From the crowd at the finish came the instant shout of names; out of the short choppy cries two names especially emerged, “Flack! Flack! Flack!” “Westby! Westby! Westby!” Those two were the favorites for the event. Irving saw the scratch men forge ahead, and mingle with the handicap runners; in the confusion of flying white figures he could not see who were leading. But the tumult near the finish grew wild; arms and caps were swung aloft, boys were leaping up and down; the red-haired Dennison ran along the edge of the track, waving his arms; Morrill on the other side did the same thing; the next moment the race had ended in a tumultuous rush of shouting boys. [Illustration: AS TO WHO HAD WON, IRVING HAD NOT THE SLIGHTEST IDEA] As to who had won, Irving had not the slightest idea. He was hastening up to find out—hoping that it had been Westby. And then out from the crowd burst Westby and rushed towards him, panting, flushed, hot-eyed, attended by Morrill and half a dozen other Corinthians. “I hope you’re satisfied with your spite-work,” said Westby. His voice shook with passion, his eyes blazed; never before had Irving seen him when he had so lost control of himself. “You lost me that race—by half a yard! I hope you’re pleased with yourself!” He surveyed Irving scornfully, breathing hard, then turned his back and strode off to the athletic house. CHAPTER VII THE WORM BEGINS TO TURN After the charge which Westby had flung at him so furiously, Irving looked in amazement to the other boys for an explanation. They were all Corinthians, and he saw gloom and resentment in their faces. “I think it was pretty rough, Mr. Upton, to penalize him for an unintentional foul,” said Morrill. “He’d have beaten Flack if they’d started even.” “But it _was_ a foul,” protested Irving. “So I had to penalize him. I made it as small a penalty as I could.” “You didn’t have to penalize him unless you wanted to,” said Morrill grimly. “Of course you had a perfect right to do as you pleased, only—” He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, followed by the other Corinthians. Irving stood stricken. So this was the outcome; in seeking to be sympathetic and to be understood, he had only caused himself somehow to be more hated and despised. Bitterness rose within him, bitterness against Westby, against Morrill, against boys in general, against the school. And only an hour ago, from what he had seen and heard, he had felt that he could like Westby, and had been not without some hope that Westby might some time like him.