>
<p>“All right; good luck.” The rector shook
hands with him and turned to his desk.</p>
<p>There was no disturbance in the Mathematics
class that day. Irving hoped that after
the hour Westby and Collingwood might approach
him to discuss the justice of the reports
which he had given them, and so offer him
an opportunity of lightening the punishment.
But in this he was disappointed. Nor did they
come to him in the noon recess—the usual
time for boys who felt themselves wronged to
seek out the masters who had wronged them.</p>
<p><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100"></a><span class="pagenum" title="100"></span>Irving debated with himself the advisability
of going to the two boys and voluntarily
remitting part of their task. But he decided
against this; to make the advances and the
concession both would be to concede too much.</p>
<p>At luncheon there was an unpleasant moment.
No sooner had the boys sat down than
Blake, a Fifth Former, called across the table
to Westby,—</p>
<p>“Say, Westby, who was it that gave you
three sheets?”</p>
<p>Westby scowled and replied,—</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton.”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“Oh, ask him.”</p>
<p>Irving reddened, aware of the glancing,
curious gaze of every boy at the table. There
was an interesting silence, relieved at last by
the appearance of the boy with the mail.
Among the letters, Irving found one from
Lawrence; he opened it with a sense that it
afforded him a momentary refuge. The unintended
irony of the first words drew a bitter
smile to his lips.</p>
<p><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101"></a><span class="pagenum" title="101"></span>“You are certainly a star teacher,” Lawrence
wrote, “and I know now what a success
you must be making with your new job.
I have just learned that I passed all the examinations—which
is more than you or I ever
dreamed I could do—so I am now a freshman
at Harvard without conditions. And it’s all
due to you; I don’t believe there’s another
man on earth that could have got me through
with such a record and in so short a time.”</p>
<p>Irving forgot the irony, forgot Westby and
Collingwood and the amused, whispering boys.
Happiness had suddenly flashed down and
caught him up and borne him away to his
brother. Lawrence’s whole letter was so gay,
so exultant, so grateful that Irving, when he
finished it, turned back again to the first page.
When at last he raised his eyes from it, they
dwelt unseeingly upon the boys before him; they
held his brother’s image, his brother’s smile.
And from the vision he knew that there at
least he had justified himself, whatever might
be his failure now; and if he had succeeded
once, he could succeed again.</p>
<p><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102"></a><span class="pagenum" title="102"></span>Irving became aware that Westby was treating
him with cheerful indifference—ignoring
him. He did not care; the letter had put into
him new courage. And pretty soon there woke
in him along with this courage a gentler spirit;
it was all very well for Westby, a boy and
therefore under discipline, to exhibit a stiff
and haughty pride; but it was hardly admirable
that a master should maintain that attitude.
The punishment to which he had sentenced
Westby and Collingwood was, it appeared,
too harsh; if they were so proud that
they would not appeal to him to modify it,
he would make a sacrifice in the interest of
justice.</p>
<p>So after luncheon he followed Westby and
spoke to him outside of the dining-room.</p>
<p>“Westby,” he said, “do you think that
considering the circumstances three sheets is
excessive?”</p>
<p>Westby looked surprised; then he shrugged
his shoulders.</p>
<p>“I’m not asking any favors,” he replied.</p>
<p>Irving laughed. “No,” he said, “I see<a name="Page_103" id="Page_103"></a><span class="pagenum" title="103"></span>
you’re not. But I’m afraid I must deny you
the pleasure of martyrdom. I’ll ask you to
take a note to Mr. Elwood—he’s in charge
of the Study, isn’t he? I’ll tell him that
you’re to write a sheet and a half instead of
three sheets.”</p>
<p>He drew a note-book from his pocket and
tore out one of the pages. Westby looked at
him curiously—as if in an effort to determine
just how poor-spirited this sudden surrender
was. Irving spoke again before writing.</p>
<p>“By the way, will you please ask Collingwood
to come here?”</p>
<p>When Westby returned with Collingwood,
Irving had the note written and handed it to
him; there was no excuse for Westby to linger.
He went over and waited by the door,
while Irving said,—</p>
<p>“Collingwood, why didn’t you come up
and ask me to reduce your report? Didn’t
you think it was unfair?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Collingwood answered promptly.</p>
<p>“Well, then—why didn’t you come to me
and say so?”</p>
<p><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104"></a><span class="pagenum" title="104"></span>Collingwood thought a moment.</p>
<p>“Well,” he said, “you had such fun in
soaking me that I wasn’t going to give you
the additional satisfaction of seeing me cry
baby.”</p>
<p>“I’ll learn something about boys sometime—if
you fellows will keep on educating me,”
observed Irving. “I think your performance
of yesterday deserves about a sheet; we’ll
make it that.”</p>
<p>He scribbled a note and handed it to the
boy.</p>
<p>“Thank you, Mr. Upton.” Collingwood
tucked the note into his pocket with a friendly
smile, and then joined Westby.</p>
<p>“Knock you down to half a sheet?” asked
Westby, as they departed in the direction of
the Study, where they were to perform their
tasks.</p>
<p>“No; a sheet.”</p>
<p>“Mine’s one and a half now. What got
into him?”</p>
<p>“He’s not without sense,” said Collingwood.</p>
<p><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105"></a><span class="pagenum" title="105"></span>“Ho!” Westby was derisive. “He’s soft.
He got scared. He knew he’d gone too far—and
he was afraid to stand by his guns.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so. I think he’s just trying
to do the right thing.”</p>
<p>It was unfortunate for Irving that later in
the afternoon Carter of the Fifth Form—who
played in the banjo club with Westby—was
passing the Study building just as Westby
was coming out from his confinement.</p>
<p>“Hello, Wes!” said Carter. “Thought
you were in for three sheets; how do you
happen to be at large so soon?”</p>
<p>“Kiddy made it one and a half—without
my asking him,” said Westby.</p>
<p>“And Collingwood the same?”</p>
<p>“He made his only a sheet.”</p>
<p>“That’s it,” said Carter shrewdly. “I was
waiting to see the rector this morning; the
door was open, and he had Kiddy in there
with him. I guess he was lecturing him on
those reports; I guess he told him he’d have
to take off a couple of sheets.”</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Westby. “I<a name="Page_106" id="Page_106"></a><span class="pagenum" title="106"></span>
don’t believe old Hoopo would have interfered
much on my account,—but I guess he couldn’t
stand for Lou Collingwood getting three
sheets. And Kiddy, the fox, tried to make us
think he was being magnanimous!”</p>
<p>Westby chuckled over his humorous discovery,
and as soon as possible imparted it to
Collingwood.</p>
<p>“Oh, well, what if the rector did make him
do it?” said Collingwood. “The way he did
it shows he’s all right—”</p>
<p>“Trying to get the credit with us for being
just and generous!” observed Westby. “Oh,
I don’t mind; of course it’s only Kiddy.”</p>
<p>And it was Westby’s view of the matter
which most of the boys heard and credited.
So the improvement in the general attitude
for which Irving had hoped was hardly to be
noticed. He had some gratification the next
Sunday when the roast beef was brought on
and he carved it with creditable ease and dispatch;
the astonishment of the whole table,
and especially of Westby and Carroll, was
almost as good as applause. He could not re<a name="Page_107" id="Page_107"></a><span class="pagenum" title="107"></span>sist
saying, in a casual way, “The knife seems
to be sharp this Sunday.” And he felt that
for once Westby was nonplussed.</p>
<p>But the days passed, and Irving felt that
he was not getting any nearer to the boys. At
his table the talk went on before him, mainly
about athletics, about college life, about Europe
and automobiles,—all topics from which
he seemed strangely remote. It needed only
the talk of these experienced youths to make
him realize that he had gone through college
without ever touching “college life,”—its
sports, its social diversions, its adventures. It
had been for him a life in a library, in classrooms,
in his own one shabby little room,—a
cloistered life; in the hard work of it and the
successful winning of his way he had been
generally contented and happy. But he could
not talk to these boys about “college life” as
it appeared to them; and they very soon, perhaps
by common consent, eliminated him from
the conversation. Nor was he able to cope with
Westby in the swift, glancing monologues
which flowed on and on sometimes, to the vast<a name="Page_108" id="Page_108"></a><span class="pagenum" title="108"></span>
amusement of the audience. Often to Irving
these seemed not very funny, and he did not
know which was the more trying—to sit grave
and unconcerned in the midst of so much mirth
or to keep his mouth stretched in an insincere,
wooden smile. Whichever he did, he felt that
Westby always was taking notes, to ridicule
him afterwards to the other boys.</p>
<p>One habit which Westby had was that of
bringing a newspaper to supper and taking the
table with him in an excursion over headlines
and advertising columns. His mumbling manner,
his expertness in bringing out distinctly a
ridiculous or incongruous sentence, and his
skill in selecting such sentences at a glance
always drew attention and applause; he had
the comedian’s technique.</p>
<p>The boys at the neighboring tables, hearing
so much laughter and seeing that Westby was
provoking it, would stop eating and twist
round and tilt back their chairs and strain
their ears eagerly for some fragment of the
fun. At last at the head table Mr. Randolph
took cognizance of this daily boisterousness,<a name="Page_109" id="Page_109"></a><span class="pagenum" title="109"></span>
spoke to Irving about it, and asked him to
curb it. Irving thereupon suggested to Westby
that he refrain from reading his newspaper at
table.</p>
<p>“But all the fellows depend on me to keep
them <em>au courant</em>, as it were.” Westby was
fond of dropping into French in his arguments
with Irving.</p>
<p>“You will have to choose some other time
for it,” Irving answered. “I understand that
there is a rule against reading newspapers at
table, and I think it must be observed.”</p>
<p>“Oh, very well,—<em>de bon cœur</em>,” said
Westby.</p>
<p>The next day at supper he appeared without
his newspaper. But in the course of the
meal he drew from his pocket some newspaper
clippings which he had pasted together and
which he began to read in his usual manner.
Soon the boys of the table were laughing,
soon the boys of the adjacent tables were
twisting round and trying to share in the
amusement. Westby read in his rapid consecutive
way,—</p>
<p><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110"></a><span class="pagenum" title="110"></span>“‘Does no good unless taken as directed—pain
in the back, loins, or region of the kidneys—danger
signal nature hangs out—um—um—um.
Mother attacks son with razor, taking
tip of left ear. Catcher Dan McQuilligan signs
with the Red Sox—The Woman Beautiful—Bright
Eyes: Every woman is entitled to a
clear, brilliant complexion—um—if she is
not so blessed, it is usually her own fault—um—Candidate
for pulchritude: reliable beauty
shop—do not clip the eyelashes—um.—Domestic
science column—Baked quail: pick,
draw, and wipe the bird outside and inside;
use a wet cloth.—No, Hortense, it is not necessary
to offer a young man refreshments
during an evening call.’”</p>
<p>Westby was going on and on; he had a
hilarious audience now of three tables. From
the platform at the end of the dining-room
Mr. Randolph looked down and shook his
head—shook it emphatically; and Irving,
seeing it, understood the signal.</p>
<p>“Westby,” said Irving. “Westby!” He
had to raise his voice.</p>
<p><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111"></a><span class="pagenum" title="111"></span>“Yes, sir?” Westby looked up innocently.</p>
<p>“I will have to ask you to discontinue your
reading.”</p>
<p>“But this is not a newspaper.”</p>
<p>“It’s part of one.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir, but the rule is against bringing
newspapers to table—not against bringing
newspaper clippings to table.”</p>
<p>“The rule’s been changed,” said Irving.
“It now includes clippings.”</p>
<p>“You see how it is, fellows.” Westby turned
to the others. “Persecuted—always persecuted.
If I’m within the rules—they change
the rules to soak me. Well,”—he folded up
his clippings and put them in his pocket,—“the
class in current topics is dismissed. But
instead Mr. Upton has very kindly consented
to entertain us this evening—some of his inimitable
chit-chat—”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t always try to be facetious,
Westby,” said Irving.</p>
<p>“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Westby
urbanely. “If I have wounded your sensibili<a name="Page_112" id="Page_112"></a><span class="pagenum" title="112"></span>ties—I
would not do that—never—<em>jamais—pas
du tout</em>.”</p>
<p>Irving said nothing; it seemed to him that
Westby always had the last word; it seemed
to him as if Westby was always skillfully tripping
him up, executing a derisive flourish
over his prostrate form, and then prancing
away to the cheers of the populace.</p>
<p>But there were no more violent encounters,
such as had taken place in the class-room;
Westby never quite crossed the line again;
and Irving controlled his temper on threatening
occasions. These occurred in dormitory
less often; the fine weather and the fall sports—football
and tennis and track athletics—kept
the boys out-doors. On rainy afternoons
there was apt to be some noise and disorder—usually
there was what was termed an “Allison
hunt,” which took various forms, but which,
whether resulting in the dismemberment of
the boy’s room or the pursuit and battery of
him with pillows along the corridors, invariably
required Irving’s interference to quell it. This
task of interference, though it was one that he<a name="Page_113" id="Page_113"></a><span class="pagenum" title="113"></span>
came to perform more and more capably, never
grew less distasteful or less humiliating; he
saw always the row of faces wearing what he
construed as an impudent grin. What seemed
to him curious was the fact that Allison after a
fashion enjoyed—at least did not resent—the
outrages of which he was the subject; after
them he would be found sitting amicably with
his tormentors, drinking their chocolate and
eating their crackers and jam. This was so
different from his own attitude after he had
been teased that Irving could not understand
it. After studying the case, he concluded that
the “Allison hunts” were not prompted by
any hatred of the subject, but by the fact
merely that he was big, clumsy, good-natured,
slow-witted—easy to make game of—and
especially by the fact that when aroused he
showed a certain joyous rage in his own defense.
But Irving saw no way of learning a
lesson from Allison.</p>
<p>As the days went on, the sense of his isolation
in the School became more oppressive.
He had thought that if only the fellows would<a name="Page_114" id="Page_114"></a><span class="pagenum" title="114"></span>
let him alone, he would be contented; he
found that was not so. They let him alone now
entirely; he envied those masters who were
popular—whom boys liked to visit on Sunday
evenings, who were consulted about contributions
to the <em>Mirror</em>, the school paper, who
were invited to meetings of the Stylus, the literary
society, who coached the football elevens
or went into the Gymnasium and did “stunts”
with the boys on the flying rings.</p>
<p>One day when he was walking down to the
athletic field with Mr. Barclay, he said something
that hinted his wistful and unhappy
state of mind. Barclay had suspected it and
had been waiting for such an opportunity.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you make some interest for
yourself which would put you on a footing
with the boys—outside of the class-room and
the dormitory?” he asked.</p>
<p>“I wish I could. But how?”</p>
<p>“You ought to be able to work up an interest
of some sort,” said Barclay vaguely.</p>
<p>“I don’t know anything about athletics;
I’m not musical, I don’t seem to be able to be<a name="Page_115" id="Page_115"></a><span class="pagenum" title="115"></span>
entertaining and talk to the boys. I guess I’m
just a grind. I shall never be of much use as
a teacher; it’s bad enough to feel that you’re
not up to your job. It’s worse when it makes
you feel that you’re even less up to the job
that you hoped to prepare for.”</p>
<p>“How’s that?”</p>
<p>“I meant to study law; I’d like to be a
lawyer. But what’s the use? If I can’t learn
to handle boys, how can I ever hope to handle
men?—and that’s what a lawyer has to do,
I suppose.”</p>
<p>“Look here,” said Barclay. “You’re still
young; if you’ve learned what’s the matter
with you—and you seem to have—you’ve
learned more than most fellows of your age.
