he and his brother
were talking together alone, "what sort of kids do you have to look
after in your dormitory, anyhow?"

Irving's lip twitched with amusement; Westby, still scarlet, was looking
at his plate. "Oh, a pretty good sort--but they're Sixth Formers, you
know--not kids."

"Pretty fresh, are they--trying to show off a good deal and be funny?"

"Oh, one or two only; still, even they aren't bad."

Lawrence paid no further attention to Westby. Now and then he spoke to
Carroll and to Blake, but most of his conversation--and it dealt with the
sort of college life about which boys liked to hear, and about which
Irving had never been able to enlighten them--he addressed directly to
his brother.

Westby listened to it gloomily; there were many questions that he wanted
to ask, but now he did not dare. Evidently Mr. Upton had warned his
brother against him, had imparted to his brother his own dislike; that
was why Lawrence had nipped so brutally his harmless, humorous allusion
to the master's temper.

As a matter of fact, Lawrence had had no previous knowledge whatever of
Westby; Irving had always withstood his impulse to confide his troubles.
He made now an effort to draw Westby forward and reinstate him in the
conversation; he said,--

"Lawrence, you and Westby here may come against each other this
afternoon; Westby's first substitute for one of the half-backs on the
School eleven."

Lawrence said, "That's good," and gave Westby hardly a glance.

After luncheon, walking down to the athletic field with Westby, Carroll
said jeeringly,--

"Well, Kiddy Upton's brother is no myth, is he, Wes?"

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 ha