"Tell me, Irv," he said in a tone that simply brushed aside as non-existent everybody else at the table—just as if he and his brother were talking together alone, "what sort of kids do you have to look after in your dormitory, anyhow?"

Irving's lip twitched with amusement; Westby, still scarlet, was looking at his plate. "Oh, a pretty good sort—but they're Sixth Formers, you know—not kids."

"Pretty fresh, are they—trying to show off a good deal and be funny?"

"Oh, one or two only; still, even they aren't bad."

Lawrence paid no further attention to Westby. 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. Upton had warned his brother against him, had imparted to his brother his own dislike; that was why Lawrence had nipped so brutally his harmless, humorous allusion to the master's temper.

As a matter of fact, Lawrence had had no previous knowledge whatever of Westby; Irving had always withstood his impulse to confide his troubles. He made now an effort to draw Westby forward and reinstate him in the conversation; he said,—

"Lawrence, you and Westby here may come against each other this afternoon; Westby's first substitute for one of the half-backs on the School eleven."

Lawrence said, "That's good," and gave Westby hardly a glance.

After luncheon, walking down to the athletic field with Westby, Carroll said jeeringly,—

"Well, Kiddy Upton's brother is no myth, is he, Wes?"

At that Westby began to splutter. "Conceited chump! He makes me tired. Of all the fresh things—to sit up there and talk about the 'kids' in Kiddy's dormitory!"

Carroll laughed in his silent, irritating way. "He certainly put you down and out—a good hard one. Why, even Kiddy was sorry for you."

Westby went on fuming. "Sorry for me! I guess Kiddy had been whining to him about how I'd worried him. That's why the chump had it in for me."

"Chump, Wes! Such a peach of a good looker?"

"Oh, shut up. I don't care if he is good looking; he's fresher than paint."

"He would think that was a queer criticism for you to make."

Westby stalked on in angry silence. He was more wounded than he could let Carroll know. There was a side to him which he shrank from displaying,—the gentle, affectionate side of which Irving had had a glimpse when the boy was anxiously watching his young cousin Price in the mile run; and to this quality Lawrence's greeting of his brother had unconsciously appealed. Westby had stood by and heard his words, "You carry that, you little fellow!" had seen the humor in his eyes and the gentleness on his lips, and had felt something in his own throat.

For all his affectation of worldliness and cynicism, the boy was a hero-worshiper at heart, and could never resist being attracted by a fine face and a handsome pair of eyes and a pleasant voice; Lawrence had in the first glance awakened an enthusiasm which was eager for near acquaintance. And now, although he talked so venomously against him, it was not Lawrence whom he reproached in his heart; it was himself.

Why had he been unable to resist the impulse to be smart, to be funny, to be cheap? He might have known that a fellow like Lawrence would see through his remark and would resent it; he might have known that his silly, clownish wink could not escape Lawrence's keen eyes.

So Westby walked on, gloomily reproaching himself, unconscious that at that very moment, walking a hundred yards behind, Irving was defending him.

"A month ago, Lawrence, I'd have been glad to have you light on Westby as you did," he said. "But now I'm rather sorry."

"Why so?"

"Oh, he's had some hard luck lately, and—well, I don't know. Those encounters with a boy don't seem to me worth while."

"You've got to suppress them when they're fresh like that," insisted Lawrence. "For a fellow to talk to you in that fresh way before a guest—and that guest your brother—I don't stand for it; that's all."

"No, I don't either. Well, it doesn't matter much; reproof slides off Westby like water off a duck's back."

They talked of other things then until Lawrence had to join his team and enter the athletic house with them to dress.

Out on the field Irving mingled with the crowd, walked to and fro nervously, stopped to say only a word now to a boy, now to a master, and then passed on. It was foolish for him to be so excited, so tremulous, he told himself. Lawrence had parted from him with the same calmness with which he might have gone to prepare for bed. It was all the more foolish to be so excited, because the accessories to promote a preliminary excitement were lacking,—rivalry, partisanship; the visiting team had no supporters.