It’s less than a month that you’ve been here,
and you’ve never had any experience before
in dealing with boys. Why should you expect
to know it all at once?”</p>
<p>“I suppose there’s something in that. But
I feel that I haven’t it in me ever to get on
with them.”</p>
<p>“You’re doing better now than you did at<a name="Page_116" id="Page_116"></a><span class="pagenum" title="116"></span>
first; they don’t look on you entirely as a
joke now, do they?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps not.—Oh,” Irving broke out,
“I know what the trouble is—I want to be
liked—and I suppose I’m not the likeable
kind.”</p>
<p>Barclay did not at once dispute this statement,
and Irving was beginning to feel hurt.</p>
<p>“The point is,” said Barclay at last, “that
to be liked by boys you’ve got to like them.
If you hold off from them and distrust them
and try to wrap yourself up in a cloak of dignity
or mystery, they won’t like you because
they won’t know you. If you show an interest
in them and their interests, you can be as
stern with them as justice demands, and they
won’t lay it up against you. But if you don’t
show an interest—why, you can’t expect them
to have an interest in you.”</p>
<p>They turned a bend in the road; the athletic
field lay spread out before them. In different
parts of it half a dozen football elevens were
engaged in practice; on the tennis courts near
the athletic house boys in white trousers and<a name="Page_117" id="Page_117"></a><span class="pagenum" title="117"></span>
sweaters were playing; on the track encircling
the football field other boys more lightly clad
were sprinting or jogging round in practice
for long-distance runs; a few sauntered about
as spectators, with hands in their overcoat
pockets.</p>
<p>“There,” said Barclay, indicating a group
of these idle observers, “you can at least do
that.”</p>
<p>“But what’s the use?”</p>
<p>“Make yourself a critic; pick out eight or
ten fellows to watch especially. In football or
tennis or running. It doesn’t much matter.
If they find you’re taking an intelligent interest
in what they’re doing, they’ll be pleased.
Westby, for instance, is running; he’s entered
for the hundred yards in the fall games,—likely
to win it, too. Westby’s your greatest
trial, isn’t he? Then why don’t you make
a point of watching him?—Not too obviously,
of course. Come round with me; I’m coaching
some of the runners for the next half-hour,
and then Collingwood wants me to give his
ends a little instruction.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118"></a><span class="pagenum" title="118"></span>“Dear me! If I’d only been an athlete instead
of a student in college!” sighed Irving
whimsically.</p>
<p>“You don’t need to be much of an athlete
to coach; I never was so very much,” confided
Barclay. “But there are things you can learn
by looking on.” They had reached the edge
of the track; Barclay clapped his hands. “No,
no, Roberts!” The boy who was practising
the start for a sprint looked up. “You mustn’t
reel all over the track that way when you
start; you’d make a foul. Keep your elbows
in, and run straight.”</p>
<p>Irving followed Barclay round and tried to
grasp the significance of his comments. Dennison
came by at a trot.</p>
<p>“Longer stride, Dennison! Your running’s
choppy! Lengthen out, lengthen out! That’s
better.—I have it!”</p>
<p>Barclay turned suddenly to Irving.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“The thing for you to do. We’ll make you
an official at the track games next week. That
will give you a standing at once—show every<a name="Page_119" id="Page_119"></a><span class="pagenum" title="119"></span>body
that you are really a keen follower of
sport—or want to be.”</p>
<p>“But what can I do? I suppose an official
has to do something.”</p>
<p>“You can be starter. That will put you
right in touch with the fellows that are entered.”</p>
<p>“Would I have a revolver? I’ve never fired
a gun off in my life.”</p>
<p>“Then it’s time you did. Of course you’ll
have a revolver. And you’ll be the noisiest,
most important man on the field. That’s what
you need to make yourself; wake the fellows
up to what you really are!—Now I must be
off to my football men; you’d better hang
round here and pick up what you can about
running. And remember—you’re to act as
starter.”</p>
<p>“If you’ll see me through.”</p>
<p>“I’ll see you through.”</p>
<p>Barclay waved his hand and swung off across
the field.</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120"></a><span class="pagenum" title="120"></span>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<h3>THE PENALTY FOR A FOUL</h3>
<p>How it was managed Irving did not know,
but on the morning of the day when
the fall handicap track games were held Scarborough
lingered after the Sixth Form Geometry
class. Scarborough was president of the
Athletic Association.</p>
<p>“We want somebody to act as starter for
the races this afternoon, Mr. Upton,” said
Scarborough. “I wondered if you would help
us out.”</p>
<p>“I should be delighted,” said Irving. “I’ve
not had much experience—”</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s easy enough; Mr. Barclay, I guess,
can tell you all that has to be done. Thank
you very much.”</p>
<p>It was quite as if Irving was the one who
was conferring the favor; he liked Scarborough
for the way in which the boy had made the<a name="Page_121" id="Page_121"></a><span class="pagenum" title="121"></span>
suggestion. He always had liked him, for
Scarborough had never given any trouble;
he seemed more mature than most of the boys,
more mature even than Louis Collingwood.
He was not so popular, because he maintained
a certain dignity and reserve; even Westby
seemed to stand somewhat in awe of Scarborough.
He was, as Irving understood, the
best oarsman in the school, captain of the
school crew, besides being the crack shot-putter
and hammer-thrower; if he and Collingwood
had together chosen to throw their influence
against a new master, life would indeed have
been hard. But Scarborough’s attitude had
been one of entire indifference; he would
stand by and smile sometimes when Westby
was engaged in chaffing Irving, and then, as
if tired of it, he would turn his back and walk
away.</p>
<p>Irving visited Barclay at his house during
the noon recess, borrowed his revolver, and
received the last simple instructions.</p>
<p>“Make sure always that they’re all properly
‘set’ before you fire. If there’s any fouling<a name="Page_122" id="Page_122"></a><span class="pagenum" title="122"></span>
at the start, you can call them back and penalize
the fellow that fouled—a yard to five
yards, according to your discretion. But
there’s not likely to be any fouling; in most
of the events the fellows are pretty well separated
by their handicaps.”</p>
<p>“I’ll be careful,” said Irving. He inspected
the revolver. “It’s all loaded?”</p>
<p>“Yes—and there are some blank cartridges.
Now, you’re all equipped. If any questions
come up—I’ll be down at the field; I’m to
be one of the judges and you can call on
me.”</p>
<p>At luncheon Irving entered into the talk
about the sports to come, without giving any
intimation as to the part which he was to
play.</p>
<p>“They’ve given Heath only thirty yards
over Lou Collingwood,” complained Westby.</p>
<p>“I thought Lou wasn’t going to run, because
of football; he hasn’t been practising,”
said Carroll.</p>
<p>“I know, but the Pythians have got hold
of him, and Dennison’s persuaded him it’s<a name="Page_123" id="Page_123"></a><span class="pagenum" title="123"></span>
his duty to run. And I guess he’s good
enough without practice to win from scratch—giving
that handicap!”</p>
<p>“Is Dennison the captain of the Pythian
track team?” asked Irving.</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“And who’s captain of yours—the Corinthians?”</p>
<p>“Ned Morrill.”</p>
<p>“Morrill’s going awfully fast in the quarter
now,” said Blake. “I timed him yesterday.”</p>
<p>“They’ve handicapped him pretty hard.
And he’s apt to be just a shade late in starting—just
as Dave Pratt is apt to be just a
shade previous,” said Westby. “It ought to
be a close race between those two.”</p>
<p>“How much does Pratt get over Morrill?”</p>
<p>“Five yards. And if he steals another yard
on the start—”</p>
<p>“Dave wouldn’t steal it,” exclaimed Blake
indignantly. “You Corinthians would accuse
a man of anything!”</p>
<p>“Oh, I don’t mean that he’d do it intentionally,”
replied Westby. “But he’s so over<a name="Page_124" id="Page_124"></a><span class="pagenum" title="124"></span>anxious
and eager always—and he’s apt to
get away without realizing—without the
starter realizing.—I wonder who’s going to
be starter, by the way?”</p>
<p>Nobody knew; Irving did not enlighten
them.</p>
<p>Westby bethought him to ask the same
question of Scarborough half an hour later,
when they were dressing in the athletic house.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton has consented to serve,” said
Scarborough gravely.</p>
<p>Westby thumped himself down on a bench,
dangling one spiked running shoe by the
string.</p>
<p>“What! Kiddy!”</p>
<p>“The same,” said Scarborough.</p>
<p>Westby said nothing more; he stooped and
put on his shoe, and then he rose and came
over to Scarborough, who was untangling a
knot. He passed his hand over Scarborough’s
head and remarked wonderingly, “Feels perfectly
normal—strange—strange!”</p>
<p>Morrill came in from outside, clapping his
hands. “Corinthians out for the mile—Heath<a name="Page_125" id="Page_125"></a><span class="pagenum" title="125"></span>—Price—Bolton—Edwards—all
ready?”</p>
<p>The four named answered by clumping on
their spikes to the door.</p>
<p>A moment later came the Pythian call from
Dennison; Collingwood and Morse responded.
The first event of the day was about to begin.
Westby leisurely brushed his hair, which had
been disarranged in the process of undressing;
he was like a cat in respect of his hair and
could not endure to have it rumpled. When it
was parted and plastered down to his satisfaction,
he slipped a dressing gown on over his
running clothes and went out of doors.</p>
<p>The fall track meet was not of the same importance
as that in the spring, which was a
scratch event. But there were cups for prizes,
and there was always much rivalry between
the two athletic clubs, the Corinthians and
Pythians, as to which could show the most
winners. So for that day the football players
rested from their practice; many of them in
fact were entered in the sports—though, like
Collingwood, without any special preparation.
The school turned out to look on and cheer;<a name="Page_126" id="Page_126"></a><span class="pagenum" title="126"></span>
when Westby left the athletic house, he saw
the boys lined up on the farther side of the
track. The field was reserved for contestants
and officials; already many figures in trailing
dressing gowns were wandering over it, and
off at one side three or four were having a
preliminary practice in putting the shot.</p>
<p>But most of those who were privileged to
be on the field stood at the farther side, where
the start for the mile run was about to take
place. Westby saw Randolph and Irving kneeling
by the track, measuring off the handicap
distances with a tape line; Barclay walked
along it, and summoned the different contestants
to their places. By the time that Westby
had crossed the field, the six runners were at
their stations; there was an interval of a hundred
and forty yards between Collingwood, at
scratch, and young Price of the Fourth Form.</p>
<p>Westby came up and stood near Irving,
and fixed him with a whimsical smile.</p>
<p>“Quite a new departure for you, isn’t it,
Mr. Upton?” he said.</p>
<p>“I thought I’d come down and see if you<a name="Page_127" id="Page_127"></a><span class="pagenum" title="127"></span>
can run as fast as you can talk, Westby.” Irving
drew out the revolver, somewhat ostentatiously.</p>
<p>“I hope you won’t shoot any one with that;
it looks to me as if you ought to be careful
how you handle it, sir.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for the advice, Westby.” Irving
turned from the humorist, and raised his
voice. “All ready for the mile now! On your
marks! Set!”</p>
<p>He held the pistol aloft and fired, and the
six runners trotted away. There is nothing very
exciting about the start of a mile run, and Irving
felt that the intensity with which he had
given the commands had been rather absurd.
It was annoying to think that Westby had
been standing by and finding perhaps in his
nervousness a delectable subject for mockery
and derision.</p>
<p>Irving walked down the track towards the
finish line. He found Barclay there holding
the watch.</p>
<p>“You seem to be discharging your arduous
duties successfully,” said Barclay.</p>
<p><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128"></a><span class="pagenum" title="128"></span>“Oh, so far.” Irving looked up the track;
the foremost runners were rounding the curve
at the end of their first lap. He had a moment’s
longing to be one of them, stretching
his legs like them, trying out his strength and
speed on the smooth cinder track against
others as eager as himself. He had never done
anything of that kind; hardly until now had
he ever felt the desire. Why it should come
upon him now so poignantly he did not know;
but on this warm October afternoon, when
the air and the sunshine were as soft as in
early September, he wished that he might be
a boy again and do the things which as a boy
he had never done. To be still young and
looking on at the sports and the strife of
youth, sports and strife in which he had never
borne a part—there was something humiliating
and ignoble in the thought. If he could
only be for the moment the little Fourth
Former there, Price—now flying on in the
lead yet casting many fearful backward glances!—Poor
child, even Irving’s inexperienced eyes
told him that he could never keep that pace.</p>
<p><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129"></a><span class="pagenum" title="129"></span>“Go it, kid!” cried three or four older boys
good-naturedly, as Price panted by; and he
threw back his head and came down more
springily upon his toes, trying in response to
the cheer to display his best form.</p>
<p>After him came Bolton and Edwards, side
by side; and Collingwood, who started at
scratch, had moved up a little on Morse and
Heath. Heath was considered the strongest
runner in the event for the Corinthians, and
they urged him on with cries of “Heath!
Heath!” as he made the turn. “You’ve got
’em, Lou!” shouted a group of Pythians the
next moment as Collingwood passed. It was
early in the race for any great demonstration
of excitement.</p>
<p>It was Price whom Irving watched with
most sympathy. When he got round on the
farther side of the field, his pace had slackened
perceptibly; Bolton and Edwards passed
him and kept on widening the distance; Morse
and Heath passed him at the next turn; and
when he came down to the turn in front of
the crowd, running heavily, Collingwood over<a name="Page_130" id="Page_130"></a><span class="pagenum" title="130"></span>hauled
and passed him. It was rather an unfeeling
thing for Collingwood to do, right
there in front of the crowd, but he was driven
to it by force of circumstances; the four other
runners were holding on in a way he did not
like. The cries of encouragement to him and
to Heath were more urgent this time; Bolton
and Edwards and Morse had their supporters
too.</p>
<p>Westby ran along the field beside Price,
and Irving felt a moment’s indignation; was
Westby taunting the plucky and exhausted
small boy? And then Irving saw that he was
not, and at the same instant Barclay turned
to him and said,—</p>
<p>“Price is Westby’s young cousin.”</p>
<p>Irving stood near enough to hear Westby
say, “Good work, Tom; you set the pace just
right; it’ll kill Collingwood. Now drop out.”</p>
<p>Price shook his head and kept on; Westby
trotted beside him, saying anxiously, “There’s
no use in your wearing yourself all out.” But
Price continued at his determined, pounding
trot.</p>
<p><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131"></a><span class="pagenum" title="131"></span>“He’s a plucky kid,” said Barclay.</p>
<p>“Rather nice of Westby to take such an
interest,” said Irving.</p>
<p>Barclay nodded. From that point on it became
a close and interesting race, yet every
now and then Irving’s eyes strayed to the
small figure toiling farther and farther to the
rear—but always toiling. Westby stood on
the edge of the green oval, not far away, and
when on the third lap Heath came by in the
lead, ran with him a few moments and shouted
advice and encouragement in his ear; he had
to shout, for all the Corinthians were shouting
for Heath now, and the Pythians were shouting
just as loudly for Collingwood, who, pocketed
by the two other Corinthians, Bolton and
Edwards, was running fifteen yards behind.
