stairs, he closed his door. The boys were returning from the field; he
felt sure there would be remarks about him by Westby and Morrill and
other Corinthians up and down the corridor, and he preferred not to hear
them. To his surprise there was rather less disturbance than usual;
perhaps the boys were too tired after their exciting and active
afternoon to indulge in noisy skylarking. So Irving did not have to
emerge from his solitude until the supper bell rang. Even then he
waited until all the boys had passed his door and were clattering down
the stairs. Yet as he descended, Westby’s indignant voice floated up to
him,—

“Just because I guyed him—he felt he had to get even.”

At supper Westby did not look at Irving. One of the boys, Blake, made a
comment; he said,—

“That was a mighty good race you ran, Westby; hard luck you were
handicapped.”

“You can call it hard luck if you want,” said Westby.

“How did it happen, anyway?” Blake asked, quite innocently.

“Oh, don’t ask _me_,” said Westby.

Three or four of the boys who did know glanced slyly at Irving, and
Irving, though he had meant to say nothing, spoke up; there was
electricity in the air.

“Westby was unfortunate enough to foul Flack at the start; that was all