The School had turned out to see the game, but there was no cheering, no thrill of expectation; the boys stood about and waited quietly, as they would before ordinary practice. It would be different in another week, when the St. John's team were sharing the athletic house with St. Timothy's, and the adherents of the two schools were ranged opposite each other, waving flags and hurling back and forth challenging cheers—cheers meant to inspirit the players while they dressed. But now Irving was aware that he in all the crowd was the only one whose nerves and muscles were quivering, whose voice might not be quite natural or quite under his control, whose heart was beating hard.

If Lawrence should not play well this time—the first time he had ever seen him play! Or if anything should happen to him! Irving tramped back and forth, digging cold hands into his pockets.

The Harvard team was the first to leave the athletic house; they broke through the line of spectators near where Irving stood and trotted out on the field. As they passed, he caught his brother's eye and waved to him. In the preliminary practice Irving watched him eagerly; with his light curly hair he was conspicuous, and as he was on the end of the line his movements were easy to follow. It seemed to Irving that he was the quickest and the readiest and the handsomest of them all.

Out came St. Timothy's, and then there was a cheer. The two teams went rollicking and tumbling up and down the field for a few moments; then Collingwood and the Harvard captain met in the centre, Mr. Barclay tossed a coin, and the players went to their positions. Mr. Barclay blew a whistle; the game began.

From that time on Irving trotted up and down the side lines, his heart twittering with pride and anxiety. After every scrimmage, after every tackle, he looked apprehensively for a curly light head; he was always glad when he saw it bob up safely out of a pile. Through all the press and conflict, he watched for it, followed it—just as, he thought in one whimsical moment, the French troopers of Macaulay's poem watched for the white plume of Navarre.

If he had known even less about the game than he did, he must still have seen that for Harvard his brother and Ballard, the fullback, were playing especially well. Ballard, with his hard plunges through the centre and his long punts, was the chief factor in Harvard's offensive game; Lawrence was their ablest player on the defense.

After the first ten minutes St. Timothy's made hardly an attempt to go round his end, but devoted their assaults to the centre and other wing of the line.

If there was one thing for which Collingwood, the best football player in the School, had achieved a special reputation, it was the fleetness and dexterity with which he could run the ball back after punts. He was known as the best man in the back field that St. Timothy's had had in years. So when Ballard prepared for his first kick, the spectators looked on with composure.

It was a fine kick; the ball went spiraling high and far, but Collingwood was under it as it fell, and Dennison was in front of him to protect him.

Yet Lawrence, rushing down upon them, was too quick, too clever; Dennison's attempt to block him off was only a glancing one that staggered him for the fraction of an instant; and the ball had no sooner struck in Collingwood's arms than Lawrence launched himself and hurled the runner backwards.

"Whew! What a fierce tackle!" ejaculated a boy near Irving admiringly.

"I think Lou did well to hang on the ball," responded his friend.

Irving heard; he went about greedily drinking in comments which that tackle had evoked. He found himself standing behind Westby and the other substitutes, who, wrapped in blankets, trailed up and down the field keeping pace with the progress of their team.

"No!" Briggs, one of the substitutes, was saying. "Was that Kiddy Upton's brother? He's a whirlwind, isn't he?"

"Looked to me as if he was trying to lay Lou Collingwood out," returned Westby sourly.

At once Irving's cheeks flamed hot. He put out his hand and touched Westby's shoulder; the boy turned, and then the blood rushed into his cheeks too.

"Was there anything wrong about that tackle, Westby?" Irving asked.

"It just seemed to me he threw him pretty hard."

Irving spoke to the three or four other substitutes standing by.

"I don't know much about football; was there anything wrong with that tackle—that it should be criticised?"

"It looked all right to me," said Briggs.

"If there is any question about it, I shall want to talk to my brother—"

"Oh, it was all right," Windom spoke up. "It was a good, clean, hard tackle—the right kind. Wes is always down on the enemy, aren't you, Wes?"