Morse, the only Pythian to support Collingwood,
was hopelessly out of it.</p>
<p>Westby left Heath and turned his eyes
backward. His cousin came to the turn, white-faced,
and mouth hanging open; the crowd
clapped the boy. “Quit it, Tom!” cried Westby.
“Quit it; there’s no sense—” but Price went<a name="Page_132" id="Page_132"></a><span class="pagenum" title="132"></span>
pounding on. Westby stood looking after him
with a worried frown, and then because there
was a sudden shout, he turned to look at the
others.</p>
<p>There, on the farther side of the field, Collingwood
had at last extricated himself from
the pocket; he was running abreast of Bolton;
Edwards had fallen behind. Heath was spurting;
Collingwood passed Bolton, but in doing
so did not lessen Heath’s lead—a lead of
fully fifteen yards. So they came to the last
turn, to the long straight-away home-stretch;
and the crowd clustered by the finish broke
and ran up alongside the track to meet them.
Every one was yelling wildly—one name or another—“Corinthian!”
“Pythian!” “Heath!”
“Collingwood!”</p>
<p>Barclay ran across the track with one end
of the tape,—the finish line; Mr. Randolph
held the other. “Collingwood! Collingwood!”
rose the shout; Irving, standing on tiptoe, saw
that Collingwood was gaining, saw that at last
he and Heath were running side by side; they
held together while the crowd ran with them<a name="Page_133" id="Page_133"></a><span class="pagenum" title="133"></span>
shouting. Irving pressed closer to the track;
Westby in his dressing gown was jumping up
and down beside him, waving his arms; Irving
had to crane his neck and peer, in order to see
beyond those loose flapping sleeves. He saw
the light-haired Collingwood and the black-haired
Heath, coming down with their heads
back and their teeth bared and clenched; they
were only fifteen yards away. And then Collingwood
leaped ahead; it was as if he had unloosed
some latent and unconquerable spring,
which hurled him in a final burst of speed
across the tape and into half a dozen welcoming
arms. Heath stumbled after him, even more
in need of such friendly services; but both of
them revived very quickly when Mr. Barclay,
rushing into the crowd with the watch, cried,
“Within eight seconds of the record! Both
of you fellows will break it next June.”</p>
<p>The other runners came gasping in—and
Price was still toiling away in the rear. He
had been half a lap behind; he came now into
the home-stretch; the crowd began to laugh,
and then more kindly, as he drew nearer, to<a name="Page_134" id="Page_134"></a><span class="pagenum" title="134"></span>
applaud. They clapped and called, “Good
work, Price!” Westby met him about fifty
yards from the finish and ran with him, saying,
“You’ve got to stick it out now, Tom;
you can’t drop out now; you’re all right, old
boy—lots of steam in your boiler—you’ll
break a record yet.” Irving caught some of
the speeches. And so Westby was there when
Price crossed the line and collapsed in a heap
on the track.</p>
<p>It was not for long; they brought him to
with water, and Westby knelt by him fanning
his face with the skirt of his dressing gown.
Barclay picked the boy up. “Oh, I’m all
right, sir,” said Price, and he insisted on being
allowed to walk to the athletic house alone,—which
he did rather shakily.</p>
<p>Westby flirted the cinders from the skirt
of his dressing gown. “Blamed little fool,” he
remarked to Carroll and to Allison, who stood
by. “Wouldn’t his mother give me the dickens,
though, for letting him do that!” But
Irving, who heard, knew there was a ring of
pride in Westby’s voice—as if Westby felt<a name="Page_135" id="Page_135"></a><span class="pagenum" title="135"></span>
that his cousin was a credit to the family. And
Irving thought he was.</p>
<p>The sports went on; not many of the runs
were as exciting as that with which the afternoon
had opened. Irving passed back and
forth across the field, helped measure distances
for the handicaps, and tried to be useful. His
interest had certainly been awakened. Twice
in college he had sat on the “bleachers”
and viewed indifferently the track contests between
Yale and Harvard; he had had a patriotic
desire to see his own college win, but he
had been indifferent to the performance of
the individuals. They had not been individuals
to him—merely strange figures performing
in an arena. But here, where he knew
the boys and walked about among them, and
saw the different manifestations of nervousness
and excitement, and watched the muscles
in their slim legs and arms, he became himself
eager and sympathetic. He stood by when
Scarborough went on putting the shot after
beating all the other competitors—went on
putting it in an attempt to break the School<a name="Page_136" id="Page_136"></a><span class="pagenum" title="136"></span>
record. Unconsciously Irving pressed forward
to see him as he prepared for the third and last
try; unconsciously he stood with lips parted
and eyes shining, fascinated by the huge muscles
that rose in Scarborough’s brown arm
as he poised the weight at his shoulder and
heaved it tentatively. And when it was announced
that the effort had fallen short by
only a few inches, Irving’s sigh of disappointment
went up with that of the boys.</p>
<p>At intervals the races were run off—the
two-twenty, the quarter-mile, the half-mile, the
high hurdles, the low hurdles. Irving started
them all without any mishap. The last one,
the low hurdles for two hundred and twenty
yards, was exciting; the runners were all well
matched and the handicaps were small. And
so, after firing the revolver, Irving started and
ran across the field as hard as he could, to be
at the finish; he arrived in time, and stood,
still holding the revolver in his hand, while
Morrill and Flack and Mason raced side by
side to the tape. They finished in that order,
not more than a yard apart; and Irving rammed<a name="Page_137" id="Page_137"></a><span class="pagenum" title="137"></span>
his revolver into his pocket and clapped his
hands and cheered with the Corinthians.</p>
<p>The Pythians were now two points ahead,
and there remained only one event, the hundred
yards. First place counted five points and
second place two; in these games third place
did not count. So if a Corinthian should win
the hundred yards, the Corinthians would be
victorious in the meet by one point.</p>
<p>There were eight entries in the hundred yards—a
large number to run without interfering
with one another. But the track was wide, and
two of the boys had handicaps of ten yards, one
had five yards, and one had three. So they were
spread out pretty well at the start, and consequently
the danger of interference was minimized.</p>
<p>The runners threw off their dressing gowns
and took their places. Drake, Flack, Westby,
and Mason lined up at scratch,—Westby
having drawn the inside place and being
flanked by the two Pythians. There was a moment’s
pawing of the cinders, and settling down
firmly on the spikes.</p>
<p><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138"></a><span class="pagenum" title="138"></span>“Ready, everybody!” cried Irving. He drew
the revolver from his pocket and held it aloft.
He was as excited as any of the runners; there
was the nervous thrill in his voice. “On your
marks!” They put their hands to the ground;
he ran his eyes along them to see that all were
placed. “Set!” There was the instant stiffening
of muscles. Then from the revolver came
a click. Irving had emptied the six chambers
in starting the other races, and had forgotten
to reload.</p>
<p>“Just a moment, fellows; ease off!” he
called, and they all straightened up and faced
towards him questioningly. “Just till I slip in
a cartridge,” Irving explained with embarrassment.</p>
<p>Westby turned on him a delighted grin, and
said,—</p>
<p>“Can I be of any assistance, Mr. Upton?”</p>
<p>“No, thank you,” said Irving, and having
slipped in one cartridge, he began filling the
other chambers of the revolver.</p>
<p>“It takes only one shot to start,” observed
Westby.</p>
<p><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139"></a><span class="pagenum" title="139"></span>“Yes,” said Irving. “If I fire a second, it
will be to call you back because of a false start.—Now
then,—all ready once more. On your
marks!” They crouched. “Set!” He fired.</p>
<p>Somehow in the start Westby’s foot slipped,
and in trying to get clear he lunged against
Flack. Irving saw it and instantly fired a second
shot, and shouted, “Come back, come
back!” The runners heeded the signal and the
shout, but as they tiptoed up the track, they
looked irritated.</p>
<p>“Westby, you fouled Flack.” Irving spoke
with some asperity. “I shall have to set you
back a yard.”</p>
<p>“It was an accident,” Westby replied warmly.
“My foot slipped. I couldn’t help myself.”</p>
<p>“But it was a foul,” declared Irving, “and
I shall have to set you back a yard.”</p>
<p>“It was an accident, I tell you,” repeated
Westby.</p>
<p>“If it was an accident, you oughtn’t to set
him back,” said Drake, his fellow Corinthian.</p>
<p>“It’s in the starter’s discretion,” spoke up
Mason, the Pythian.</p>
<p><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140"></a><span class="pagenum" title="140"></span>“The penalty’s a yard,” affirmed Irving.</p>
<p>Westby shut his lips tight and looked angrily
contemptuous. Irving measured the distance.
“There,” he said, “you will start there.”</p>
<p>Westby took the place behind the others
without a word.</p>
<p>“Ready now! On your marks!”</p>
<p>The pistol cracked, and this time they all
got away safely, and Irving raced after them
over the grass.</p>
<p>From the crowd at the finish came the instant
shout of names; out of the short choppy
cries two names especially emerged, “Flack!
Flack! Flack!” “Westby! Westby! Westby!”
Those two were the favorites for the event.
Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and
mingle with the handicap runners; in the confusion
of flying white figures he could not see
who were leading. But the tumult near the
finish grew wild; arms and caps were swung
aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired
Dennison ran along the edge of the
track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other
side did the same thing; the next moment the
<a name="Page_141" id="Page_141"></a><span class="pagenum" title="141"></span>race had ended in a tumultuous rush of shouting
boys.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 427px;"><a name="Page_140f" id="Page_140f"></a><span class="pagenum" title="Facing 140"></span>
<img src="images/140.jpg" width="427" height="656" alt="[Illustration: AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA]" title="AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA" />
<span>AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA</span>
</div>
<p>As to who had won, Irving had not the
slightest idea. He was hastening up to find
out—hoping that it had been Westby. And
then out from the crowd burst Westby and
rushed towards him, panting, flushed, hot-eyed,
attended by Morrill and half a dozen
other Corinthians.</p>
<p>“I hope you’re satisfied with your spite-work,”
said Westby. His voice shook with
passion, his eyes blazed; never before had
Irving seen him when he had so lost control
of himself. “You lost me that race—by half
a yard! I hope you’re pleased with yourself!”</p>
<p>He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing
hard, then turned his back and strode off to
the athletic house.</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142"></a><span class="pagenum" title="142"></span>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<h3>THE WORM BEGINS TO TURN</h3>
<p>After the charge which Westby had
flung at him so furiously, Irving looked
in amazement to the other boys for an explanation.
They were all Corinthians, and he saw
gloom and resentment in their faces.</p>
<p>“I think it was pretty rough, Mr. Upton,
to penalize him for an unintentional foul,”
said Morrill. “He’d have beaten Flack if
they’d started even.”</p>
<p>“But it <em>was</em> a foul,” protested Irving. “So
I had to penalize him. I made it as small a
penalty as I could.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t have to penalize him unless
you wanted to,” said Morrill grimly. “Of
course you had a perfect right to do as you
pleased, only—” He shrugged his shoulders
and walked away, followed by the other Corinthians.</p>
<p><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143"></a><span class="pagenum" title="143"></span>Irving stood stricken. So this was the outcome;
in seeking to be sympathetic and to be
understood, he had only caused himself somehow
to be more hated and despised. Bitterness
rose within him, bitterness against Westby,
against Morrill, against boys in general, against
the school. And only an hour ago, from what
he had seen and heard, he had felt that he
could like Westby, and had been not without
some hope that Westby might some time like
him.</p>
<p>He saw Barclay standing with Mr. Randolph
by the table on which were the prize
cups; Barclay was bending over, arranging
them, and the boys were gathering on the opposite
side of the track, being “policed back”
by the half-dozen members of the athletic
committee. Evidently the award of prizes was
to be made at once, and either Barclay or
Randolph was to hand out the cups—perhaps
also to make a speech. But Irving could not
wait; he must satisfy himself of his doubts
and fears, and so he hurried forward and
touched Barclay on the shoulder.</p>
<p><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144"></a><span class="pagenum" title="144"></span>“Just a moment, please,” he said, as Barclay
turned. “Did I do anything wrong?”</p>
<p>“You penalized Westby a yard for fouling,
I heard; is that so?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Well, you were within your rights. But
if it was obviously an unintentional foul, I
shouldn’t have been so strict.”</p>
<p>“I misunderstood what you told me,” sighed
Irving. “I thought that in case of foul a fellow
<em>had</em> to be penalized.”</p>
<p>“Oh, no.” Barclay was busy; he had to
think up something to say, by way of a speech,
and he turned and began fussing again with
the cups.</p>
<p>Irving walked away. Even his friend Barclay
was not sympathetic, did not understand
the seriousness of what had happened. He
could not stay longer to be the target of hostile,
vengeful eyes; he felt that half the boys
there were blaming him in their hearts for the
defeat of their team—and that the others had
no gratitude to him for their victory. Not that
it would have made him feel any better if they<a name="Page_145" id="Page_145"></a><span class="pagenum" title="145"></span>
had; he had only wanted and tried to be
fair.</p>
<p>He walked away from the field, crossed the
track, and passed round into the avenue that
led up to the School. When he had gone as
far as the bend where from behind the cluster of
trees the School buildings became visible, he
heard the pleasant ripple of laughter from the
crowd. Some one, probably Barclay, was making
a speech; to think of being able to stand
before boys and make them laugh like that!
It seemed to Irving that he had never before
known what envy was.</p>
<p>He spent a mournful hour in his room; then,
hearing footsteps on the stairs, he closed his
door. The boys were returning from the field;
he felt sure there would be remarks about him
by Westby and Morrill and other Corinthians
up and down the corridor, and he preferred
not to hear them. To his surprise there was
rather less disturbance than usual; perhaps
the boys were too tired after their exciting and
active afternoon to indulge in noisy skylarking.
So Irving did not have to emerge from<a name="Page_146" id="Page_146"></a><span class="pagenum" title="146"></span>
his solitude until the supper bell rang. Even
then he waited until all the boys had passed
his door and were clattering down the stairs.
Yet as he descended, Westby’s indignant voice
floated up to him,—</p>
<p>“Just because I guyed him—he felt he had
to get even.”</p>
<p>At supper Westby did not look at Irving.
