even "birds" which Irving saw him try for.

Then it was Westby's turn. Westby had got himself up for the occasion,
in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and leggings; he was always
scrupulous about appearing in costumes that were extravagantly correct.
He saw Irving and somewhat ostentatiously turned away.

Irving waited and looked on. Westby stood in an almost negligent
attitude, with his gun lowered; the trap was sprung, the clay pigeon
flew--and then was shattered in the midst of its flight. It seemed to
Irving that Westby hardly brought his gun to his shoulder to take aim.
It could not all be luck either; that was evident when Westby demolished
ten clay pigeons in rapid succession. It was Carroll's turn now; Westby,
having made his perfect score, blew the smoke from the breech and stood
by.

Irving went up to him.

"I congratulate you on your shooting, Westby," he said. "It seems quite
wonderful to a man who never fired a gun off but a few times in his
life--and then it was a revolver, with blank cartridges."

Westby looked at him coolly. "It's funny you've never done anything that
most fellows do," he observed. "Were you always afraid of hurting
yourself?"

"I was offering my congratulations, Westby," said Irving stiffly, and
walked away.

"Why did you go at him like that?" asked Carroll, who had heard the
interchange.

"Oh," said Westby, "I wasn't going to have him hanging round swiping to
me, soft-soaping me."

"I think he was only trying to be decent," said Carroll.

"I like a man who is decent without trying," Westby retorted.

Yet whether his nerves were a little upset by the episode or his eye
thrown off by the wait, Westby did not do so well in the next round. The
trap was set to send the birds skimming lower and faster; Westby missed
two out of ten, and was tied for first place with Carroll. And in the
final shoot to break the tie, Westby lost.

He shook hands with Carroll, but with no excess of good humor. He knew
he was really the better shot, and even though Carroll was his closest
friend, the defeat rankled.

At supper Blake congratulated Carroll across the table.

"You won, did you, Carroll?" asked Irving.

"Yes, sir--by a close shave."

"I'm sorry I didn't stay to see it." The remark was innocent in
intention, but to Westby it seemed edged with malice--as if the master
was exulting over his defeat.

Something in Westby's expression told Irving what the boy had inferred;
Irving