Westby stood in sullen silence. The next play was started; St. Timothy's gained five yards, and in the movement of the crowd Irving and Westby were separated.

For a few moments Irving's thoughts were diverted from his brother, and his joyous excitement was overshadowed by regret. He felt less indignant with Westby than sorry for him; he knew that the boy had repented of his hasty and intemperate words. If he would only come up and acknowledge it—so that he might be forgiven!

Then Irving put Westby out of his mind. St. Timothy's had kicked; Ballard had recovered the ball for Harvard on St. Timothy's forty-yard line, and then Warren, the quarterback, had made a long pass straight into Lawrence's hands; Lawrence started to run; then, just as Chase and Baldersnaith were bearing down for the tackle, he stopped and hurled the ball forward and across to Newell, the other Harvard end.

It sailed clear over the heads of the intervening players; Newell had been signaled to, had got down the field and was ready for it; three St. Timothy's players ran to get under the ball, but instead of blocking Newell off and merely trying to spoil his catch, they all tried to make the catch themselves; they all leaped for it. Newell was the quickest; he grabbed the ball out of the air and went down instantly, with the three others on him—but he was on St. Timothy's ten-yard line.

It was a brilliant pass and a brilliant catch; St. Timothy's stood looking on disconsolate, while the Harvard players gathered exultantly for the line-up. Three rushes through tackle and centre and one run round Lawrence's end carried the ball across St. Timothy's line for a touchdown. Ballard kicked the goal.

There was no more scoring that half. In the second half St. Timothy's kicked off; Harvard got the ball and set about rushing it back up the field. They had gained ten yards and had carried the ball forty yards from their own goal, when they lost possession of it on a fumble. The spectators cheered, and began shouting,—

"Touchdown, St. Timothy's, touchdown!"

There was more shouting when, with Collingwood interfering for him, Dennison broke through the Harvard left tackle and made fifteen yards. Then Collingwood made a quarter-back kick which Morrill captured on the Harvard five-yard line.

The St. Timothy's cheering broke out afresh, Scarborough leading it. Irving joined in the cheer; he was glad to see Collingwood and the others making gains—provided they did not make them round Lawrence's end.

On the five-yard line the Harvard defense stiffened. On the third down the ball was two yards from the goal line.

"Everybody get into this next play—everybody!" cried Collingwood appealingly; he went about slapping his men on the back. "Now then—twelve, thirty-seven, eighteen."

There was a surge forward, a quivering, toppling mass that finally fell indecisively. No one knew whether the ball had been pushed across or not. No one wanted to get up for fear it might be pushed one way or the other in the shifting.

Barclay and Randolph, who was umpire, began summarily dragging the players from the pile, hauling at an arm or a leg; at last Dennison was revealed at the bottom hugging the ball—and it was just across the line.

Then all the St. Timothy's players capered about for joy, and the spectators shouted as triumphantly as if it had been the St. John's game; the Harvard team ranged themselves quietly under the goal. Dennison kicked the goal, and the score was tied.

For the next ten minutes neither team succeeded in making much progress. St. Timothy's were playing more aggressively than in the first half; twice Kenyon, the Harvard halfback, started to skirt round Lawrence's end, but both times Baldersnaith, the St. Timothy's tackle, broke through and dragged him down. Baldersnaith, Dennison, Morrill, and Collingwood were especially distinguishing themselves for the School.

At last, after one of the scrimmages, Dennison got up, hobbled a moment, and then sat down again. Collingwood hurried over to him anxiously.

"Wrenched my ankle," said Dennison. "I guess I'll be all right in a moment."

Waring, the Fifth Former, who acted as water-carrier, ran out on the field with his pail and sponge. Mr. Barclay examined the ankle, then turned to Collingwood.

"I think he could go on playing," he said. "But if I were you I'd take him out now and save him for the St. John's game. You don't want to risk his being laid up for that."

Dennison protested, but Collingwood agreed with Mr. Barclay. He turned and called, "Westby"; and as Westby ran out, Dennison picked himself up and limped to the side-line.