One of the boys, Blake, made a comment; he
said,—</p>
<p>“That was a mighty good race you ran,
Westby; hard luck you were handicapped.”</p>
<p>“You can call it hard luck if you want,”
said Westby.</p>
<p>“How did it happen, anyway?” Blake
asked, quite innocently.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t ask <em>me</em>,” said Westby.</p>
<p>Three or four of the boys who did know
glanced slyly at Irving, and Irving, though he
had meant to say nothing, spoke up; there was
electricity in the air.</p>
<p>“Westby was unfortunate enough to foul
Flack at the start; that was all there was to
it,” he said. “I saw it and set him back a<a name="Page_147" id="Page_147"></a><span class="pagenum" title="147"></span>
yard. I was under the impression that in case
of foul a penalty had to be imposed—and I
made the penalty as light as possible.”</p>
<p>He felt that this statement ought to appease
any reasonable boy. But Westby was not in a
reasonable mood. He paid no attention to
Irving; he addressed the table.</p>
<p>“I told Scarborough he might have known
things would be botched somehow.”</p>
<p>“Why?” asked Blake.</p>
<p>“Oh, you’ve got to have officials who know
their business.”</p>
<p>There was an interval of silence at the
table; Westby, having fired his shot, sat
straight, with cheeks flushed, looking across
at Blake.</p>
<p>“Westby feels that he has had provocation
and therefore may be rude.” Irving spoke at
last with calmness. “It’s true that I never
officiated before at any races. At the same
time, I don’t believe I did anything which
some experienced officials would not have
done. There are probably a good many who
believe in penalizing a runner for clumsy and<a name="Page_148" id="Page_148"></a><span class="pagenum" title="148"></span>
stupid interference as well as for deliberate
intent to foul.”</p>
<p>He had spoken mildly; he did not even
emphasize the words “clumsy and stupid.”
But the retort went home; the Pythians at the
table,—of whom Blake was one,—chuckled;
and Westby, with a deeper shade of crimson
on his face and a sudden compression of his
lips, lowered his eyes.</p>
<p>Irving had triumphed, but after the first
moment he felt surprisingly little satisfaction
in his triumph. He could not help being sorry
for Westby; the boy was after all right in feeling
that he had been deprived of a victory to
which he had been entitled. And as Irving
looked at his downcast face, he softened still
further; Westby had so often delighted in
humiliating him, and he had longed for the
opportunity of reprisal. Now it had come, and
Westby was humiliated, and the audience were
not unsympathetic with Irving for the achievement;
yet Irving felt already the sting of remorse.
Westby was only a boy, and he was a
master; it was not well for a master to mortify<a name="Page_149" id="Page_149"></a><span class="pagenum" title="149"></span>
a boy in the presence of other boys—a boy
whose disappointment was already keen.</p>
<p>The letters were distributed; there was one
for Irving from his brother. It contained news
that made the world a different place from
what it had been an hour ago. Lawrence was
playing left end on the Harvard Freshman
football eleven; not only that, but in the first
game of the season, played against a Boston
preparatory school, he had made the only
touchdown. He added that that didn’t mean
much, for he had got the ball on a fluke;
still, the tone of the letter was excited and
elated.</p>
<p>And it excited and elated Irving. He folded
the letter and put it in his pocket; he sat for
a moment looking out of the window with
dreamy eyes and an unconscious smile. Lawrence
was succeeding, was going to succeed,
in a way far different from his own—if his
own college course could be said in any sense
to have terminated in success. Lawrence would
have the athletic and the social experience
which he had never had; Lawrence would be<a name="Page_150" id="Page_150"></a><span class="pagenum" title="150"></span>
popular as he had never been; Lawrence would
go brilliantly through college as he had never
done. Everything now was in Lawrence’s reach,
and he was a boy who would not be spoiled or
led astray by the achievement of temporary
glories.</p>
<p>In the vision of his brother’s triumphant
career, Irving was transported from the troubles
and perplexities, from the self-reproaches
and the doubts which had been making him
unhappy. He wanted now to share his happiness,
to take the boys into his confidence—but
one can share one’s happiness only with
one’s friends. There was Westby, aggrieved
and hostile; there was Carroll, sitting next to
him, the queer, quizzical, silent youth, with
whom Irving had been entirely unable to establish
any relation of intimacy; no, there were
no boys at his table with whom he was intimate
enough to appeal for their interest and congratulations.
And feeling this, he shrank from
communicating the news,—though he felt
sure that even Westby, who was going to
Harvard the next year, might be interested<a name="Page_151" id="Page_151"></a><span class="pagenum" title="151"></span>
in it; he shrank from anything like boasting.
He found an outlet soon; Barclay came
to see him that evening.</p>
<p>“I looked for you this afternoon, after the
giving out of the prizes,” said Barclay. “But
I couldn’t find you.”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t wait for that. Did you make
a speech? I heard the boys laughing and
cheering as I came away.”</p>
<p>“Oh, yes, I got off a few stale jokes and
some heavy-footed persiflage. It went well
enough.—But I looked for you afterwards
because I felt I may have seemed rather short
when you came up; the truth is, I was racking
my brain at that moment; Scarborough had
just sprung the fact on me that I must make
the speech.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it was all right,” said Irving. “I’m
sorry to have bothered you at such a time. I
was just a little agitated because Westby was
rather angry over being penalized in the hundred—”</p>
<p>“So I hear. Well, it was hard luck in a way—but
after all you had a perfect right to pe<a name="Page_152" id="Page_152"></a><span class="pagenum" title="152"></span>nalize
him; he did foul, and he ought to be
sport enough to take the consequences.”</p>
<p>“I suppose it wouldn’t have been—it
wouldn’t be possible to run the race over?”</p>
<p>“Certainly not. Besides, Westby has no
right to say that if he’d started even with
Flack, he’d have beaten him. It’s true that he
gained half a yard on Flack in the race; but
it’s also true that Flack knew he had that
much leeway. There’s no telling how much
more Flack might have done if he’d had to.
So if Westby says anything to me, I shall tell
him just that.”</p>
<p>“I feel sorry about the thing anyway. I’m
sorry I made a mess of it—as usual.”</p>
<p>“Oh, cheer up; it’s not going to do you
any harm with the fellows. A little momentary
flash from Westby and Morrill—”</p>
<p>“No, I wasn’t thinking of myself.”</p>
<p>“You weren’t!” The bluntness of Barclay’s
exclamation of astonishment caused Irving to
blush, and Barclay himself, realizing what he
had betrayed to Irving’s perception, looked
embarrassed. But Irving laughed.</p>
<p><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153"></a><span class="pagenum" title="153"></span>“I don’t wonder you’re surprised. I guess
that’s been the worst trouble with me here—thinking
about myself. And that was what
was troubling me when I went to you this
afternoon. But it isn’t any longer. I feel bad
about Westby. I can’t help thinking I did rob
him of his race—and then I sat on him at
supper into the bargain.”</p>
<p>Barclay shouted with laughter. “You sat
on Westby—and you’re sorry for it! What’s
happened to you, anyway? Tell me about it.”</p>
<p>Irving narrated the circumstances. “And I
want to be friendly with him,” he concluded.
“Don’t you think I might explain that it
was a blunder on my part—and that I’m
sorry I blundered?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t,” said Barclay. “He’s beginning
to respect you now. Don’t do anything
to make him think you’re a little soft. That’s
what he wants to think, and he’d construe any
such move on your part unfavorably.”</p>
<p>“Well, perhaps so.” Irving sighed.</p>
<p>“You’re stiffening up quite a lot,” observed
Barclay.</p>
<p><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154"></a><span class="pagenum" title="154"></span>“I was very wobbly when Westby and the
other fellows went for me after that race,”
confessed Irving. “If I stiffened up, I guess
it was just the courage of desperation. And I
don’t think that amounts to much. But I’ve
cheered up for good now.”</p>
<p>“How’s that?”</p>
<p>Somewhat shyly Irving communicated the
proud news about his brother.</p>
<p>“Oh, I read about him in to-day’s Boston
newspaper,” exclaimed Barclay.</p>
<p>“What?” asked Irving. “Where was it?
I didn’t see it.”</p>
<p>“You probably don’t read all the football
news, as I do. But you will after this.” Barclay
laughed. “Yes, there was quite an account of
that game, and Upton was mentioned as being
the bright particular star on the Freshman
team. It never occurred to me that he was
your brother.”</p>
<p>“Naturally not. I wish I could get away
to see the game with the Yale Freshmen;
I’ve never seen Lawrence play. But I don’t
suppose I could manage that, could I?”</p>
<p><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155"></a><span class="pagenum" title="155"></span>Barclay looked doubtful. “The rector’s
pretty strict with the masters as well as with
the boys. Especially when a man has charge
of a dormitory. I somehow think it wouldn’t
be wise to try it,—your first term.”</p>
<p>“I suppose not. Well, I shall certainly read
the football columns from now on.”</p>
<p>“I wonder,” remarked Barclay, “if we
couldn’t get the Harvard Freshmen up here
to play a practice game with our School eleven—say,
the week before the St. John’s game?
It would be good practice for them as well as
for us; three or four years ago the Freshmen
played here.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I wish we could.” Irving’s face lighted
up. “I’ll write to my brother, and perhaps he
can arrange it with the captain and manager.”</p>
<p>“I’ll talk it over with Collingwood first,”
said Barclay. “And then we’ll proceed officially;
and you can pull any additional wires
that are possible through your brother.” He
rose to go. “I shouldn’t wonder,” he added,
“if that brother of yours turned out to be a
useful asset for you here.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156"></a><span class="pagenum" title="156"></span>“I should prefer to stand on my own legs,”
said Irving. “I shan’t advertise it round that
I have a football brother.”</p>
<p>“Oh, it won’t be necessary for you to do
that; things have a way of leaking out.”
Barclay laughed as he took his departure.</p>
<p>As it happened, the next day Louis Collingwood,
the captain of the School eleven, went
to Barclay to consult him about the outlook
for the season.</p>
<p>“It seems to me we’ll have a good School
team,” said Collingwood, “but no second
eleven capable of giving them hard practice—the
kind they’ll need to beat St. John’s.
If we could only arrange one or two games
with outside teams, to put us into shape—”</p>
<p>“I was thinking of that,” said Barclay. “I
wonder if we mightn’t get the Harvard Freshmen
up here. They have a good eleven, apparently.”</p>
<p>“Yes, awfully good, from all that the papers
say. Don’t you suppose their schedule is filled
up?”</p>
<p>“It may be—but perhaps they could give<a name="Page_157" id="Page_157"></a><span class="pagenum" title="157"></span>
us a date. Suppose you come over to my house
this evening and we’ll send a letter off to
their captain. And I’m sure”—Barclay
threw the remark out in the most casual manner—“Mr.
Upton will be glad to approach
them for us through his brother.”</p>
<p>“His brother? Who’s that?”</p>
<p>“Why, didn’t you know? His brother plays
left end on the team—”</p>
<p>“Kiddy Upton’s brother on the Harvard
Freshmen! No!”</p>
<p>“Whose brother?”</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton’s, I meant to say.” Louis
grinned. “Is he really, Mr. Barclay?”</p>
<p>“I’m rather surprised you didn’t know it.
But I guess Mr. Upton is the kind that doesn’t
talk much.”</p>
<p>“I should think he’d have let that out.”</p>
<p>“Well, he let it out to me. I suspect—though
he hasn’t told me—that he’s helping
to put his brother through college. And his
success in doing that will naturally depend
largely on his success or failure here as a
master.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158"></a><span class="pagenum" title="158"></span>“You mean—keeping his job?”</p>
<p>Barclay nodded. “Yes. Oh, I don’t suppose
there’s any real doubt about that. He’s a
perfectly competent teacher, isn’t he? You
know; you have a class with him.”</p>
<p>“Ye-es,” said Louis, slowly. “The trouble
has been, the fellows horse him a good deal—though
not quite so much as they did.”</p>
<p>“They’ll get over that when they know
him better,” remarked Barclay.</p>
<p>He knew that Louis Collingwood went away
feeling much impressed, and he was pretty
sure he had done Irving a good turn.</p>
<p>It was in the noon half-hour, while Collingwood
was holding this interview with Mr.
Barclay, that Westby, reading the Harvard
news in his Boston paper, went giggling into
Morrill’s room.</p>
<p>“There’s a fellow named Upton playing on
the Freshmen.” He showed Morrill the name.
“Let’s get a crowd and go in to Kiddy; I’ll
get him rattled.”</p>
<p>“How?” asked Morrill.</p>
<p>“Oh, ask him if this fellow’s a relation of<a name="Page_159" id="Page_159"></a><span class="pagenum" title="159"></span>
his, and say I supposed of course he must be—such
athletic prowess, and all that sort of
thing; with a crowd standing there giggling
you know how rattled he’ll get.”</p>
<p>“All right,” said Morrill, who was an earnest
admirer of Westby’s wit.</p>
<p>So they collected Dennison and Smythe and
Allison and Carroll and Scarborough, and
marched up the corridor—humorously tramping
in step—to Irving’s door. There Westby,
newspaper in hand, knocked. Irving opened
the door.</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton, sir,” began Westby, “sorry to
disturb you, sir.” The boys all began to grin,
and Irving saw that he was in for some carefully
planned attack. “I was just reading my
morning paper, sir, and I wanted to ask you
what relation to you the man named Upton
is that’s playing on the Harvard Freshman
eleven, sir.”</p>
<p>Irving’s eyes twinkled; if ever the enemy
had been delivered into his hands!</p>
<p>“What makes you think he’s a relation?”
he asked, with an assumption of cold dignity.</p>
<p><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160"></a><span class="pagenum" title="160"></span>“Oh, we all feel sure he must be, sir. Of
course your well-known and justly famous interest
in all athletic sports, sir—not to say
your prowess in them, sir—it’s natural to
suppose that any athlete named Upton would
belong to the same family with you, sir.”</p>
<p>The boys were all on the broad grin;
Westby’s manner was so expansively courteous,
his compliments were so absurdly urbane, that
Irving threw off his air of coldness and adopted
a jaunty manner of reply which was even
more misleading.</p>
<p>“Oh, well, if you’ve been so clever as to
guess it, Westby,” he said, “I don’t mind
telling you—it’s my brother.”</p>
<p>Westby bestowed on his confederates—quite
indifferent as to whether Irving detected
it or not—his slow, facetious wink. He returned
then to his victim and in his most
gamesome manner said,—</p>
<p>“I supposed of course it was your brother,
sir. Or at least I should have supposed so, except
that I didn’t know you had a brother at
Harvard. Wasn’t it rather—what shall I say?<a name="Page_161" id="Page_161"></a><span class="pagenum" title="161"></span>—<em>peu
aimable</em> not to have taken us, your
friends, into your confidence? Would you mind
telling us, sir, what your brother’s first name
is?”</p>
<p>“My brother’s first name? Lawrence.”</p>
<p>“Hm!” said Westby, referring to his newspaper.
“I find him set down here as ‘T. Upton.’
