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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. “You’ll excuse me, Mr. Upton, if I don’t wait, won’t you?” said Westby. “Don’t get impatient, fellows.”
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 that his cousin was a credit to the family. And Irving thought he was.
John’s made two ineffectual rushes; then their fullback, Warner, prepared to kick. Westby and Collingwood raced to their places in the back field. 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.
“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 is the 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.
“It was unjust.” Westby had lowered his voice. “I am very much ashamed, Mr. Upton.” “That’s all right,” said Irving. He took Westby’s hand. “I hope too you’ll get your chance in the game.” “Thank you.” Westby spoke humbly. “I hope if I do, I won’t make a mess of it again.” That game was far different in color and feeling from the one with the Freshmen on the Saturday before.
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.
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.
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.
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. “Westby, you fouled Flack.” Irving spoke with some asperity. “I shall have to set you back a yard.”
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. 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.
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