It was Harvard's ball in the middle of the field. 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. But he knew that was exactly what the Harvard quarterback intended to prevent.

The ball came sailing, high and twisting; he had to run back to get under it. Then he planted himself, but the ball as it came down was slanted off by the wind, so that he had at the last to make a sudden dash for it; it struck and stuck, hugged to his breast, and then over he went with a terrific shock, which jarred the ball from his grasp.

Irving had seen the play with mingled joy and sorrow. It was his brother who had made the tackle; it was Newell, the other Harvard end, who had dropped on the fumbled ball.

Westby and Lawrence got to their feet together; Lawrence's eyes were dancing with triumphant expectation; the ball was Harvard's now on St. Timothy's twenty-yard line. And Westby went dully to his position, aware of the accusing silence of the crowd.

"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. There were only three minutes left to play, and in that time neither side scored.

When Mr. Barclay blew his whistle, the Harvard team assembled and cheered St. Timothy's, and then St. Timothy's assembled and cheered Harvard. After that the players walked to the athletic house, beset on the way by the curious or by friends.

Westby was the victim of condolences, well meant but ill-timed; he responded curtly when Blake, pushing near, said to him, "It was awfully hard luck, Wes—but after that you played a mighty good game." He wished nothing but to be let alone, he wished no sympathy. He knew that he had lost the game; that was enough for him.

In the dressing-room he sat on a bench next to Lawrence Upton and began putting on his clothes in silence. The other boys were talking all round him, commenting cheerfully on the plays and on the future prospects of the teams.

Lawrence refrained from discussing the game at all; he asked Westby what St. Timothy's boys he knew at Harvard, and where he expected to room when he went there; he tried to be friendly. But Westby repelled his efforts, answering in a sullen voice. At last Lawrence finished dressing; he picked up his bag and turned to Westby.

"Look here," he said, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. "I'm going to be at Harvard the next three years; we're likely to meet. 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. I hope to come up here some time again—hope I'll see you."

"Thanks. I hope so. Good-by."

The words were all right, but Westby spoke them mechanically. It had flashed upon him that Lawrence would now learn from his brother the charge that he had so unjustly and hotly made. And of a sudden he wished he could prevent that. He would have been glad to go to Irving and retract it all and apologize; anything to keep Lawrence from hearing of it.

Why had he been so slow in dressing—why hadn't he hurried on his clothes and gone out ahead of Lawrence and made it all right with Irving!

With a wild thought that it might not yet be too late, he flung on his coat and rushed from the building—only to see Irving and Lawrence walking together across the football field.



CHAPTER X

MASTER AND BOY

For several days Westby's unnatural quiet was attributed to his sensitiveness over the error which had given the Harvard Freshmen their victory. It was most noticeable at Irving's table; there his bubbling spirits seemed permanently to have subsided; he wrapped himself in silence and gloom. His manner towards Irving was that of haughty displeasure. Carroll was at a loss to understand it and questioned him about it one day.

"Oh, I'm just tired of him—tired of hearing his everlasting brag about his brother," Westby said sharply.

"He bragged so little about him once you wouldn't believe he had a brother," replied Carroll. "I don't see that he brags much more about him now."

"Well, I see it, and it annoys me," retorted Westby rudely. "I think I'll see if I can have my seat changed. I'd rather sit at Scabby's table."

Mr. Randolph, however, the head of the Upper School, refused to grant Westby's petition.

"You don't give any special reason," he said. "You have friends at Mr. Upton's table; you ought to be contented to stay there. What's the matter? Are you having friction with some one?"

"I should be better satisfied if I were at Scarborough's table," said Westby.

"We can't gratify every individual preference or whim," replied Mr. Randolph.

He asked Irving if he knew of any reason why Westby should be transferred and told him that the boy had asked for the change.

"Oh, it's just between him and me," said Irving wearily. "We don't get on."

"Then you'd like to have him go, too?"

"No, I wouldn't. When he's his natural self, I like him. And I haven't yet given up the hope that some time we'll get together."