But I suppose that is a misprint, of
course.”</p>
<p>“I suppose it must be,” agreed Irving.</p>
<p>“Newspapers are always making mistakes,
aren’t they?” said Westby. “Such careless
fellows! We’d like awfully to hear more
about your brother Lawrence, Mr. Upton.”</p>
<p>The broad grin broke into a snicker.</p>
<p>“Why, I don’t know just what there is to
tell,” Irving said awkwardly.</p>
<p>“What does he look like, sir? Does he resemble
you very much?—I mean, apart from
the family fondness for athletics.”</p>
<p>Irving’s lips twitched; Westby was enjoying
so thoroughly his revenge! And the other
boys were all stifling their amusement.</p>
<p>“We are said not to look very much alike,”<a name="Page_162" id="Page_162"></a><span class="pagenum" title="162"></span>
he answered. “He is of a somewhat heavier
build.”</p>
<p>“He must be somewhat lacking, then, in
grace and agility, sir,” said Westby; and the
boys broke into a shout, and Irving gave way
to a faint smile.</p>
<p>At that moment Collingwood came up the
stairs.</p>
<p>“Hello, Lou,” said Westby, with a welcoming
wink. “We’re just congratulating Mr.
Upton on his brother; did you know that he
has a brother playing on the Harvard Freshmen?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” said Collingwood. “I’ve just heard
it from Mr. Barclay.”</p>
<p>The boys stared at Collingwood, then at Irving,
whose eyes were twinkling again and
whose smile had widened. Then they looked
at Westby; he was gazing at Collingwood
unbelievingly,—stupefied.</p>
<p>“What’s the matter with you?” asked
Collingwood.</p>
<p>And then Irving broke out into a delighted
peal of laughter. He could find nothing but<a name="Page_163" id="Page_163"></a><span class="pagenum" title="163"></span>
slang in which to express himself, and through
his laughter he ejaculated,—</p>
<p>“Stung, my young friend! Stung!”</p>
<p>They all gave a whoop; they swung Westby
round and rushed him down the corridor to his
room, shouting and jeering.</p>
<p>When Irving went down to lunch, Carroll,
the quizzical, silent Carroll, welcomed him with
a grin. Westby turned a bright pink and
looked away. At the next table Allison and
Smythe and Scarborough were all looking
over at him and smiling; and at the table beyond
that Collingwood and Morrill and Dennison
were craning their necks and exhibiting
their joy. Westby, the humorist, had suddenly
become the butt, a position which he had
rarely occupied before.</p>
<p>He was quite subdued through that meal.
Once in the middle of it, Irving looked at him
and caught his eye, and on a sudden impulse
leaned back and laughed. Carroll joined in,
Westby blushed once more, the Sixth Formers
at the next table looked over and began to
laugh; the other boys cast wondering glances.</p>
<p><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164"></a><span class="pagenum" title="164"></span>“What’s the joke, Mr. Upton?” asked
Blake.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t ask <em>me</em>,” said Irving. “Ask
Westby.”</p>
<p>“What is it, Wes?” said Blake, and could
not understand why he received such a vicious
kick under the table, or why Carroll said in
such a jeering way, “Yes, Wes, what <em>is</em> the
joke, anyhow?”</p>
<p>When the meal was over, Westby’s friends
lay in wait for him outside in the hall, crowded
round, and began patting him on the back
and offering him their jocular sympathy. To
have the joke turned on the professional humorist
appeared to be extremely popular; and
the humorist did not take it very well. “Oh,
get out, get out!” he was saying, wrenching
himself from the grasp of first one and then
another. And Irving came out just as he exclaimed
in desperation, “Just the same, I’ll
bet it’s all a fake; I’ll bet he hasn’t got a
brother!”</p>
<p>He flung himself around, trying to escape<a name="Page_165" id="Page_165"></a><span class="pagenum" title="165"></span>
from Collingwood’s clutch, and saw Irving.
The smile faded from Irving’s face; Westby
looked at him sullenly for a moment, then
broke away and made a rush up the stairs.</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166"></a><span class="pagenum" title="166"></span>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<h3>THE HARVARD FRESHMAN</h3>
<p>For two or three days the intercourse
between Irving and Westby was of the
most formal sort. At table they held no communication
with each other; in the class-room
Irving gave Westby every chance to recite and
conscientiously helped him through the recitation
as much as he did any one else; in the
dormitory they exchanged a cold good-night.
Irving did not press Westby for a retraction
of the charge which he had overheard the boy
make; it seemed to him unworthy to dignify
it by taking such notice of it. He knew that
none of the boys really believed it and that
Westby himself did not believe it, but had
been goaded into the declaration in the desperate
effort to maintain a false position. Irving
wondered if the boy would not have the fairness
to make some acknowledgment of the<a name="Page_167" id="Page_167"></a><span class="pagenum" title="167"></span>
injustice into which his pride had provoked
him.</p>
<p>And one day at luncheon, Westby turned
to Irving and with an embarrassed smile said,</p>
<p>“Mr. Upton, do you get any news from
your brother about the Harvard Freshman
eleven?”</p>
<p>Carroll directed at Westby the quizzical look
under which Irving had so often suffered. But
Westby did not flinch; he waited for Irving’s
answer, with his embarrassed, appealing smile.</p>
<p>“I had a letter from him this morning,”
said Irving. “He writes that there is a chance
of their coming up here to play the School
eleven; I had asked him if that couldn’t be
arranged.”</p>
<p>“Oh, really!” exclaimed Westby, in a tone
of honest interest.</p>
<p>“When, Mr. Upton?” “Does he think
they’ll come?” “Does Lou Collingwood know
about it?”</p>
<p>“I guess he knows as much as I do.” Irving
tried to answer the flood of questions. “He
wrote officially to the captain at the same time<a name="Page_168" id="Page_168"></a><span class="pagenum" title="168"></span>
that I wrote to Lawrence. If they come at all,
it will be about a week before the St. John’s
game.”</p>
<p>“When shall we know for sure?” asked
Westby.</p>
<p>“It appears to be a question whether the
Freshmen will choose to play us or Lakeview
School. They want to play whichever team
seems the stronger, and they’re going to
discuss the prospects and decide in a few
days.”</p>
<p>“I’m sure we’re better than Lakeview,” declared
Blake. “You’ll tell your brother we
are, won’t you, Mr. Upton?”</p>
<p>“I’ll tell him that I understand we have a
very superior team,” said Irving. “I fancy
he knows that it’s as much as I can do to tell
the difference between a quarterback and a
goal post.”</p>
<p>“You will admit, then, that there was some
reason for my not believing you had a football
brother, won’t you, Mr. Upton?” Westby
tried thus to beat a not wholly inglorious retreat.</p>
<p><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169"></a><span class="pagenum" title="169"></span>“Every reason—until it became a matter
of doubting my word,” said Irving.</p>
<p>Westby crimsoned, and Irving felt that again
he had been too severe with him; the boy had
been trying to convey an apology, without
actually making one; it might have been well
to let him off.</p>
<p>But Irving reflected that the account was
still far from even and that perhaps this unwonted
adversity might be good for Westby.
Irving did not realize quite how much teasing
had been visited upon Westby in consequence
of his disastrous error, or how humiliated the
boy had been in his heart. For Westby was
proud and vain and sensitive, accustomed to
leadership, unused to ridicule; for two days
now the shafts of those whom he had been in
the habit of chaffing with impunity had been
rankling. Because of this sensitive condition,
the final rebuke at the luncheon table, before
all the boys, cut him more deeply than Irving
suspected. Afterwards Westby said to Carroll,—</p>
<p>“Oh, very well. If he couldn’t accept my<a name="Page_170" id="Page_170"></a><span class="pagenum" title="170"></span>
acknowledgment of my mistake, but had to
jump on me again—well, it’s just spite on
his part; that’s all. I don’t care; I can let
him alone after this. That seems to be what
he wants.”</p>
<p>“A month ago he wouldn’t have asked more
than that of you,” observed Carroll. “And you
didn’t feel like obliging him then.”</p>
<p>The implication that Irving had worsted
him galled Westby.</p>
<p>“Oh,” he retorted, “the best of jokes will
wear out. Kiddy was a perfectly good joke for
a while—”</p>
<p>Carroll annoyed him by laughing.</p>
<p>For one who had hitherto been indifferent
to all forms of athletics, Irving developed a
surprising interest in the game of football.
Every afternoon he went to the field and
watched the practice of the Pythian and Corinthian
elevens. He had once thought the forward
pass a detail incapable of engaging one’s
serious attention, and worthy of rebuke if
attempted in dormitory; but after Lawrence
wrote that in executing it he was acquiring<a name="Page_171" id="Page_171"></a><span class="pagenum" title="171"></span>
some proficiency, Irving studied it with a more
curious eye.</p>
<p>He wondered if Lawrence was as skillful at
it as Collingwood, for instance; Collingwood
had now learned to shoot the ball with accuracy
twenty or twenty-five yards. Occasionally
Irving got hold of a football and tested his
own capacity in throwing it; his attempts convinced
him that in this matter he had a great
deal to learn. Looking back, he could comprehend
Louis Collingwood’s indignation and
amazement at a master who would coldly turn
away when a boy was trying to illustrate for
him the forward pass.</p>
<p>One afternoon from watching the football
practice Irving moved aside for a little while
to see the finish of the autumn clay-pigeon
shoot of the Gun Club.</p>
<p>There were only six contestants, and there
were not many spectators; most of the boys
preferred to stay on the football field, where
there was more action; the second Pythians
and second Corinthians were playing a match.
But Irving had heard Westby talking at<a name="Page_172" id="Page_172"></a><span class="pagenum" title="172"></span>
luncheon about the shoot and strolled over
more from curiosity to see how he would acquit
himself than for any other reason.</p>
<p>The trap was set in the long grass on the
edge of the meadow near the woods; Allison
was performing the unexciting task of pulling
the string and releasing the skimming disks.
When Irving came up, Smythe was finishing;
he did not appear to be much of a shot, for he
missed three out of the seven “birds” which
Irving saw him try for.</p>
<p>Then it was Westby’s turn. Westby had
got himself up for the occasion, in a Norfolk
jacket and knickerbockers and leggings; he
was always scrupulous about appearing in costumes
that were extravagantly correct. He saw
Irving and somewhat ostentatiously turned
away.</p>
<p>Irving waited and looked on. Westby stood
in an almost negligent attitude, with his gun
lowered; the trap was sprung, the clay pigeon
flew—and then was shattered in the midst of
its flight. It seemed to Irving that Westby
hardly brought his gun to his shoulder to take<a name="Page_173" id="Page_173"></a><span class="pagenum" title="173"></span>
aim. It could not all be luck either; that was evident
when Westby demolished ten clay pigeons
in rapid succession. It was Carroll’s turn now;
Westby, having made his perfect score, blew
the smoke from the breech and stood by.</p>
<p>Irving went up to him.</p>
<p>“I congratulate you on your shooting,
Westby,” he said. “It seems quite wonderful
to a man who never fired a gun off but a few
times in his life—and then it was a revolver,
with blank cartridges.”</p>
<p>Westby looked at him coolly. “It’s funny
you’ve never done anything that most fellows
do,” he observed. “Were you always afraid
of hurting yourself?”</p>
<p>“I was offering my congratulations, Westby,”
said Irving stiffly, and walked away.</p>
<p>“Why did you go at him like that?” asked
Carroll, who had heard the interchange.</p>
<p>“Oh,” said Westby, “I wasn’t going to have
him hanging round swiping to me, soft-soaping
me.”</p>
<p>“I think he was only trying to be decent,”
said Carroll.</p>
<p><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174"></a><span class="pagenum" title="174"></span>“I like a man who is decent without trying,”
Westby retorted.</p>
<p>Yet whether his nerves were a little upset
by the episode or his eye thrown off by the
wait, Westby did not do so well in the next
round. The trap was set to send the birds
skimming lower and faster; Westby missed
two out of ten, and was tied for first place with
Carroll. And in the final shoot to break the
tie, Westby lost.</p>
<p>He shook hands with Carroll, but with no
excess of good humor. He knew he was really
the better shot, and even though Carroll was
his closest friend, the defeat rankled.</p>
<p>At supper Blake congratulated Carroll across
the table.</p>
<p>“You won, did you, Carroll?” asked Irving.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir—by a close shave.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I didn’t stay to see it.” The
remark was innocent in intention, but to Westby
it seemed edged with malice—as if the master
was exulting over his defeat.</p>
<p>Something in Westby’s expression told Irving
what the boy had inferred; Irving went<a name="Page_175" id="Page_175"></a><span class="pagenum" title="175"></span>
afterwards to his room in a despondent mood.
It didn’t matter how hard he tried or what
he did; he had not the faculty of winning and
holding affection and respect. As it was with
boys, so it would be with men. If only he
could see how and why he failed, and could
learn to correct his mistakes!</p>
<p>He felt of more importance in the School
world when a letter from Lawrence was the
first announcement that the Freshman eleven
would come to play St. Timothy’s. He asked
Collingwood if he had had any word, and when
Collingwood said no, he told him his brother’s
message.</p>
<p>“I don’t believe there can be any mistake,”
said Irving. “He writes that it was decided
only the night before. You’ll probably receive
the official communication in a day or
two.”</p>
<p>Collingwood was tremendously elated. “I
knew we were better than Lakeview—but I
was afraid they wouldn’t realize it,” he said.
“Now we’ll have to get ready and beat them.
Anyway, if we can’t do that, it will be the<a name="Page_176" id="Page_176"></a><span class="pagenum" title="176"></span>
best kind of preparation for the St. John’s
game.”</p>
<p>The official communication arrived; Collingwood
rushed with it to the bulletin board in
the Study building and posted it for all eyes
to see. The same day he posted the School
eleven, as it would line up in that game.</p>
<p>Westby was to be first substitute for Dennison
at right half back. Westby had been
playing a streaky game on the First Corinthians;
on some days he was as brilliant a runner
and tackler as there was in the School,
and on other days he would lose interest and
miss everything.</p>
<p>If he was disappointed at the preference
given to Dennison, he did not show it; in fact,
that he appeared on the list as substitute
seemed to fill him with elation. He had never
taken football quite so seriously as some of the
others—as Collingwood and Dennison, for example;
and therefore only a moderate success
in it was for him a matter of gratification.</p>
<p>The training table was organized at once,
but Westby was not admitted to it. There was<a name="Page_177" id="Page_177"></a><span class="pagenum" title="177"></span>
not room for the substitutes; they were expected
to do their own training. Westby was
notoriously lax in that matter and had to be
nagged constantly by Collingwood, whom he
found some pleasure in teasing.</p>
<p>He would secure some forbidden article of
food and ostentatiously appear to be eating it
with the greatest enjoyment until he caught
Collingwood’s eye; a large circular doughnut
or a chocolate éclair delicately poised between
his thumb and finger were his favorite instruments
for torturing his captain’s peace of mind.
