ough not quite so much as they did."

"They'll get over that when they know him better," remarked Barclay.

He knew that Louis Collingwood went away feeling much impressed, and he
was pretty sure he had done Irving a good turn.

It was in the noon half-hour, while Collingwood was holding this
interview with Mr. Barclay, that Westby, reading the Harvard news in his
Boston paper, went giggling into Morrill's room.

"There's a fellow named Upton playing on the Freshmen." He showed
Morrill the name. "Let's get a crowd and go in to Kiddy; I'll get him
rattled."

"How?" asked Morrill.

"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