He met Westby's coldness with coolness. But on the morning of the St. John's game, after breakfast, he drew Westby aside. He held a letter in his hand.

"Westby," he said, "I don't know that you will care to hear it, but I have a message for you from my brother."

Westby cast down his eyes and reddened. "I don't suppose I shall care to hear it," he said with a humility that amazed Irving. "But go ahead—give it to me, Mr. Upton."

"I don't quite understand—he just asked me to say to you that he hopes you'll get your chance in the game to-day. He felt you were rather cut up by your hard luck in the Freshman game."

"Didn't he—isn't he—" Westby hesitated for an uncomfortable moment, then blurted out, "Isn't he sore at me, Mr. Upton?"

"What for?"

"For saying about him what I did—about his trying to lay Collingwood out when he tackled."

"He doesn't know you said it."

"Oh! Didn't you tell him?"

"No. The criticism was unjust—there was no use in repeating it."

"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. Long before it began the boys of St. John's with their blue banners and flags and the boys of St. Timothy's with their red were ranged on opposite sides of the field, hurling defiant, challenging cheers across at one another; for St. Timothy's a band, in which Scarborough beat the drum and was director, paraded back and forth; the little boys were already hopping up and down and trembling and squealing with excitement; already their little voices were almost gone.

Irving knew that to himself alone was this occasion one of less moving interest than that of the preceding Saturday; as he stood and looked on at the waving red and the waving blue and later at the struggle that was being waged in the middle of the field, he wondered how on this afternoon that other game between the red and the blue was going, and how Lawrence was acquitting himself.

Certainly it could not, he thought, be any more close, more hotly contested, than this of the two rival schools. All through the first half they fought each other without scoring.

Once St. Timothy's had got down to St. John's fifteen-yard line, but then had been unable to go farther, and Dennison had missed by only a few feet his try for a goal from the field.

Early in the second half St. Timothy's met with misfortune. Dennison was laid out by a hard tackle; when at last he got to his feet, he limped badly. Louis Collingwood took him by the arm and walked round with him; Dennison was arguing, protesting. But Collingwood led him towards the side-line, patting him on the back, and called "Westby!"

The spectators cheered the injured player who came off so reluctantly; then they cheered Westby as he ran out upon the field. Irving was near the group of substitutes when Dennison hobbled in.

"Hurt much, Denny?" asked Briggs.

"No—just that same old ankle—hang it all!" Dennison slipped into a blanket and lowered himself painfully to the ground.

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. Timothy's on the side-lines waved and shouted, for Westby had gained five yards.

Collingwood called on him again; he gained three yards more. Irving shouted with the rest; he turned to Mr. Randolph and said,—

"That ought to give Westby confidence."

"I hope it does; he's so erratic," Mr. Randolph answered. "If only he's starting in now on one of his brilliant streaks!"

Lane, the Fifth Form halfback, tried to go round the end on the next play, but made no gain. Then Westby was driven again at left tackle, but he got only two yards.

Collingwood gave the signal for a criss-cross; Lane took the ball, and passed it to Westby, who was already on the run. Westby got clear of the St. John's end, and seemed well started for a brilliant run; but their halfback chased him across the field and finally, by a tremendous diving tackle, pulled him down. As it was, Westby had made so much of a gain that the distance had to be measured; he had failed by only a few inches to make the required amount, and the ball went to St. John's on their thirty-five-yard line.

St. 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.

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.

One of the ends dropped on the ball, rolled over with it a couple of times, rolled up on his feet again and was off with it for the St. Timothy's goal; he had carried it to the twenty-yard line when Collingwood pulled him down. St. John's were streaming down their side line, shrieking and waving their blue flags; St. Timothy's stood dazed and silent.

"Oh, butterfingers!" cried Briggs, stamping his foot.

"Just like Wes—he wouldn't make a football player in a thousand years!" exclaimed Windom.