He would contrive to be seen just as he was
on the point of taking the first bite; then he
would reluctantly lay the tidbit down.</p>
<p>“It’s a hard life, this being a near athlete,”
he grumbled. “Sitting at a table with a lot of
uncongenial pups like you fellows.—Mr. Upton,
Blake’s kicking me; make him quit, sir.—Not
allowed to eat half the things the rest of you
do, and not allowed either to get any of the
training-table grub. Well, I never did think
of self, so I can endure it better than most.”</p>
<p>The others jeered. But Westby, however he<a name="Page_178" id="Page_178"></a><span class="pagenum" title="178"></span>
might complain, was faithful at practice and
accepted good-naturedly his position upon
the second eleven, and the hard battering to
which every one on the second eleven was subjected.</p>
<p>The day when he got round Morrill, the
first eleven’s left end, and scored a touchdown—the
only one which in that week of practice
the second eleven scored—brought him so
much applause that he began really to think
there might be a chance of his ousting Dennison
from the regular position. When that notion
entered his head he ceased to be facetious
about the training; he became suddenly as
serious as Collingwood himself. But in spite
of that, he remained Dennison’s substitute.</p>
<p>The Saturday set for the game with the
Harvard Freshmen was an Indian Summer day.
In the early morning mist wreathed the low
meadows and the edges of the pond; it seemed
later to dissipate itself through all the windless
air in haze. The distant hills were blue and
faint, the elms in the soft sunlight that filtered
down had a more golden glow.</p>
<p><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179"></a><span class="pagenum" title="179"></span>“Great day,” was the salutation that one
heard everywhere; “great day for the game.”</p>
<p>Now and then in his morning classes Irving’s
thoughts would wander, there would be a
gentle rush of excitement in his veins. He would
turn his mind firmly back to his work; he did
not do any less well that day because his heart
was singing happily.</p>
<p>In three hours more—in two—in one—he
was going to see Lawrence again; he wondered
if he would find his brother much changed.
Only two months had passed since they had
parted; yet in that time how remote Lawrence
had grown in Irving’s eyes from the Lawrence
of the Ohio farm!</p>
<p>The bell announcing the noon recess rang;
Irving dismissed his last class. He hurried
down the stairs almost as madly as the Fourth
Formers themselves; the train on which the
Harvard Freshmen were coming was due ten
minutes before; already Lawrence and the
others must have started on the two-mile drive
out to the School.</p>
<p>In front of the Study building most of the<a name="Page_180" id="Page_180"></a><span class="pagenum" title="180"></span>
older boys and many of the younger were congregated,
awaiting the arrival of the visitors.
Irving walked about among the groups impatiently,
now and then looking at his watch.
He passed Westby and Collingwood, who were
standing together by the gate.</p>
<p>“Pretty nearly time for them, Mr. Upton,”
said Westby. “Feeling nervous, sir?”</p>
<p>There was more good nature in his smile
than he had displayed towards Irving since
the day of the track games.</p>
<p>“A little,” Irving admitted, and at that moment
some one shouted, “Here they come!”</p>
<p>Over the crest of the hill galloped four
horses, drawing a long red barge crowded
with boys. Collingwood climbed up on the
gate-post.</p>
<p>“Now, fellows,” he said, “when they get
here, give three times three for the Freshmen.”</p>
<p>The boys waited in silence. Irving strained
his eyes, trying to distinguish the figures
huddled together in the barge. The horses
came down at a run, with a rattle of hoofs and<a name="Page_181" id="Page_181"></a><span class="pagenum" title="181"></span>
harness; the driver flourished his whip over
them spectacularly.</p>
<p>“Now then, fellows!” cried Collingwood.
“Three times three for the Freshmen!”</p>
<p>And amidst the waving of caps as the
cheers were given, Irving could see no one in
the barge. Then when that cheer had subsided,
one of the visitors stood up and took
off his hat and shouted,—</p>
<p>“Three times three for St. Timothy’s! One—two—three!”
The fellows in the barge
sent up a vigorous, snappy cheer, and then
overflowed at back and sides. In the confusion
and the crowd, Irving was still straining
his short-sighted eyes in a vain attempt to
discover Lawrence.</p>
<p>Suddenly he heard a shout,—“Hello, Irv!”—and
there, a little way off, was Lawrence,
laughing at him and struggling towards him
through the throng. The boys understood
and drew apart and let the two brothers
meet.</p>
<p>“It’s great to see you again, Irv,” said
Lawrence, when he could reach and grasp his<a name="Page_182" id="Page_182"></a><span class="pagenum" title="182"></span>
brother’s hand; he looked at Irving with the
same old loving humor in his eyes.</p>
<p>“It’s great to see you again, Lawrence,”
said Irving. He could not help being a little
conscious and constrained, with so many eyes
upon him.</p>
<p>He tucked one hand in his brother’s arm
and with the other reached for Lawrence’s
bag. Lawrence laughed, and with hardly an
effort detached it from Irving’s grasp.</p>
<p>“<em>You</em> carry that, you little fellow! I guess
not,” he said.</p>
<p>Some of the boys heard and smiled, and
Lawrence threw back at them a humorous
smile; Irving blushed. He led Lawrence away,
towards the Upper School. The other Freshmen
were being conducted in the same direction
by Collingwood and his team.</p>
<p>“Well,” said Westby to Carroll in an outpouring
of slang from the heart, “Kiddy’s
brother is certainly a peach of a good looker.
I hope he’ll bring him to lunch.”</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183"></a><span class="pagenum" title="183"></span>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<h3>WESTBY IN THE GAME</h3>
<p>It was with satisfaction that Westby and
Carroll saw Lawrence entering the dining-room
with Irving. They had observed the
long table spread in the common room of the
Upper School, where the visiting team were
to be entertained at luncheon, and had supposed
therefore that they would have no
chance of satisfying their curiosity about the
master’s brother.</p>
<p>When Irving introduced Lawrence to them,
Westby said,—</p>
<p>“We hoped we were going to see you here,
but we were afraid you might have to eat
outside with your team.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I got special permission from the
captain for this occasion,” said Lawrence.
“I’m afraid I’m depriving somebody of his
seat,” he added to Irving.</p>
<p><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184"></a><span class="pagenum" title="184"></span>“It’s Caldwell—I arranged with him about
it. He’s gone to Mr. Randolph’s table.”</p>
<p>“Besides, he’s only a Fourth Former,” said
Westby.</p>
<p>Lawrence laughed. “You’re Sixth, I suppose?”
Westby nodded. “Going to Harvard
next year?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Good for you. I’ll tell you one thing;
you couldn’t have a better man to get you in
than this brother of mine—if I do say it.
He tutored me for Harvard—and I guess
you’ve never had a worse blockhead, have
you, Irv?”</p>
<p>“Oh, you were all right in some things,
Lawrence.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to know what. How I used to try
your patience, though!” Lawrence chuckled,
then turned and addressed the boys, especially
Westby and Carroll, as they were the oldest.
“Did any of you ever see him mad?”</p>
<p>“Oh, surely never that,” said Westby urbanely.
“Irritated perhaps, but not mad—never
lacking in self-control.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185"></a><span class="pagenum" title="185"></span>Westby, thinking himself safe, ventured
upon his humorous wink to Blake and the
others who were grinning; Lawrence intercepted
it and at once fixed Westby with a
penetrating gaze.</p>
<p>Westby colored and looked down; Lawrence
held his eyes on him until Westby looked up
and then, in even greater embarrassment under
this prolonged scrutiny, down again. Then
Lawrence turned to his brother.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Irv,” he said in a tone that simply
brushed aside as non-existent everybody
else at the table—just as if he and his brother
were talking together alone, “what sort of
kids do you have to look after in your dormitory,
anyhow?”</p>
<p>Irving’s lip twitched with amusement;
Westby, still scarlet, was looking at his plate.
“Oh, a pretty good sort—but they’re Sixth
Formers, you know—not kids.”</p>
<p>“Pretty fresh, are they—trying to show
off a good deal and be funny?”</p>
<p>“Oh, one or two only; still, even they
aren’t bad.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186"></a><span class="pagenum" title="186"></span>Lawrence paid no further attention to
Westby. Now and then he spoke to Carroll
and to Blake, but most of his conversation—and
it dealt with the sort of college life about
which boys liked to hear, and about which
Irving had never been able to enlighten them—he
addressed directly to his brother.</p>
<p>Westby listened to it gloomily; there were
many questions that he wanted to ask, but
now he did not dare. Evidently Mr. Upton had
warned his brother against him, had imparted
to his brother his own dislike; that was why
Lawrence had nipped so brutally his harmless,
humorous allusion to the master’s temper.</p>
<p>As a matter of fact, Lawrence had had
no previous knowledge whatever of Westby;
Irving had always withstood his impulse to
confide his troubles. He made now an effort
to draw Westby forward and reinstate him in
the conversation; he said,—</p>
<p>“Lawrence, you and Westby here may come
against each other this afternoon; Westby’s
first substitute for one of the half-backs on
the School eleven.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187"></a><span class="pagenum" title="187"></span>Lawrence said, “That’s good,” and gave
Westby hardly a glance.</p>
<p>After luncheon, walking down to the athletic
field with Westby, Carroll said jeeringly,—</p>
<p>“Well, Kiddy Upton’s brother is no myth,
is he, Wes?”</p>
<p>At that Westby began to splutter. “Conceited
chump! He makes me tired. Of all the
fresh things—to sit up there and talk about
the ‘kids’ in Kiddy’s dormitory!”</p>
<p>Carroll laughed in his silent, irritating way.
“He certainly put you down and out—a good
hard one. Why, even Kiddy was sorry for you.”</p>
<p>Westby went on fuming. “Sorry for me!
I guess Kiddy had been whining to him about
how I’d worried him. That’s why the chump
had it in for me.”</p>
<p>“Chump, Wes! Such a peach of a good
looker?”</p>
<p>“Oh, shut up. I don’t care if he is good
looking; he’s fresher than paint.”</p>
<p>“He would think that was a queer criticism
for you to make.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188"></a><span class="pagenum" title="188"></span>Westby stalked on in angry silence. He
was more wounded than he could let Carroll
know. There was a side to him which he shrank
from displaying,—the gentle, affectionate side
of which Irving had had a glimpse when the
boy was anxiously watching his young cousin
Price in the mile run; and to this quality
Lawrence’s greeting of his brother had unconsciously
appealed. Westby had stood by and
heard his words, “<em>You</em> carry that, you little
fellow!” had seen the humor in his eyes
and the gentleness on his lips, and had felt
something in his own throat.</p>
<p>For all his affectation of worldliness and cynicism,
the boy was a hero-worshiper at heart,
and could never resist being attracted by a fine
face and a handsome pair of eyes and a pleasant
voice; Lawrence had in the first glance awakened
an enthusiasm which was eager for near
acquaintance. And now, although he talked
so venomously against him, it was not Lawrence
whom he reproached in his heart; it was himself.</p>
<p>Why had he been unable to resist the im<a name="Page_189" id="Page_189"></a><span class="pagenum" title="189"></span>pulse
to be smart, to be funny, to be cheap?
He might have known that a fellow like Lawrence
would see through his remark and would
resent it; he might have known that his silly,
clownish wink could not escape Lawrence’s
keen eyes.</p>
<p>So Westby walked on, gloomily reproaching
himself, unconscious that at that very
moment, walking a hundred yards behind,
Irving was defending him.</p>
<p>“A month ago, Lawrence, I’d have been
glad to have you light on Westby as you did,”
he said. “But now I’m rather sorry.”</p>
<p>“Why so?”</p>
<p>“Oh, he’s had some hard luck lately, and—well,
I don’t know. Those encounters with
a boy don’t seem to me worth while.”</p>
<p>“You’ve got to suppress them when they’re
fresh like that,” insisted Lawrence. “For a
fellow to talk to you in that fresh way before
a guest—and that guest your brother—I
don’t stand for it; that’s all.”</p>
<p>“No, I don’t either. Well, it doesn’t matter
much; reproof slides off Westby like water
off a duck’s back.”<a name="Page_190" id="Page_190"></a><span class="pagenum" title="190"></span></p>
<p>They talked of other things then until Lawrence
had to join his team and enter the
athletic house with them to dress.</p>
<p>Out on the field Irving mingled with the
crowd, walked to and fro nervously, stopped
to say only a word now to a boy, now to a
master, and then passed on. It was foolish for
him to be so excited, so tremulous, he told
himself. Lawrence had parted from him with
the same calmness with which he might have
gone to prepare for bed. It was all the more
foolish to be so excited, because the accessories
to promote a preliminary excitement were lacking,—rivalry,
partisanship; the visiting team
had no supporters.</p>
<p>The School had turned out to see the game,
but there was no cheering, no thrill of expectation;
the boys stood about and waited quietly,
as they would before ordinary practice. It
would be different in another week, when the
St. John’s team were sharing the athletic house
with St. Timothy’s, and the adherents of the
two schools were ranged opposite each other,
waving flags and hurling back and forth chal<a name="Page_191" id="Page_191"></a><span class="pagenum" title="191"></span>lenging
cheers—cheers meant to inspirit the
players while they dressed. But now Irving
was aware that he in all the crowd was the
only one whose nerves and muscles were quivering,
whose voice might not be quite natural
or quite under his control, whose heart was
beating hard.</p>
<p>If Lawrence should not play well this time—the
first time he had ever seen him play!
Or if anything should happen to him! Irving
tramped back and forth, digging cold hands
into his pockets.</p>
<p>The Harvard team was the first to leave the
athletic house; they broke through the line of
spectators near where Irving stood and trotted
out on the field. As they passed, he caught
his brother’s eye and waved to him. In the preliminary
practice Irving watched him eagerly;
with his light curly hair he was conspicuous,
and as he was on the end of the line his movements
were easy to follow. It seemed to Irving
that he was the quickest and the readiest and
the handsomest of them all.</p>
<p>Out came St. Timothy’s, and then there was<a name="Page_192" id="Page_192"></a><span class="pagenum" title="192"></span>
a cheer. The two teams went rollicking and
tumbling up and down the field for a few moments;
then Collingwood and the Harvard
captain met in the centre, Mr. Barclay tossed
a coin, and the players went to their positions.
Mr. Barclay blew a whistle; the game
began.</p>
<p>From that time on Irving trotted up and
down the side lines, his heart twittering with
pride and anxiety. After every scrimmage,
after every tackle, he looked apprehensively
for a curly light head; he was always glad
when he saw it bob up safely out of a pile.
Through all the press and conflict, he watched
for it, followed it—just as, he thought in one
whimsical moment, the French troopers of Macaulay’s
poem watched for the white plume of
Navarre.</p>
<p>If he had known even less about the game
than he did, he must still have seen that for
Harvard his brother and Ballard, the fullback,
were playing especially well. Ballard, with his
hard plunges through the centre and his long
punts, was the chief factor in Harvard’s offen<a name="Page_193" id="Page_193"></a><span class="pagenum" title="193"></span>sive
game; Lawrence was their ablest player
on the defense.</p>
<p>After the first ten minutes St. Timothy’s
made hardly an attempt to go round his end,
but devoted their assaults to the centre and
other wing of the line.</p>
<p>If there was one thing for which Collingwood,
the best football player in the School,
had achieved a special reputation, it was the
fleetness and dexterity with which he could
run the ball back after punts. He was known
as the best man in the back field that St.
