when I went to you this afternoon. But it isn’t any longer. I feel bad
about Westby. I can’t help thinking I did rob him of his race—and then I
sat on him at supper into the bargain.”

Barclay shouted with laughter. “You sat on Westby—and you’re sorry for
it! What’s happened to you, anyway? Tell me about it.”

Irving narrated the circumstances. “And I want to be friendly with him,”
he concluded. “Don’t you think I might explain that it was a blunder on
my part—and that I’m sorry I blundered?”

“I wouldn’t,” said Barclay. “He’s beginning to respect you now. Don’t do
anything to make him think you’re a little soft. That’s what he wants to
think, and he’d construe any such move on your part unfavorably.”

“Well, perhaps so.” Irving sighed.

“You’re stiffening up quite a lot,” observed Barclay.

“I was very wobbly when Westby and the other fellows went for me after
that race,” confessed Irving. “If I stiffened up, I guess it was just
the courage of desperation. And I don’t think that amounts to much. But
I’ve cheered up for good now.”

“How’s that?”

Somewhat shyly Irving communicated the proud news about his brother.

“Oh, I read about him in to-day’s Boston newspaper,” exclaimed Barclay.