“Oh, ask him if this fellow’s a relation of his, and say I supposed of course he must be—such athletic prowess, and all that sort of thing; with a crowd standing there giggling you know how rattled he’ll get.” “All right,” said Morrill, who was an earnest admirer of Westby’s wit. So they collected Dennison and Smythe and Allison and Carroll and Scarborough, and marched up the corridor—humorously tramping in step—to Irving’s door. There Westby, newspaper in hand, knocked. Irving opened the door. “Mr. Upton, sir,” began Westby, “sorry to disturb you, sir.” The boys all began to grin, and Irving saw that he was in for some carefully planned attack. “I was just reading my morning paper, sir, and I wanted to ask you what relation to you the man named Upton is that’s playing on the Harvard Freshman eleven, sir.” Irving’s eyes twinkled; if ever the enemy had been delivered into his hands! “What makes you think he’s a relation?” he asked, with an assumption of cold dignity. “Oh, we all feel sure he must be, sir. Of course your well-known and justly famous interest in all athletic sports, sir—not to say your prowess in them, sir—it’s natural to suppose that any athlete named Upton would belong to the same family with you, sir.” The boys were all on the broad grin; Westby’s manner was so expansively courteous, his compliments were so absurdly urbane, that Irving threw off his air of coldness and adopted a jaunty manner of reply which was even more misleading. “Oh, well, if you’ve been so clever as to guess it, Westby,” he said, “I don’t mind telling you—it’s my brother.” Westby bestowed on his confederates—quite indifferent as to whether Irving detected it or not—his slow, facetious wink. He returned then to his victim and in his most gamesome manner said,— “I supposed of course it was your brother, sir. Or at least I should have supposed so, except that I didn’t know you had a brother at Harvard. Wasn’t it rather—what shall I say?—_peu aimable_ not to have taken us, your friends, into your confidence? Would you mind telling us, sir, what your brother’s first name is?” “My brother’s first name? Lawrence.” “Hm!” said Westby, referring to his newspaper. “I find him set down here as ‘T. Upton.’ But I suppose that is a misprint, of course.” “I suppose it must be,” agreed Irving. “Newspapers are always making mistakes, aren’t they?” said Westby. “Such careless fellows! We’d like awfully to hear more about your brother Lawrence, Mr. Upton.” The broad grin broke into a snicker. “Why, I don’t know just what there is to tell,” Irving said awkwardly. “What does he look like, sir? Does he resemble you very much?—I mean, apart from the family fondness for athletics.” Irving’s lips twitched; Westby was enjoying so thoroughly his revenge! And the other boys were all stifling their amusement. “We are said not to look very much alike,” he answered. “He is of a somewhat heavier build.”