After supper there were prayers in the Common Room; then all the boys except the Sixth Formers went to the Study building to sit for an hour under the eyes of a master, to read or write letters. On subsequent evenings they would have to employ this period in studying, but as yet no lessons had been assigned; the classroom work had not begun. The Sixth Form were exempt from the necessity of attending Study, and had the privilege of preparing their lessons in their own rooms. Irving found, on going up to his dormitory, that the boys were visiting one another, helping one another unpack, darting up and down the corridor and carrying on loud conversations. He decided, as there were no lessons for them to prepare, not to interfere; their sociability seemed harmless enough. So, leaving the door of his room open that he might hear and suppress any incipient disorder, he began a letter to Lawrence. He thought at first that he would confide to his brother the little troubles which were annoying him. But when he set about it, they seemed really too petty to transcribe; surely he was man enough to bear such worries without appealing to a younger brother for advice. There was a loud burst of laughter from a room in which several boys had gathered. It was followed by the remark in Westby’s pleasant, persuasive voice,— “Look out, fellows, or we’ll have Kiddy Upton down on us.” “Kiddy Upton!” another voice exclaimed in delight, and there was more laughter. Kiddy Upton! So that was to be his name. Of course boys gave nicknames to their teachers,—Irving remembered some appellations that had prevailed even at college. But none of them seemed so slighting or so jeering as this of Kiddy; and Irving flushed as he had done when he had been taken for a “new kid.” But now his sensitiveness was even more hurt; it wounded him that Westby, that pleasant, humorous person, should have been the one to apply the epithet. Westby began singing “The Wearing of the Green,” to an accompaniment on a banjo. Presently four or five voices, with extravagant brogues, were uplifted in the chorus:— “’Tis the most disthressful counthry That ever there was seen; For they’re hanging men and women too For wearin’ of the green.” There was much applause; boys from other rooms went hurrying down the corridor. The banjo-player struck up “The Road to Mandalay;” again Irving recognized Westby’s voice. Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned; it was his part to step up, be genial, make himself known to all these boys who were to be under his care, and show them that he wished to be friendly. He did not wait to debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve or to consider how he should proceed; he acted on the impulse. He walked down the corridor to the third room on the left—the door of Westby’s room, from which the sounds of joviality proceeded. He knocked; some one called “Come in;” and Irving opened the door.