Irving heard the comments; he heard other comments. If St. John's should score now! He hoped they wouldn't; he was sorry enough for Westby. But St. John's did score, by a series of furious centre rushes, and their fullback kicked the goal. And when, fifteen minutes later, the referee blew his whistle, the game was St. John's, by that score of six to nothing.

Irving could understand why some of the St. Timothy's boys had tears in their eyes. It was pretty trying even for him to see the triumphant visitors rush upon the field, toss the members of their team upon their shoulders, and bear them away exultantly to the athletic house, yelling and flaunting their flags, while the St. Timothy's players walked disconsolately and silently behind them.

It was trying afterwards to stand by and see those blue-bedecked invaders form into long-linked lines and dance their serpentine of victory on St. Timothy's ground. It was trying to stand by and watch barge after barge bedecked with blue roll away while the occupants shouted and waved their hats—and left the field to silence and despair.

But still St. Timothy's did not abandon the scene of their defeat. They waited loyally in front of the athletic house to welcome and console their team when it should emerge. Collingwood led the players out, and the crowd gave them a good one.

Collingwood said, with a smile, though in an unsteady voice, "Much obliged, fellows," and waved his hand.

Then the crowd dispersed; slowly they all walked away.

That evening, as Irving was about to leave his room to go down to supper, a boy brought him a telegram. It was from his brother; it said,—

"We licked them, twelve to six. Feeling fine. Lawrence."

At the table Irving tried not to appear too happy. He apologized for his state of mind and told the boys the cause; those who, like Carroll, were Harvard sympathizers derived a little cheer from the news, and the others seemed indifferent to it. Westby was not there. The training table was vacant, and at the other tables were empty chairs where substitutes on the team had sat. Mrs. Barclay was entertaining the football players.

"I wish I was breaking training there," said Carroll to Irving; "she has the most wonderful food."

In the discussion of the game there seemed to be little disposition to blame Westby.

"After all," said Blake, "he was only a sub, and he never got so very much practice in handling punts. I don't think fellows ought to be sore on him."

"No, he's just sore on himself," said Carroll.

"It's hard luck, anyhow; except for that one thing he played mighty well."

The mail boy passed, leaving a letter for Irving. It was in his uncle's handwriting; and his uncle never wrote to him; it was his aunt who kept him posted on all the news of home. Did this mean that she was ill—or that some disaster had befallen?

Irving determined that if it was bad news, he would reserve it until he should be alone; he put the letter in his pocket and waited anxiously for the meal to end.

When he was again in his room, he tore open the envelope and read this letter:—

DEAR IRVING,—I have not helped you and Lawrence much financially. I thought it would do you and him no harm to try out your own resources. But I always meant to give you a lift whenever it should seem wise, and whenever a lift could be most advantageously arranged.

Your father was never able to lay up any money; his work was of a kind that did not permit that. But he would always have shared with me whatever he had. I have had it in mind to do the same by his children. I have sold half the farm—the western half—your half and Lawrence's. There is four thousand dollars in cash for each of you, and four thousand on a mortgage for each of you at six per cent. You had better draw out of school-teaching as soon as possible and study law—if that is still what you most want to do.

Your aunt is well and sends her love. We are both looking forward to seeing you and Lawrence at Christmas.

Your affectionate uncle,

ROBERT UPTON.

A flood of warm emotion poured through Irving; his eyes filled. He had sometimes thought his uncle selfish and narrow—and all the time he had been working towards this!

Irving wrote his reply; he wrote also to Lawrence. Then he took his letters down to the Study building, to post them so that they might go out with the night mail. On his way he passed the Barclay house; it was all brightly lighted, the sound of laughter and of gay boy voices rang out through the open windows; the notes of a piano then subdued them, and there burst out a chorus in the sonorous measured sweep of "Wacht am Rhein."

Irving stood for a few moments and listened; his exultant heart was responsive to that shouted song. Fellows who could sing like that, he thought, must have trodden disappointment under heel.

