For several days Westby’s unnatural quiet was attributed to his sensitiveness over the error which had given the Harvard Freshmen their victory. It was most noticeable at Irving’s table; there his bubbling spirits seemed permanently to have subsided; he wrapped himself in silence and gloom. His manner towards Irving was that of haughty displeasure. Carroll was at a loss to understand it and questioned him about it one day. “Oh, I’m just tired of him—tired of hearing his everlasting brag about his brother,” Westby said sharply. “He bragged so little about him once you wouldn’t believe he had a brother,” replied Carroll. “I don’t see that he brags much more about him now.” “Well, I see it, and it annoys me,” retorted Westby rudely. “I think I’ll see if I can have my seat changed. I’d rather sit at Scabby’s table.” Mr. Randolph, however, the head of the Upper School, refused to grant Westby’s petition. “You don’t give any special reason,” he said. “You have friends at Mr. Upton’s table; you ought to be contented to stay there. What’s the matter? Are you having friction with some one?” “I should be better satisfied if I were at Scarborough’s table,” said Westby. “We can’t gratify every individual preference or whim,” replied Mr. Randolph. He asked Irving if he knew of any reason why Westby should be transferred and told him that the boy had asked for the change. “Oh, it’s just between him and me,” said Irving wearily. “We don’t get on.” “Then you’d like to have him go, too?” “No, I wouldn’t. When he’s his natural self, I like him. And I haven’t yet given up the hope that some time we’ll get together.” He met Westby’s coldness with coolness. But on the morning of the St. John’s game, after breakfast, he drew Westby aside. He held a letter in his hand. “Westby,” he said, “I don’t know that you will care to hear it, but I have a message for you from my brother.” Westby cast down his eyes and reddened. “I don’t suppose I shall care to hear it,” he said with a humility that amazed Irving. “But go ahead—give it to me, Mr. Upton.” “I don’t quite understand—he just asked me to say to you that he hopes you’ll get your chance in the game to-day. He felt you were rather cut up by your hard luck in the Freshman game.” “Didn’t he—isn’t he—” Westby hesitated for an uncomfortable moment, then blurted out, “Isn’t he sore at me, Mr. Upton?” “What for?” “For saying about him what I did—about his trying to lay Collingwood out when he tackled.” “He doesn’t know you said it.” “Oh! Didn’t you tell him?” “No. The criticism was unjust—there was no use in repeating it.” “It was unjust.” Westby had lowered his voice. “I am very much ashamed, Mr. Upton.” “That’s all right,” said Irving. He took Westby’s hand. “I hope too you’ll get your chance in the game.” “Thank you.” Westby spoke humbly. “I hope if I do, I won’t make a mess of it again.”