Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: June 20, 2025
Wasn’t it rather—what shall I say?—peu aimable not 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.
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.
But at last he paused a moment; and then, looking up from the book, he said, with grave distinctness, “Disorderly in class and insolent, Westby, three sheets; disorderly in dormitory and insolent, Collingwood, three sheets.” He closed the book; a stir, a thrill of interest, ran round the room.
Westby was going on and on; he had a hilarious audience now of three tables. From the platform at the end of the dining-room Mr. Randolph looked down and shook his head—shook it emphatically; and Irving, seeing it, understood the signal. “Westby,” said Irving. “Westby!” He had to raise his voice. “Yes, sir?” Westby looked up innocently. “I will have to ask you to discontinue your reading.”
He drew out his watch. “I will give you one minute in which to climb that ladder,” he said. “Mr. Upton, you wish to be a just man,” pleaded Westby. “Even though you have the great weight of authority—and years”—Westby choked a laugh—“behind you, don’t do an unjust and arbitrary thing. Allison himself wouldn’t have you—would you, Allison?” The victim grinned uncomfortably. “Mr.
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.
“Maybe you’ll join us?” Irving shook his head. “I wish I could. But please go on.” Westby squatted again on the window-seat and plucked undecidedly at the banjo-strings. Then he cleared his throat and launched upon a negro melody; he sang it with the unctuous abandon of the darkey, and Irving listened and looked on enviously, admiring the display of talent.
And then, while all the class sat in silence, Westby did an audacious thing—a thing that set every one except Irving off into a joyous titter. He went out of the door doing the sailor’s hornpipe,—right hand on stomach, left hand on back, left hand on stomach, right hand on back, and taking little skips as he alternated the position. And so, skipping merrily, he disappeared down the corridor.
He had meant to be dignified and calm, but his anger had rushed to the surface, and his words came in a voice that suggested he was on the verge of tears. “I beg your pardon, sir, but I don’t think I quite understand,” said Westby suavely. “You understand well enough. I ask you to leave the room.” “I’m afraid, Mr.
Must a little hard luck make hard feeling?” “Oh, there’s no hard feeling,” Westby assured him. “Glad to hear it. Good-by.” Lawrence held out his hand. “You’re not going to stay for supper?” “No. I’m going back with the team on the six o’clock train—hour exam on Monday. My brother’s waiting for me outside; I want to see him for a while before we start.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking