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“Come in,” Irving called. It was Westby again. “Oh, Mr. Upton,” he said, “I meant to tell 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.” “Thank you, I will.” “Good-night, sir.” “Good-night.” The door closed softly. Irving turned again and pressed his forehead against the window-pane with a smile.
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.” Irving forgot the irony, forgot Westby and Collingwood and the amused, whispering boys.
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.
But Westby, however he 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.
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.
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.”
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,— “Collingwood, why didn’t you come up and ask me to reduce your report? Didn’t you think it was unfair?” “Yes,” Collingwood answered promptly. “Well, then—why didn’t you come to me and say so?”
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.” “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.”
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.
“Wait till I get my banjo—you don’t mind, do you, Mr. Upton?” “No. I’d like to hear it.” 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,—
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