He saw Barclay standing with Mr. Randolph by the table on which were the prize cups; Barclay was bending over, arranging them, and the boys were gathering on the opposite side of the track, being “policed back” by the half-dozen members of the athletic committee. Evidently the award of prizes was to be made at once, and either Barclay or Randolph was to hand out the cups—perhaps also to make a speech. But Irving could not wait; he must satisfy himself of his doubts and fears, and so he hurried forward and touched Barclay on the shoulder. “Just a moment, please,” he said, as Barclay turned. “Did I do anything wrong?” “You penalized Westby a yard for fouling, I heard; is that so?” “Yes.” “Well, you were within your rights. But if it was obviously an unintentional foul, I shouldn’t have been so strict.” “I misunderstood what you told me,” sighed Irving. “I thought that in case of foul a fellow _had_ to be penalized.” “Oh, no.” Barclay was busy; he had to think up something to say, by way of a speech, and he turned and began fussing again with the cups. Irving walked away. Even his friend Barclay was not sympathetic, did not understand the seriousness of what had happened. He could not stay longer to be the target of hostile, vengeful eyes; he felt that half the boys there were blaming him in their hearts for the defeat of their team—and that the others had no gratitude to him for their victory. Not that it would have made him feel any better if they had; he had only wanted and tried to be fair. He walked away from the field, crossed the track, and passed round into the avenue that led up to the School. When he had gone as far as the bend where from behind the cluster of trees the School buildings became visible, he heard the pleasant ripple of laughter from the crowd. Some one, probably Barclay, was making a speech; to think of being able to stand before boys and make them laugh like that! It seemed to Irving that he had never before known what envy was. He spent a mournful hour in his room; then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he closed his door. The boys were returning from the field; he felt sure there would be remarks about him by Westby and Morrill and other Corinthians up and down the corridor, and he preferred not to hear them. To his surprise there was rather less disturbance than usual; perhaps the boys were too tired after their exciting and active afternoon to indulge in noisy skylarking. So Irving did not have to emerge from his solitude until the supper bell rang. Even then he waited until all the boys had passed his door and were clattering down the stairs. Yet as he descended, Westby’s indignant voice floated up to him,— “Just because I guyed him—he felt he had to get even.” At supper Westby did not look at Irving. One of the boys, Blake, made a comment; he said,— “That was a mighty good race you ran, Westby; hard luck you were handicapped.” “You can call it hard luck if you want,” said Westby.