“He must be somewhat lacking, then, in grace and agility, sir,” said Westby; and the boys broke into a shout, and Irving gave way to a faint smile. At that moment Collingwood came up the stairs. “Hello, Lou,” said Westby, with a welcoming wink. “We’re just congratulating Mr. Upton on his brother; did you know that he has a brother playing on the Harvard Freshmen?” “Yes,” said Collingwood. “I’ve just heard it from Mr. Barclay.” The boys stared at Collingwood, then at Irving, whose eyes were twinkling again and whose smile had widened. Then they looked at Westby; he was gazing at Collingwood unbelievingly,—stupefied. “What’s the matter with you?” asked Collingwood. And then Irving broke out into a delighted peal of laughter. He could find nothing but slang in which to express himself, and through his laughter he ejaculated,— “Stung, my young friend! Stung!” They all gave a whoop; they swung Westby round and rushed him down the corridor to his room, shouting and jeering. When Irving went down to lunch, Carroll, the quizzical, silent Carroll, welcomed him with a grin. Westby turned a bright pink and looked away. At the next table Allison and Smythe and Scarborough were all looking over at him and smiling; and at the table beyond that Collingwood and Morrill and Dennison were craning their necks and exhibiting their joy. Westby, the humorist, had suddenly become the butt, a position which he had rarely occupied before. He was quite subdued through that meal. Once in the middle of it, Irving looked at him and caught his eye, and on a sudden impulse leaned back and laughed. Carroll joined in, Westby blushed once more, the Sixth Formers at the next table looked over and began to laugh; the other boys cast wondering glances. “What’s the joke, Mr. Upton?” asked Blake. “Oh, don’t ask _me_,” said Irving. “Ask Westby.” “What is it, Wes?” said Blake, and could not understand why he received such a vicious kick under the table, or why Carroll said in such a jeering way, “Yes, Wes, what _is_ the joke, anyhow?” When the meal was over, Westby’s friends lay in wait for him outside in the hall, crowded round, and began patting him on the back and offering him their jocular sympathy. To have the joke turned on the professional humorist appeared to be extremely popular; and the humorist did not take it very well. “Oh, get out, get out!” he was saying, wrenching himself from the grasp of first one and then another. And Irving came out just as he exclaimed in desperation, “Just the same, I’ll bet it’s all a fake; I’ll bet he hasn’t got a brother!” He flung himself around, trying to escape from Collingwood’s clutch, and saw Irving. The smile faded from Irving’s face; Westby looked at him sullenly for a moment, then broke away and made a rush up the stairs. CHAPTER VIII THE HARVARD FRESHMAN