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Updated: June 20, 2025
“Where do you go to swim?” “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.” Irving laughed uneasily. “Oh, I didn’t say that. If Mr. Randolph is willing that you should go, I wouldn’t object.” “You’re in charge of this dormitory,” argued Westby. “And if you gave us permission, Mr. Randolph wouldn’t say anything.”
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.
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 luncheon about the shoot and strolled over more from curiosity to see how he would acquit himself than for any other reason.
Irving wondered if the boy would not have the fairness to make some acknowledgment of the injustice 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.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Westby urbanely. “If I have wounded your sensibilities—I would not do that—never—jamais—pas du tout.” 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.
“All right, Wes; we’ll stop them,” Collingwood said to him cheerfully. 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.
Though it was only the first down, Ballard dropped back to kick. “Now then, Wes, hang on to it,” Collingwood cried as he and Westby turned and ran to their places in the back field. 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.
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.
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.
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. “Why, yes,” he said hesitatingly. “I—I was a little startled.”
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