started even.”

“But it _was_ a foul,” protested Irving. “So I had to penalize him. I
made it as small a penalty as I could.”

“You didn’t have to penalize him unless you wanted to,” said Morrill
grimly. “Of course you had a perfect right to do as you pleased, only—”
He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, followed by the other
Corinthians.

Irving stood stricken. So this was the outcome; in seeking to be
sympathetic and to be understood, he had only caused himself somehow to
be more hated and despised. Bitterness rose within him, bitterness
against Westby, against Morrill, against boys in general, against the
school. And only an hour ago, from what he had seen and heard, he had
felt that he could like Westby, and had been not without some hope that
Westby might some time like him.

He saw Barclay standing with Mr. Randolph by the table on which were the
prize cups; Barclay was bending over, arranging them, and the boys were
gathering on the opposite side of the track, being “policed back” by the
half-dozen members of the athletic committee. Evidently the award of
prizes was to be made at once, and either Barclay or Randolph was to
hand out the cups—perhaps also to make a speech. But Irving could not
wait; he must satisfy himself of his doubts and fears, and so he hurried
forward and touched Barclay on the shoulder.

“Just a moment, please,” he said, as Barclay turned. “Did I do anything
wrong?”