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Updated: June 20, 2025
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. Westby listened to it gloomily; there were many questions that he wanted to ask, but now he did not dare. Evidently Mr.
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. “All right now?” called Westby from above. “No!” bawled Allison. “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.
“Besides, he’s only a Fourth Former,” said Westby. Lawrence laughed. “You’re Sixth, I suppose?” Westby nodded. “Going to Harvard next year?” “Yes.” “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?”
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. Irving felt himself going, heard Westby’s laughing shout, “Look out, Mr.
“I was not.” Westby’s answer was prompt. “Then don’t delay any longer, please; go to the blackboard at once.” “Yes, sir.” 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. Irving finished his writing, dusted the chalk from his fingers, and returned to his seat.
Westby chuckled over his humorous discovery, and as soon as possible imparted it to Collingwood. “Oh, well, what if the rector did make him do it?” said Collingwood. “The way he did it shows he’s all right—” “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.”
Westby stood there, in a calmly respectful, even deferential attitude, as if animated only by a desire to serve the truth. “We will have no argument about it, Westby,” said Irving. “Please climb the ladder at once and release Allison.” “I beg of you, Mr.
“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.”
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.”
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.
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