“You penalized Westby a yard for fouling, I heard; is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you were within your rights. But if it was obviously an
unintentional foul, I shouldn’t have been so strict.”

“I misunderstood what you told me,” sighed Irving. “I thought that in
case of foul a fellow _had_ to be penalized.”

“Oh, no.” Barclay was busy; he had to think up something to say, by way
of a speech, and he turned and began fussing again with the cups.

Irving walked away. Even his friend Barclay was not sympathetic, did not
understand the seriousness of what had happened. He could not stay
longer to be the target of hostile, vengeful eyes; he felt that half the
boys there were blaming him in their hearts for the defeat of their
team—and that the others had no gratitude to him for their victory. Not
that it would have made him feel any better if they had; he had only
wanted and tried to be fair.

He walked away from the field, crossed the track, and passed round into
the avenue that led up to the School. When he had gone as far as the
bend where from behind the cluster of trees the School buildings became
visible, he heard the pleasant ripple of laughter from the crowd. Some
one, probably Barclay, was making a speech; to think of being able to
stand before boys and make them laugh like that! It seemed to Irving
that he had never before known what envy was.

He spent a mournful hour in his room; then, hearing footsteps on the