At that Westby began to splutter. “Conceited chump! He makes me tired. Of all the fresh things—to sit up there and talk about the ‘kids’ in Kiddy’s dormitory!” Carroll laughed in his silent, irritating way. “He certainly put you down and out—a good hard one. Why, even Kiddy was sorry for you.” Westby went on fuming. “Sorry for me! I guess Kiddy had been whining to him about how I’d worried him. That’s why the chump had it in for me.” “Chump, Wes! Such a peach of a good looker?” “Oh, shut up. I don’t care if he is good looking; he’s fresher than paint.” “He would think that was a queer criticism for you to make.” Westby stalked on in angry silence. He was more wounded than he could let Carroll know. There was a side to him which he shrank from displaying,—the gentle, affectionate side of which Irving had had a glimpse when the boy was anxiously watching his young cousin Price in the mile run; and to this quality Lawrence’s greeting of his brother had unconsciously appealed. Westby had stood by and heard his words, “_You_ carry that, you little fellow!” had seen the humor in his eyes and the gentleness on his lips, and had felt something in his own throat. For all his affectation of worldliness and cynicism, the boy was a hero-worshiper at heart, and could never resist being attracted by a fine face and a handsome pair of eyes and a pleasant voice; Lawrence had in the first glance awakened an enthusiasm which was eager for near acquaintance. And now, although he talked so venomously against him, it was not Lawrence whom he reproached in his heart; it was himself. Why had he been unable to resist the impulse to be smart, to be funny, to be cheap? He might have known that a fellow like Lawrence would see through his remark and would resent it; he might have known that his silly, clownish wink could not escape Lawrence’s keen eyes. So Westby walked on, gloomily reproaching himself, unconscious that at that very moment, walking a hundred yards behind, Irving was defending him. “A month ago, Lawrence, I’d have been glad to have you light on Westby as you did,” he said. “But now I’m rather sorry.” “Why so?” “Oh, he’s had some hard luck lately, and—well, I don’t know. Those encounters with a boy don’t seem to me worth while.” “You’ve got to suppress them when they’re fresh like that,” insisted Lawrence. “For a fellow to talk to you in that fresh way before a guest—and that guest your brother—I don’t stand for it; that’s all.” “No, I don’t either. Well, it doesn’t matter much; reproof slides off Westby like water off a duck’s back.” They talked of other things then until Lawrence had to join his team and enter the athletic house with them to dress.