Timothy’s had had in years. So when Ballard
prepared for his first kick, the spectators looked
on with composure.</p>
<p>It was a fine kick; the ball went spiraling
high and far, but Collingwood was under it as
it fell, and Dennison was in front of him to
protect him.</p>
<p>Yet Lawrence, rushing down upon them,
was too quick, too clever; Dennison’s attempt
to block him off was only a glancing one that
staggered him for the fraction of an instant;
and the ball had no sooner struck in Colling<a name="Page_194" id="Page_194"></a><span class="pagenum" title="194"></span>wood’s
arms than Lawrence launched himself
and hurled the runner backwards.</p>
<p>“Whew! What a fierce tackle!” ejaculated
a boy near Irving admiringly.</p>
<p>“I think Lou did well to hang on the ball,”
responded his friend.</p>
<p>Irving heard; he went about greedily drinking
in comments which that tackle had evoked.
He found himself standing behind Westby
and the other substitutes, who, wrapped in
blankets, trailed up and down the field keeping
pace with the progress of their team.</p>
<p>“No!” Briggs, one of the substitutes, was
saying. “Was that Kiddy Upton’s brother?
He’s a whirlwind, isn’t he?”</p>
<p>“Looked to me as if he was trying to
lay Lou Collingwood out,” returned Westby
sourly.</p>
<p>At once Irving’s cheeks flamed hot. He put
out his hand and touched Westby’s shoulder;
the boy turned, and then the blood rushed
into his cheeks too.</p>
<p>“Was there anything wrong about that
tackle, Westby?” Irving asked.</p>
<p><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195"></a><span class="pagenum" title="195"></span>“It just seemed to me he threw him pretty
hard.”</p>
<p>Irving spoke to the three or four other substitutes
standing by.</p>
<p>“I don’t know much about football; was
there anything wrong with that tackle—that
it should be criticised?”</p>
<p>“It looked all right to me,” said Briggs.</p>
<p>“If there is any question about it, I shall
want to talk to my brother—”</p>
<p>“Oh, it was all right,” Windom spoke up.
“It was a good, clean, hard tackle—the right
kind. Wes is always down on the enemy,
aren’t you, Wes?”</p>
<p>Westby stood in sullen silence. The next
play was started; St. Timothy’s gained five
yards, and in the movement of the crowd Irving
and Westby were separated.</p>
<p>For a few moments Irving’s thoughts were
diverted from his brother, and his joyous
excitement was overshadowed by regret. He
felt less indignant with Westby than sorry
for him; he knew that the boy had repented
of his hasty and intemperate words. If he<a name="Page_196" id="Page_196"></a><span class="pagenum" title="196"></span>
would only come up and acknowledge it—so
that he might be forgiven!</p>
<p>Then Irving put Westby out of his mind.
St. Timothy’s had kicked; Ballard had recovered
the ball for Harvard on St. Timothy’s
forty-yard line, and then Warren, the quarterback,
had made a long pass straight into Lawrence’s
hands; Lawrence started to run; then,
just as Chase and Baldersnaith were bearing
down for the tackle, he stopped and hurled the
ball forward and across to Newell, the other
Harvard end.</p>
<p>It sailed clear over the heads of the intervening
players; Newell had been signaled to,
had got down the field and was ready for it;
three St. Timothy’s players ran to get under
the ball, but instead of blocking Newell off
and merely trying to spoil his catch, they all
tried to make the catch themselves; they all
leaped for it. Newell was the quickest; he
grabbed the ball out of the air and went down
instantly, with the three others on him—but
he was on St. Timothy’s ten-yard line.</p>
<p>It was a brilliant pass and a brilliant catch;<a name="Page_197" id="Page_197"></a><span class="pagenum" title="197"></span>
St. Timothy’s stood looking on disconsolate,
while the Harvard players gathered exultantly
for the line-up. Three rushes through tackle
and centre and one run round Lawrence’s end
carried the ball across St. Timothy’s line for a
touchdown. Ballard kicked the goal.</p>
<p>There was no more scoring that half. In
the second half St. Timothy’s kicked off; Harvard
got the ball and set about rushing it
back up the field. They had gained ten yards
and had carried the ball forty yards from their
own goal, when they lost possession of it on a
fumble. The spectators cheered, and began
shouting,—</p>
<p>“Touchdown, St. Timothy’s, touchdown!”</p>
<p>There was more shouting when, with Collingwood
interfering for him, Dennison broke
through the Harvard left tackle and made
fifteen yards. Then Collingwood made a quarter-back
kick which Morrill captured on the
Harvard five-yard line.</p>
<p>The St. Timothy’s cheering broke out afresh,
Scarborough leading it. Irving joined in the
cheer; he was glad to see Collingwood and the<a name="Page_198" id="Page_198"></a><span class="pagenum" title="198"></span>
others making gains—provided they did not
make them round Lawrence’s end.</p>
<p>On the five-yard line the Harvard defense
stiffened. On the third down the ball was two
yards from the goal line.</p>
<p>“Everybody get into this next play—everybody!”
cried Collingwood appealingly; he
went about slapping his men on the back.
“Now then—twelve, thirty-seven, eighteen.”</p>
<p>There was a surge forward, a quivering,
toppling mass that finally fell indecisively.
No one knew whether the ball had been pushed
across or not. No one wanted to get up for
fear it might be pushed one way or the other
in the shifting.</p>
<p>Barclay and Randolph, who was umpire,
began summarily dragging the players from
the pile, hauling at an arm or a leg; at last
Dennison was revealed at the bottom hugging
the ball—and it was just across the line.</p>
<p>Then all the St. Timothy’s players capered
about for joy, and the spectators shouted as
triumphantly as if it had been the St. John’s
game; the Harvard team ranged themselves<a name="Page_199" id="Page_199"></a><span class="pagenum" title="199"></span>
quietly under the goal. Dennison kicked the
goal, and the score was tied.</p>
<p>For the next ten minutes neither team succeeded
in making much progress. St. Timothy’s
were playing more aggressively than in the
first half; twice Kenyon, the Harvard halfback,
started to skirt round Lawrence’s end,
but both times Baldersnaith, the St. Timothy’s
tackle, broke through and dragged him down.
Baldersnaith, Dennison, Morrill, and Collingwood
were especially distinguishing themselves
for the School.</p>
<p>At last, after one of the scrimmages, Dennison
got up, hobbled a moment, and then sat
down again. Collingwood hurried over to him
anxiously.</p>
<p>“Wrenched my ankle,” said Dennison. “I
guess I’ll be all right in a moment.”</p>
<p>Waring, the Fifth Former, who acted as
water-carrier, ran out on the field with his pail
and sponge. Mr. Barclay examined the ankle,
then turned to Collingwood.</p>
<p>“I think he could go on playing,” he said.
“But if I were you I’d take him out now and<a name="Page_200" id="Page_200"></a><span class="pagenum" title="200"></span>
save him for the St. John’s game. You don’t
want to risk his being laid up for that.”</p>
<p>Dennison protested, but Collingwood agreed
with Mr. Barclay. He turned and called,
“Westby”; and as Westby ran out, Dennison
picked himself up and limped to the side-line.</p>
<p>It was Harvard’s ball in the middle of the
field. Though it was only the first down, Ballard
dropped back to kick.</p>
<p>“Now then, Wes, hang on to it,” Collingwood
cried as he and Westby turned and ran
to their places in the back field.</p>
<p>Westby had a faint hope that the kick
might go to Collingwood; he didn’t feel
quite ready yet to catch the ball; he wanted to
be given a chance to steady down first. But
he knew that was exactly what the Harvard
quarterback intended to prevent.</p>
<p>The ball came sailing, high and twisting;
he had to run back to get under it. Then he
planted himself, but the ball as it came down
was slanted off by the wind, so that he had
at the last to make a sudden dash for it; it
struck and stuck, hugged to his breast, and<a name="Page_201" id="Page_201"></a><span class="pagenum" title="201"></span>
then over he went with a terrific shock, which
jarred the ball from his grasp.</p>
<p>Irving had seen the play with mingled joy
and sorrow. It was his brother who had made
the tackle; it was Newell, the other Harvard
end, who had dropped on the fumbled ball.</p>
<p>Westby and Lawrence got to their feet together;
Lawrence’s eyes were dancing with
triumphant expectation; the ball was Harvard’s
now on St. Timothy’s twenty-yard line. And
Westby went dully to his position, aware of
the accusing silence of the crowd.</p>
<p>“All right, Wes; we’ll stop them,” Collingwood
said to him cheerfully.</p>
<p>Westby did his best and flung himself desperately
into the thick of every scrimmage.
The whole team did its best, but Harvard
would not be denied. By short rushes they
fought their way down, down, and at last
across the goal line—and the game was won.
There were only three minutes left to play,
and in that time neither side scored.</p>
<p>When Mr. Barclay blew his whistle, the
Harvard team assembled and cheered St.<a name="Page_202" id="Page_202"></a><span class="pagenum" title="202"></span>
Timothy’s, and then St. Timothy’s assembled
and cheered Harvard. After that the players
walked to the athletic house, beset on the way
by the curious or by friends.</p>
<p>Westby was the victim of condolences, well
meant but ill-timed; he responded curtly when
Blake, pushing near, said to him, “It was
awfully hard luck, Wes—but after that you
played a mighty good game.” He wished
nothing but to be let alone, he wished no
sympathy. He knew that he had lost the game;
that was enough for him.</p>
<p>In the dressing-room he sat on a bench next
to Lawrence Upton and began putting on his
clothes in silence. The other boys were talking
all round him, commenting cheerfully on
the plays and on the future prospects of the
teams.</p>
<p>Lawrence refrained from discussing the
game at all; he asked Westby what St.
Timothy’s boys he knew at Harvard, and
where he expected to room when he went
there; he tried to be friendly. But Westby
repelled his efforts, answering in a sullen<a name="Page_203" id="Page_203"></a><span class="pagenum" title="203"></span>
voice. At last Lawrence finished dressing; he
picked up his bag and turned to Westby.</p>
<p>“Look here,” he said, and there was a
twinkle in his eyes. “I’m going to be at
Harvard the next three years; we’re likely
to meet. Must a little hard luck make hard
feeling?”</p>
<p>“Oh, there’s no hard feeling,” Westby
assured him.</p>
<p>“Glad to hear it. Good-by.” Lawrence
held out his hand.</p>
<p>“You’re not going to stay for supper?”</p>
<p>“No. I’m going back with the team on the
six o’clock train—hour exam on Monday.
My brother’s waiting for me outside; I want
to see him for a while before we start. I hope
to come up here some time again—hope I’ll
see you.”</p>
<p>“Thanks. I hope so. Good-by.”</p>
<p>The words were all right, but Westby spoke
them mechanically. It had flashed upon him
that Lawrence would now learn from his
brother the charge that he had so unjustly and
hotly made. And of a sudden he wished he<a name="Page_204" id="Page_204"></a><span class="pagenum" title="204"></span>
could prevent that. He would have been glad
to go to Irving and retract it all and apologize;
anything to keep Lawrence from hearing
of it.</p>
<p>Why had he been so slow in dressing—why
hadn’t he hurried on his clothes and
gone out ahead of Lawrence and made it all
right with Irving!</p>
<p>With a wild thought that it might not yet
be too late, he flung on his coat and rushed
from the building—only to see Irving and
Lawrence walking together across the football
field.</p>
<hr />
<div><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a><span class="toclnk"><a href="#CONTENTS">TOC</a></span></div>
<h2><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205"></a><span class="pagenum" title="205"></span>CHAPTER X</h2>
<h3>MASTER AND BOY</h3>
<p>For several days Westby’s unnatural quiet
was attributed to his sensitiveness over
the error which had given the Harvard Freshmen
their victory. It was most noticeable at
Irving’s table; there his bubbling spirits seemed
permanently to have subsided; he wrapped himself
in silence and gloom. His manner towards
Irving was that of haughty displeasure. Carroll
was at a loss to understand it and questioned
him about it one day.</p>
<p>“Oh, I’m just tired of him—tired of hearing
his everlasting brag about his brother,”
Westby said sharply.</p>
<p>“He bragged so little about him once you
wouldn’t believe he had a brother,” replied
Carroll. “I don’t see that he brags much more
about him now.”</p>
<p>“Well, I see it, and it annoys me,” retorted<a name="Page_206" id="Page_206"></a><span class="pagenum" title="206"></span>
Westby rudely. “I think I’ll see if I can have
my seat changed. I’d rather sit at Scabby’s
table.”</p>
<p>Mr. Randolph, however, the head of the
Upper School, refused to grant Westby’s petition.</p>
<p>“You don’t give any special reason,” he
said. “You have friends at Mr. Upton’s table;
you ought to be contented to stay there.
What’s the matter? Are you having friction
with some one?”</p>
<p>“I should be better satisfied if I were at
Scarborough’s table,” said Westby.</p>
<p>“We can’t gratify every individual preference
or whim,” replied Mr. Randolph.</p>
<p>He asked Irving if he knew of any reason
why Westby should be transferred and told
him that the boy had asked for the change.</p>
<p>“Oh, it’s just between him and me,” said
Irving wearily. “We don’t get on.”</p>
<p>“Then you’d like to have him go, too?”</p>
<p>“No, I wouldn’t. When he’s his natural
self, I like him. And I haven’t yet given up
the hope that some time we’ll get together.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207"></a><span class="pagenum" title="207"></span>He met Westby’s coldness with coolness.
But on the morning of the St. John’s game,
after breakfast, he drew Westby aside. He
held a letter in his hand.</p>
<p>“Westby,” he said, “I don’t know that you
will care to hear it, but I have a message for
you from my brother.”</p>
<p>Westby cast down his eyes and reddened.
“I don’t suppose I shall care to hear it,” he
said with a humility that amazed Irving. “But
go ahead—give it to me, Mr. Upton.”</p>
<p>“I don’t quite understand—he just asked
me to say to you that he hopes you’ll get your
chance in the game to-day. He felt you were
rather cut up by your hard luck in the Freshman
game.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t he—isn’t he—” Westby hesitated
for an uncomfortable moment, then
blurted out, “Isn’t he sore at me, Mr. Upton?”</p>
<p>“What for?”</p>
<p>“For saying about him what I did—about
his trying to lay Collingwood out when he
tackled.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208"></a><span class="pagenum" title="208"></span>“He doesn’t know you said it.”</p>
<p>“Oh! Didn’t you tell him?”</p>
<p>“No. The criticism was unjust—there was
no use in repeating it.”</p>
<p>“It was unjust.” Westby had lowered his
voice. “I am very much ashamed, Mr. Upton.”</p>
<p>“That’s all right,” said Irving. He took
Westby’s hand. “I hope too you’ll get your
chance in the game.”</p>
<p>“Thank you.” Westby spoke humbly. “I
hope if I do, I won’t make a mess of it again.”</p>
<p>That game was far different in color and feeling
from the one with the Freshmen on the
Saturday before. Long before it began the
boys of St. John’s with their blue banners and
flags and the boys of St. Timothy’s with their
red were ranged on opposite sides of the field,
hurling defiant, challenging cheers across at one
another; for St. Timothy’s a band, in which
Scarborough beat the drum and was director,
paraded back and forth; the little boys were
already hopping up and down and trembling
and squealing with excitement; already their
little voices were almost gone.</p>
<p><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209"></a><span class="pagenum" title="209"></span>Irving knew that to himself alone was this
occasion one of less moving interest than that
of the preceding Saturday; as he stood and
looked on at the waving red and the waving
blue and later at the struggle that was being
waged in the middle of the field, he wondered
how on this afternoon that other game between
the red and the blue was going, and
how Lawrence was acquitting himself.</p>
<p>Certainly it could not, he thought, be any
more close, more hotly contested, than this of
the two rival schools. All through the first
half they fought each other without scoring.</p>
<p>Once St. Timothy’s had got down to St.
John’s fifteen-yard line, but then had been
unable to go farther, and Dennison had missed
by only a few feet his try for a goal from the
field.</p>
<p>Early in the second half St. Timothy’s met
with misfortune. Dennison was laid out by a
hard tackle; when at last he got to his feet,
he limped badly. Louis Collingwood took
him by the arm and walked round with him;<a name="Page_210" id="Page_210"></a><span class="pagenum" title="210"></span>
Dennison was arguing, protesting. But Collingwood
led him towards the side-line, patting
him on the back, and called “Westby!”</p>
<p>The spectators cheered the injured player
who came off so reluctantly; then they cheered
Westby as he ran out upon the field. Irving
was near the group of substitutes when Dennison
hobbled in.</p>
<p>“Hurt much, Denny?” asked Briggs.</p>
<p>“No—just that same old ankle—hang it
all!” Dennison slipped into a blanket and
lowered himself painfully to the ground.</p>
<p>Irving’s eyes were upon Westby; he hoped
that this time the boy would not fail. Westby
had an opportunity now to steady his nerves;
it was St. Timothy’s ball and only the first
down. Collingwood gave the signal; Irving
watched closely, saw Westby take the ball on
the pass and dive into the line. In a moment
all the St. Timothy’s eleven seemed to be behind
him, hurling him through, and St. Timothy’s
on the side-lines waved and shouted, for
Westby had gained five yards.</p>
<p>Collingwood called on him again; he gained<a name="Page_211" id="Page_211"></a><span class="pagenum" title="211"></span>
three yards more. Irving shouted with the rest;
he turned to Mr. Randolph and said,—</p>
<p>“That ought to give Westby confidence.”</p>
<p>“I hope it does; he’s so erratic,” Mr. Randolph
answered. “If only he’s starting in now
on one of his brilliant streaks!”</p>
<p>Lane, the Fifth Form halfback, tried to go
round the end on the next play, but made no
gain. Then Westby was driven again at left
tackle, but he got only two yards.</p>
<p>Collingwood gave the signal for a criss-cross;
Lane took the ball, and passed it to Westby,
who was already on the run. Westby got clear
of the St. John’s end, and seemed well started
for a brilliant run; but their halfback chased
him across the field and finally, by a tremendous
diving tackle, pulled him down. As it was,
Westby had made so much of a gain that the
distance had to be measured; he had failed by
only a few inches to make the required amount,
and the ball went to St. John’s on their thirty-five-yard
line.</p>
<p>St. John’s made two ineffectual rushes;
then their fullback, Warner, prepared to kick.<a name="Page_212" id="Page_212"></a><span class="pagenum" title="212"></span>
Westby and Collingwood raced to their places
in the back field.</p>
<p>There was a tense moment on both sides;
then Warner sent the ball flying high and far.
It was Westby’s ball; the St. John’s ends and
one of their tackles came down fast under the
kick.</p>
<p>Irving, with his heart in his throat, watched
Westby; the boy, with both hands raised, was
wabbling about, stepping to the right, to the left,
backward, forward; the ends were there in
front of him, crouched and waiting; Collingwood
tried to fend them off, but the big tackle
rushed in and upset him, and at the same instant
the ball fell into Westby’s arms—and
slipped through them.</p>
<p>One of the ends dropped on the ball, rolled
over with it a couple of times, rolled up on his
feet again and was off with it for the St. Timothy’s
goal; he had carried it to the twenty-yard
line when Collingwood pulled him down.
St. John’s were streaming down their side line,
shrieking and waving their blue flags; St. Timothy’s
stood dazed and silent.</p>
<p><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213"></a><span class="pagenum" title="213"></span>“Oh, butterfingers!” cried Briggs, stamping
his foot.</p>
<p>“Just like Wes—he wouldn’t make a football
player in a thousand years!” exclaimed
Windom.</p>
<p>Irving heard the comments; he heard other
comments. If St. John’s should score now!
He hoped they wouldn’t; he was sorry enough
for Westby. But St. John’s did score, by a
series of furious centre rushes, and their fullback
kicked the goal. And when, fifteen
minutes later, the referee blew his whistle, the
game was St. John’s, by that score of six to
nothing.</p>
<p>Irving could understand why some of the St.
Timothy’s boys had tears in their eyes. It was
pretty trying even for him to see the triumphant
visitors rush upon the field, toss the members
of their team upon their shoulders, and
bear them away exultantly to the athletic
house, yelling and flaunting their flags, while
the St. Timothy’s players walked disconsolately
and silently behind them.</p>
<p>It was trying afterwards to stand by and see<a name="Page_214" id="Page_214"></a><span class="pagenum" title="214"></span>
those blue-bedecked invaders form into long-linked
lines and dance their serpentine of victory
on St. Timothy’s ground. It was trying
to stand by and watch barge after barge bedecked
with blue roll away while the occupants
shouted and waved their hats—and left the
field to silence and despair.</p>
<p>But still St. Timothy’s did not abandon the
scene of their defeat. They waited loyally in
front of the athletic house to welcome and console
their team when it should emerge. Collingwood
led the players out, and the crowd
gave them a good one.</p>
<p>Collingwood said, with a smile, though in an
unsteady voice, “Much obliged, fellows,” and
waved his hand.</p>
<p>Then the crowd dispersed; slowly they all
walked away.</p>
<p>That evening, as Irving was about to leave
his room to go down to supper, a boy brought
him a telegram. It was from his brother; it
said,—</p>
<p>“We licked them, twelve to six. Feeling
fine. Lawrence.”<a name="Page_215" id="Page_215"></a><span class="pagenum" title="215"></span></p>
<p>At the table Irving tried not to appear too
happy. He apologized for his state of mind
and told the boys the cause; those who, like
Carroll, were Harvard sympathizers derived a
little cheer from the news, and the others
seemed indifferent to it. Westby was not there.
The training table was vacant, and at the other
tables were empty chairs where substitutes on
the team had sat. Mrs. Barclay was entertaining
the football players.</p>
<p>“I wish I was breaking training there,” said
Carroll to Irving; “she has the most wonderful
food.”</p>
<p>In the discussion of the game there seemed
to be little disposition to blame Westby.</p>
<p>“After all,” said Blake, “he was only a sub,
and he never got so very much practice in
handling punts. I don’t think fellows ought
to be sore on him.”</p>
<p>“No, he’s just sore on himself,” said Carroll.</p>
<p>“It’s hard luck, anyhow; except for that
one thing he played mighty well.”</p>
<p>The mail boy passed, leaving a letter for<a name="Page_216" id="Page_216"></a><span class="pagenum" title="216"></span>
Irving. It was in his uncle’s handwriting; and
his uncle never wrote to him; it was his aunt
who kept him posted on all the news of home.
Did this mean that she was ill—or that some
disaster had befallen?</p>
<p>Irving determined that if it was bad news,
he would reserve it until he should be alone;
he put the letter in his pocket and waited
anxiously for the meal to end.</p>
<p>When he was again in his room, he tore
open the envelope and read this letter:—</p>
<div class="blockquot"><p><span class="smcap">Dear Irving</span>,—I have not helped you and
Lawrence much financially. I thought it would
do you and him no harm to try out your own
resources. But I always meant to give you a
lift whenever it should seem wise, and whenever
a lift could be most advantageously arranged.</p>
<p>Your father was never able to lay up any
money; his work was of a kind that did not
permit that. But he would always have shared
with me whatever he had. I have had it in
mind to do the same by his children. I have<a name="Page_217" id="Page_217"></a><span class="pagenum" title="217"></span>
sold half the farm—the western half—your
half and Lawrence’s. There is four thousand
dollars in cash for each of you, and four
thousand on a mortgage for each of you at six
per cent. You had better draw out of school-teaching
as soon as possible and study law—if
that is still what you most want to do.</p>
<p>Your aunt is well and sends her love. We
are both looking forward to seeing you and
Lawrence at Christmas.</p>
<p>Your affectionate uncle,</p>
<p><span class="smcap">Robert Upton.</span></p></div>
<p>A flood of warm emotion poured through
Irving; his eyes filled. He had sometimes
thought his uncle selfish and narrow—and
all the time he had been working towards
this!</p>
<p>Irving wrote his reply; he wrote also to
Lawrence. Then he took his letters down to the
Study building, to post them so that they might
go out with the night mail. On his way he
passed the Barclay house; it was all brightly
lighted, the sound of laughter and of gay boy<a name="Page_218" id="Page_218"></a><span class="pagenum" title="218"></span>
voices rang out through the open windows;
the notes of a piano then subdued them, and
there burst out a chorus in the sonorous measured
sweep of “Wacht am Rhein.”</p>
<p>Irving stood for a few moments and listened;
his exultant heart was responsive to that shouted
song. Fellows who could sing like that, he
thought, must have trodden disappointment
under heel.</p>
<p>An hour later, when Irving sat in his room,
the boys who had been entertained at the
Barclays’ came tramping up the stairs. They
were still singing, but they stopped their song
before they entered the dormitory. Irving met
them to say good-night—first Dennison and
then Morrill and then Louis Collingwood.</p>
<p>“Have you heard the new song Wes has
got off, Mr. Upton?” asked Dennison.</p>
<p>“No, what’s that?”</p>
<p>“Hit it up, Wes.”</p>
<p>“Oh, choke it off.” Collingwood grinned
uneasily.</p>
<p>“Go on, Wes,—strike up. We’ll all join
in.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219"></a><span class="pagenum" title="219"></span>“Wait till I get my banjo—you don’t
mind, do you, Mr. Upton?”</p>
<p>“No. I’d like to hear it.”</p>
<p>So Westby hastened to his room and returned,
bearing the instrument; and all the
other boys gathered round, except Collingwood,
who stood sheepishly off at one side.
Westby twanged the strings and then to the
accompaniment began,—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“Across the broad prairies he came from the west,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">With fire in his eye and with brawn on his chest;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">His arms they were strong and his legs they were fleet;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">There was none could outstrip his vanishing feet;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">We made him our captain—what else could we do?<br /></span>
<span class="i0">You ask who he is? Do I hear you say, ‘Who?’”<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>Then they all came in on the chorus:—</p>
<div class="poem"><div class="stanza">
<span class="i0">“He is our Lou, he is our honey-Lou,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He is our pride and joy;<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He is our Loo-loo, he is our Loo-loo,<br /></span>
<span class="i0">He is our Lou-Lou boy.”<br /></span>
</div></div>
<p>“Silly song!” exclaimed Collingwood with
disgust.</p>
<p>“Wes made it up just this evening, at Mrs.
Barclay’s,” said Dennison. “We were all sing<a name="Page_220" id="Page_220"></a><span class="pagenum" title="220"></span>ing,
and after a while Wes edged in to the
piano and sprung this on us. Don’t you think
it’s a good song?”</p>
<p>“So good that I wish I could furnish inspiration
for another,” said Irving.</p>
<p>Westby joined in the laugh and looked
pleased.</p>
<p>“Good-night, everybody,” said Collingwood;
he walked away to his room. The others followed,
all except Westby, to whom Irving
said,—</p>
<p>“Will you wait a moment? I should like to
have a little talk with you.” He led the boy
into his room and pushed forward his armchair.</p>
<p>Westby seated himself with his banjo across
his knees and looked at Irving wonderingly.</p>
<p>“The fellows seem pretty cheerful after their
defeat, don’t they?” said Irving.</p>
<p>A shadow crossed Westby’s face. “They’ve
been very decent about it,” he answered.</p>
<p>Irving put his hand on Westby’s arm.</p>
<div class="figcenter" style="width: 423px;"><a name="Page_220f" id="Page_220f"></a><span class="pagenum" title="Facing 220"></span>
<img src="images/220.jpg" width="423" height="645" alt="[Illustration: A SHADOW CROSSED WESTBY’S FACE]" title="A SHADOW CROSSED WESTBY'S FACE" />
<span>A SHADOW CROSSED WESTBY’S FACE</span>
</div>
<p>“Do you know why they’re so decent?
It’s because you’ve cheered them up yourself.
<a name="Page_221" id="Page_221"></a><span class="pagenum" title="221"></span>Who was the fellow, Westby, that said he
didn’t care who might make his country’s
laws if only he might write its songs?”</p>
<p>“Oh—no—that’s got nothing to do with
me.”</p>
<p>“You needn’t care who makes the touchdowns.
Your job is to do something else. It’s
no discredit to you if because of lack of training
or adaptability, you can’t hang on to a
ball at a critical moment. There are plenty of
fellows who can do that.—I suppose you don’t
see it yet yourself—but you know the message
my brother sent you? I shall tell him
that you got your chance to-day—and took
it.”</p>
<p>“I don’t see how.”</p>
<p>“Well, I don’t know how you managed it
exactly. But I could see when those fellows
came upstairs just now that you stood better
with them than you ever had done before. It
must have been because you showed the right
spirit—and I know by experience, Westby,
that it’s awfully hard to show the right spirit
when you’re down.”</p>
<p><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222"></a><span class="pagenum" title="222"></span>There was silence for a few moments.</p>
<p>“I guess I’ve made it hard for you,” said
Westby at last, in a low voice. “You’re different
from what I thought you were.”</p>
<p>Irving’s low laugh of exultation sprang
from the heart. “Maybe I am—and maybe
you were right about me, too. A fellow changes.
A month ago, I was wondering what use there
could ever be in my studying law—trying to
practise, mixing with men—when I couldn’t
hold my own with a handful of boys. For
some reason, I don’t feel that way any longer.—Well,
that’s about all I wanted to say to
you, Westby.” He stood up. “Good-night.”</p>
<p>Westby rose and shook hands. “Good-night,
sir.”</p>
<p>He passed out and quietly closed the door.
Irving stood at the window, gazing beyond
the shadowy trees to the dim silver line of the
pond, touched now by the moonlight. There
was a knock on the door.</p>
<p>“Come in,” Irving called.</p>
<p>It was Westby again.</p>
<p>“Oh, Mr. Upton,” he said, “I meant to tell<a name="Page_223" id="Page_223"></a><span class="pagenum" title="223"></span>
you—I heard at Mr. Barclay’s how the Freshman
game came out; I wish, if you would,
you’d send your brother my congratulations.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, I will.”</p>
<p>“Good-night, sir.”</p>
<p>“Good-night.”</p>
<p>The door closed softly. Irving turned again
and pressed his forehead against the window-pane
with a smile. It was a smile not merely
of satisfaction because he had won his way at
last, though he was not indifferent to that;
he was happy too because this night he felt he
had come close to Westby.</p>
<pre>
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