An hour later, when Irving sat in his room, the boys who had been entertained at the Barclays' came tramping up the stairs. They were still singing, but they stopped their song before they entered the dormitory. Irving met them to say good-night—first Dennison and then Morrill and then Louis Collingwood.

"Have you heard the new song Wes has got off, Mr. Upton?" asked Dennison.

"No, what's that?"

"Hit it up, Wes."

"Oh, choke it off." Collingwood grinned uneasily.

"Go on, Wes,—strike up. We'll all join in."

"Wait till I get my banjo—you don't mind, do you, Mr. Upton?"

"No. I'd like to hear it."

So Westby hastened to his room and returned, bearing the instrument; and all the other boys gathered round, except Collingwood, who stood sheepishly off at one side. Westby twanged the strings and then to the accompaniment began,—

"Across the broad prairies he came from the west, With fire in his eye and with brawn on his chest; His arms they were strong and his legs they were fleet; There was none could outstrip his vanishing feet; We made him our captain—what else could we do? You ask who he is? Do I hear you say, 'Who?'"

Then they all came in on the chorus:—

"He is our Lou, he is our honey-Lou, He is our pride and joy; He is our Loo-loo, he is our Loo-loo, He is our Lou-Lou boy."

"Silly song!" exclaimed Collingwood with disgust.

"Wes made it up just this evening, at Mrs. Barclay's," said Dennison. "We were all singing, and after a while Wes edged in to the piano and sprung this on us. Don't you think it's a good song?"

"So good that I wish I could furnish inspiration for another," said Irving.

Westby joined in the laugh and looked pleased.

"Good-night, everybody," said Collingwood; he walked away to his room. The others followed, all except Westby, to whom Irving said,—

"Will you wait a moment? I should like to have a little talk with you." He led the boy into his room and pushed forward his armchair.

Westby seated himself with his banjo across his knees and looked at Irving wonderingly.

"The fellows seem pretty cheerful after their defeat, don't they?" said Irving.

A shadow crossed Westby's face. "They've been very decent about it," he answered.

Irving put his hand on Westby's arm.

"Do you know why they're so decent? It's because you've cheered them up yourself. Who was the fellow, Westby, that said he didn't care who might make his country's laws if only he might write its songs?"



"Oh—no—that's got nothing to do with me."

"You needn't care who makes the touchdowns. Your job is to do something else. It's no discredit to you if because of lack of training or adaptability, you can't hang on to a ball at a critical moment. There are plenty of fellows who can do that.—I suppose you don't see it yet yourself—but you know the message my brother sent you? I shall tell him that you got your chance to-day—and took it."

"I don't see how."

"Well, I don't know how you managed it exactly. But I could see when those fellows came upstairs just now that you stood better with them than you ever had done before. It must have been because you showed the right spirit—and I know by experience, Westby, that it's awfully hard to show the right spirit when you're down."

There was silence for a few moments.

"I guess I've made it hard for you," said Westby at last, in a low voice. "You're different from what I thought you were."

Irving's low laugh of exultation sprang from the heart. "Maybe I am—and maybe you were right about me, too. A fellow changes. A month ago, I was wondering what use there could ever be in my studying law—trying to practise, mixing with men—when I couldn't hold my own with a handful of boys. For some reason, I don't feel that way any longer.—Well, that's about all I wanted to say to you, Westby." He stood up. "Good-night."

Westby rose and shook hands. "Good-night, sir."

He passed out and quietly closed the door. Irving stood at the window, gazing beyond the shadowy trees to the dim silver line of the pond, touched now by the moonlight. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Irving called.

It was Westby again.

"Oh, Mr. Upton," he said, "I meant to tell you—I heard at Mr. Barclay's how the Freshman game came out; I wish, if you would, you'd send your brother my congratulations."

"Thank you, I will."

"Good-night, sir."

"Good-night."

The door closed softly. Irving turned again and pressed his forehead against the window-pane with a smile. It was a smile not merely of satisfaction because he had won his way at last, though he was not indifferent to that; he was happy too because this night he felt he had come close to Westby.

THE END