“I believe so.” Westby looked at him quizzically, as if expecting him to make some reference to their encounter; but Irving passed on to his next neighbor, Carroll, and then began with the other side of the table. He liked the appearance of the boys; they were quiet-looking and respectful, and they had been responsive enough to his suggestion about announcing their names. A happy inspiration told him that so long as he could keep on taking the initiative with boys, he would have no serious trouble. But it was one thing to recognize an effective mode of conduct, and another to have the resourcefulness for carrying it out. Irving was just thinking what next he should say, when Westby fell upon him. “Mr. Upton,”—Westby’s voice was curiously distinct, in spite of its quietness,—“wasn’t it funny, our taking you for a new kid this afternoon?” 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.” “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. And Lou wanted to nail him for the Pythians, so we all pranced up to him, and I said, ‘Hello, new kid; what name, please?’—just like that; didn’t I, Mr. Upton?” “Yes,” said Irving grudgingly. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being made an object of general entertainment; certainly the eyes of all the boys at the table were fixed upon him smilingly. “What happened then?” asked the blunt Blake. “Why, then,” continued Westby, “Mr. Upton told us that he wasn’t a new kid at all, but a new master. You may imagine we were surprised—weren’t we, Mr. Upton?” “Oh, I could hardly tell—” “The joke was certainly on us. As the French say, it was a _contretemps_. To think that after all the years we’d been here, we couldn’t tell a new kid from a new master!” Irving was mildly bewildered. 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. In fact, his manner during supper was so agreeable that Irving quite forgot it was this youth whom he had overheard mimicking him: “I am not a new kid; I am a master.”