Irving’s eyes twinkled; if ever the enemy had been delivered into his
hands!

“What makes you think he’s a relation?” he asked, with an assumption of
cold dignity.

“Oh, we all feel sure he must be, sir. Of course your well-known and
justly famous interest in all athletic sports, sir—not to say your
prowess in them, sir—it’s natural to suppose that any athlete named
Upton would belong to the same family with you, sir.”

The boys were all on the broad grin; Westby’s manner was so expansively
courteous, his compliments were so absurdly urbane, that Irving threw
off his air of coldness and adopted a jaunty manner of reply which was
even more misleading.

“Oh, well, if you’ve been so clever as to guess it, Westby,” he said, “I
don’t mind telling you—it’s my brother.”

Westby bestowed on his confederates—quite indifferent as to whether
Irving detected it or not—his slow, facetious wink. He returned then to
his victim and in his most gamesome manner said,—

“I supposed of course it was your brother, sir. Or at least I should
have supposed so, except that I didn’t know you had a brother at
Harvard. Wasn’t it rather—what shall I say?—_peu aimable_ not to have
taken us, your friends, into your confidence? Would you mind telling us,
sir, what your brother’s first name is?”