In the vision of his brother’s triumphant career, Irving was transported
from the troubles and perplexities, from the self-reproaches and the
doubts which had been making him unhappy. He wanted now to share his
happiness, to take the boys into his confidence—but one can share one’s
happiness only with one’s friends. There was Westby, aggrieved and
hostile; there was Carroll, sitting next to him, the queer, quizzical,
silent youth, with whom Irving had been entirely unable to establish any
relation of intimacy; no, there were no boys at his table with whom he
was intimate enough to appeal for their interest and congratulations.
And feeling this, he shrank from communicating the news,—though he felt
sure that even Westby, who was going to Harvard the next year, might be
interested in it; he shrank from anything like boasting. He found an
outlet soon; Barclay came to see him that evening.

“I looked for you this afternoon, after the giving out of the prizes,”
said Barclay. “But I couldn’t find you.”

“No, I didn’t wait for that. Did you make a speech? I heard the boys
laughing and cheering as I came away.”

“Oh, yes, I got off a few stale jokes and some heavy-footed persiflage.
It went well enough.—But I looked for you afterwards because I felt I
may have seemed rather short when you came up; the truth is, I was
racking my brain at that moment; Scarborough had just sprung the fact on
me that I must make the speech.”

“Oh, it was all right,” said Irving. “I’m sorry to have bothered you at
such a time. I was just a little agitated because Westby was rather
angry over being penalized in the hundred—”