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So your going to college is sure, and we’ll be only a couple of hours apart.” “Oh, Irv!” In Lawrence’s exclamation there was more expressiveness, more joy, than in all his brother’s carefully restrained statement. “Oh, Irv! Isn’t it splendid! I think you’re the finest thing—!” Lawrence grasped Irving’s hand and at the same time began thumping him on the back.
With a sigh Irving went forth to quell it. He determined that whatever happened he would not this time lose his temper; he would try to be persuasive and yet firm. The noise was in Allison’s room; the unfortunate Allison was again being persecuted. Loud whoops of laughter and the sound of vigorous scuffling, of tumbling chairs and pounding feet, came to Irving’s ears.
The meat was brought on again, sliced in a manner which could not conceal the unskillfulness of the original attack. “Stone cold!” exclaimed Blake, the first boy to test it. Irving’s temper flew up. “Don’t be childish,” he said. “And don’t make any more comments about this matter. It’s of no importance—and cold roast beef is just as good for you as hot.”
But Westby did not flinch; he waited for Irving’s answer, with his embarrassed, appealing smile. “I had a letter from him this morning,” said Irving. “He writes that there is a chance of their coming up here to play the School eleven; I had asked him if that couldn’t be arranged.” “Oh, really!” exclaimed Westby, in a tone of honest interest. “When, Mr.
Irving’s eyes were upon Westby; he hoped that this time the boy would not fail. Westby had an opportunity now to steady his nerves; it was St. Timothy’s ball and only the first down. Collingwood gave the signal; Irving watched closely, saw Westby take the ball on the pass and dive into the line. In a moment all the St. Timothy’s eleven seemed to be behind him, hurling him through, and St.
And when it was announced that the effort had fallen short by only a few inches, Irving’s sigh of disappointment went up with that of the boys. At intervals the races were run off—the two-twenty, the quarter-mile, the half-mile, the high hurdles, the low hurdles. Irving started them all without any mishap.
“Oh, I wish we could.” Irving’s face lighted up. “I’ll write to my brother, and perhaps he can arrange it with the captain and manager.”
So he said without a smile, in a constrained voice,— “I am not a new kid. I am a master.” The three boys who had been beaming on him with good humor in their eyes stared blankly. Then the one in the middle, with a sudden whoop of laughter, swung the two others round and led them off at a run; and as they went, their delighted laughter floated back to Irving’s ears.
Upton, sir,” began Westby, “sorry to disturb you, sir.” The boys all began to grin, and Irving saw that he was in for some carefully planned attack. “I was just reading my morning paper, sir, and I wanted to ask you what relation to you the man named Upton is that’s playing on the Harvard Freshman eleven, sir.” Irving’s eyes twinkled; if ever the enemy had been delivered into his hands!
“Did they take you for a new kid, Mr. Upton?” asked Blake, the Fifth Former, who sat on Irving’s left. “For a moment, yes,” admitted Irving, anxious not to pursue the subject. But Westby proceeded to explain with gusto, while the whole table listened. “Lou Collingwood and Carrie here and I were in front of the Study, and out came Mr. Upton.
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