[Illustration: AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA]AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA
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.
“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!”
He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing hard, then turned his back and strode off to the athletic house.
TOC
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.
“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.”
“But itwasa foul,” protested Irving. “So I had to penalize him. I made it as small a penalty as I could.”
“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.
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.
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.
“Just a moment, please,” he said, as Barclay turned. “Did I do anything wrong?”
“You penalized Westby a yard for fouling, I heard; is that so?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you were within your rights. But if it was obviously an unintentional foul, I shouldn’t have been so strict.”
“I misunderstood what you told me,” sighed Irving. “I thought that in case of foul a fellowhadto be penalized.”
“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.
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 theyhad; he had only wanted and tried to be fair.
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.
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 fromhis 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,—
“Just because I guyed him—he felt he had to get even.”
At supper Westby did not look at Irving. One of the boys, Blake, made a comment; he said,—
“That was a mighty good race you ran, Westby; hard luck you were handicapped.”
“You can call it hard luck if you want,” said Westby.
“How did it happen, anyway?” Blake asked, quite innocently.
“Oh, don’t askme,” said Westby.
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.
“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 ayard. 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.”
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.
“I told Scarborough he might have known things would be botched somehow.”
“Why?” asked Blake.
“Oh, you’ve got to have officials who know their business.”
There was an interval of silence at the table; Westby, having fired his shot, sat straight, with cheeks flushed, looking across at Blake.
“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 andstupid interference as well as for deliberate intent to foul.”
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.
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 mortifya boy in the presence of other boys—a boy whose disappointment was already keen.
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.
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 bepopular 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.
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 interestedin it; he shrank from anything like boasting. He found an outlet soon; Barclay came to see him that evening.
“I looked for you this afternoon, after the giving out of the prizes,” said Barclay. “But I couldn’t find you.”
“No, I didn’t wait for that. Did you make a speech? I heard the boys laughing and cheering as I came away.”
“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.”
“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—”
“So I hear. Well, it was hard luck in a way—but after all you had a perfect right to penalize him; he did foul, and he ought to be sport enough to take the consequences.”
“I suppose it wouldn’t have been—it wouldn’t be possible to run the race over?”
“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.”
“I feel sorry about the thing anyway. I’m sorry I made a mess of it—as usual.”
“Oh, cheer up; it’s not going to do you any harm with the fellows. A little momentary flash from Westby and Morrill—”
“No, I wasn’t thinking of myself.”
“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.
“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.”
Barclay shouted with laughter. “You sat on Westby—and you’re sorry for it! What’s happened to you, anyway? Tell me about it.”
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?”
“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.”
“Well, perhaps so.” Irving sighed.
“You’re stiffening up quite a lot,” observed Barclay.
“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.”
“How’s that?”
Somewhat shyly Irving communicated the proud news about his brother.
“Oh, I read about him in to-day’s Boston newspaper,” exclaimed Barclay.
“What?” asked Irving. “Where was it? I didn’t see it.”
“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.”
“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?”
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.”
“I suppose not. Well, I shall certainly read the football columns from now on.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“I should prefer to stand on my own legs,” said Irving. “I shan’t advertise it round that I have a football brother.”
“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.
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.
“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—”
“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.”
“Yes, awfully good, from all that the papers say. Don’t you suppose their schedule is filled up?”
“It may be—but perhaps they could giveus 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.”
“His brother? Who’s that?”
“Why, didn’t you know? His brother plays left end on the team—”
“Kiddy Upton’s brother on the Harvard Freshmen! No!”
“Whose brother?”
“Mr. Upton’s, I meant to say.” Louis grinned. “Is he really, Mr. Barclay?”
“I’m rather surprised you didn’t know it. But I guess Mr. Upton is the kind that doesn’t talk much.”
“I should think he’d have let that out.”
“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.”
“You mean—keeping his job?”
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.”
“Ye-es,” said Louis, slowly. “The trouble has been, the fellows horse him a good deal—though not quite so much as they did.”
“They’ll get over that when they know him better,” remarked Barclay.
He knew that Louis Collingwood went away feeling much impressed, and he was pretty sure he had done Irving a good turn.
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.
“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.”
“How?” asked Morrill.
“Oh, ask him if this fellow’s a relation ofhis, 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.”
“All right,” said Morrill, who was an earnest admirer of Westby’s wit.
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.
“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.”
Irving’s eyes twinkled; if ever the enemy had been delivered into his hands!
“What makes you think he’s a relation?” he asked, with an assumption of cold dignity.
“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.”
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.
“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.”
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,—
“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?—peu aimablenot to have taken us, your friends, into your confidence? Would you mind telling us, sir, what your brother’s first name is?”
