A shadow crossed Westby’s face. “They’ve been very decent about it,” he answered. Irving put his hand on Westby’s arm. “Do you know why they’re so decent? It’s because you’ve cheered them up yourself. Who was the fellow, Westby, that said he didn’t care who might make his country’s laws if only he might write its songs?” [Illustration: A SHADOW CROSSED WESTBY’S FACE] “Oh—no—that’s got nothing to do with me.” “You needn’t care who makes the touchdowns. Your job is to do something else. It’s no discredit to you if because of lack of training or adaptability, you can’t hang on to a ball at a critical moment. There are plenty of fellows who can do that.—I suppose you don’t see it yet yourself—but you know the message my brother sent you? I shall tell him that you got your chance to-day—and took it.” “I don’t see how.” “Well, I don’t know how you managed it exactly. But I could see when those fellows came upstairs just now that you stood better with them than you ever had done before. It must have been because you showed the right spirit—and I know by experience, Westby, that it’s awfully hard to show the right spirit when you’re down.” There was silence for a few moments. “I guess I’ve made it hard for you,” said Westby at last, in a low voice. “You’re different from what I thought you were.” Irving’s low laugh of exultation sprang from the heart. “Maybe I am—and maybe you were right about me, too. A fellow changes. A month ago, I was wondering what use there could ever be in my studying law—trying to practise, mixing with men—when I couldn’t hold my own with a handful of boys. For some reason, I don’t feel that way any longer.—Well, that’s about all I wanted to say to you, Westby.” He stood up. “Good-night.” Westby rose and shook hands. “Good-night, sir.” He passed out and quietly closed the door. Irving stood at the window, gazing beyond the shadowy trees to the dim silver line of the pond, touched now by the moonlight. There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Irving called. It was Westby again. “Oh, Mr. Upton,” he said, “I meant to tell you—I heard at Mr. Barclay’s how the Freshman game came out; I wish, if you would, you’d send your brother my congratulations.” “Thank you, I will.” “Good-night, sir.” “Good-night.” The door closed softly. Irving turned again and pressed his forehead against the window-pane with a smile. It was a smile not merely of satisfaction because he had won his way at last, though he was not indifferent to that; he was happy too because this night he felt he had come close to Westby. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Jester of St. Timothy's, by Arthur Stanwood Pier