there was to it,” he said. “I saw it and set him back a yard. I was
under the impression that in case of foul a penalty had to be
imposed—and I made the penalty as light as possible.”

He felt that this statement ought to appease any reasonable boy. But
Westby was not in a reasonable mood. He paid no attention to Irving; he
addressed the table.

“I told Scarborough he might have known things would be botched
somehow.”

“Why?” asked Blake.

“Oh, you’ve got to have officials who know their business.”

There was an interval of silence at the table; Westby, having fired his
shot, sat straight, with cheeks flushed, looking across at Blake.

“Westby feels that he has had provocation and therefore may be rude.”
Irving spoke at last with calmness. “It’s true that I never officiated
before at any races. At the same time, I don’t believe I did anything
which some experienced officials would not have done. There are probably
a good many who believe in penalizing a runner for clumsy and stupid
interference as well as for deliberate intent to foul.”

He had spoken mildly; he did not even emphasize the words “clumsy and
stupid.” But the retort went home; the Pythians at the table,—of whom
Blake was one,—chuckled; and Westby, with a deeper shade of crimson on
his face and a sudden compression of his lips, lowered his eyes.