“My brother’s first name? Lawrence.”
“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.”
“I suppose it must be,” agreed Irving.
“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.”
The broad grin broke into a snicker.
“Why, I don’t know just what there is to tell,” Irving said awkwardly.
“What does he look like, sir? Does he resemble you very much?—I mean, apart from the family fondness for athletics.”
Irving’s lips twitched; Westby was enjoying so thoroughly his revenge! And the other boys were all stifling their amusement.
“We are said not to look very much alike,”he answered. “He is of a somewhat heavier build.”
“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.
At that moment Collingwood came up the stairs.
“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?”
“Yes,” said Collingwood. “I’ve just heard it from Mr. Barclay.”
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.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Collingwood.
And then Irving broke out into a delighted peal of laughter. He could find nothing butslang in which to express himself, and through his laughter he ejaculated,—
“Stung, my young friend! Stung!”
They all gave a whoop; they swung Westby round and rushed him down the corridor to his room, shouting and jeering.
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.
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.
“What’s the joke, Mr. Upton?” asked Blake.
“Oh, don’t askme,” said Irving. “Ask Westby.”
“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, whatisthe joke, anyhow?”
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!”
He flung himself around, trying to escapefrom 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.
TOC
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 theinjustice into which his pride had provoked him.
And one day at luncheon, Westby turned to Irving and with an embarrassed smile said,
“Mr. Upton, do you get any news from your brother about the Harvard Freshman eleven?”
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.
“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.”
“Oh, really!” exclaimed Westby, in a tone of honest interest.
“When, Mr. Upton?” “Does he think they’ll come?” “Does Lou Collingwood know about it?”
“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 timethat I wrote to Lawrence. If they come at all, it will be about a week before the St. John’s game.”
“When shall we know for sure?” asked Westby.
“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.”
“I’m sure we’re better than Lakeview,” declared Blake. “You’ll tell your brother we are, won’t you, Mr. Upton?”
“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.”
“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.
“Every reason—until it became a matter of doubting my word,” said Irving.
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.
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,—
“Oh, very well. If he couldn’t accept myacknowledgment 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.”
“A month ago he wouldn’t have asked more than that of you,” observed Carroll. “And you didn’t feel like obliging him then.”
The implication that Irving had worsted him galled Westby.
“Oh,” he retorted, “the best of jokes will wear out. Kiddy was a perfectly good joke for a while—”
Carroll annoyed him by laughing.
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 acquiringsome proficiency, Irving studied it with a more curious eye.
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.
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.
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 atluncheon about the shoot and strolled over more from curiosity to see how he would acquit himself than for any other reason.
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.
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.
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 takeaim. 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.
Irving went up to him.
“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.”
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?”
“I was offering my congratulations, Westby,” said Irving stiffly, and walked away.
“Why did you go at him like that?” asked Carroll, who had heard the interchange.
“Oh,” said Westby, “I wasn’t going to have him hanging round swiping to me, soft-soaping me.”
“I think he was only trying to be decent,” said Carroll.
“I like a man who is decent without trying,” Westby retorted.
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.
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.
At supper Blake congratulated Carroll across the table.
“You won, did you, Carroll?” asked Irving.
“Yes, sir—by a close shave.”
“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.
Something in Westby’s expression told Irving what the boy had inferred; Irving wentafterwards 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!
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.
“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.”
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 thebest kind of preparation for the St. John’s game.”
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.
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.
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.
The training table was organized at once, but Westby was not admitted to it. There wasnot 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.
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.
“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.”
The others jeered. But Westby, however hemight 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.
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.
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.
“Great day,” was the salutation that one heard everywhere; “great day for the game.”
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.
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!
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.
In front of the Study building most of theolder 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.
“Pretty nearly time for them, Mr. Upton,” said Westby. “Feeling nervous, sir?”
There was more good nature in his smile than he had displayed towards Irving since the day of the track games.
“A little,” Irving admitted, and at that moment some one shouted, “Here they come!”
Over the crest of the hill galloped four horses, drawing a long red barge crowded with boys. Collingwood climbed up on the gate-post.
“Now, fellows,” he said, “when they get here, give three times three for the Freshmen.”
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 andharness; the driver flourished his whip over them spectacularly.
“Now then, fellows!” cried Collingwood. “Three times three for the Freshmen!”
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,—
“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.
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.
“It’s great to see you again, Irv,” said Lawrence, when he could reach and grasp hisbrother’s hand; he looked at Irving with the same old loving humor in his eyes.
“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.
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.
“Youcarry that, you little fellow! I guess not,” he said.
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.
“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.”