“Hello, Lou,” said Westby, with a welcoming wink. “We’re just
congratulating Mr. Upton on his brother; did you know that he has a
brother playing on the Harvard Freshmen?”

“Yes,” said Collingwood. “I’ve just heard it from Mr. Barclay.”

The boys stared at Collingwood, then at Irving, whose eyes were
twinkling again and whose smile had widened. Then they looked at Westby;
he was gazing at Collingwood unbelievingly,—stupefied.

“What’s the matter with you?” asked Collingwood.

And then Irving broke out into a delighted peal of laughter. He could
find nothing but slang in which to express himself, and through his
laughter he ejaculated,—

“Stung, my young friend! Stung!”

They all gave a whoop; they swung Westby round and rushed him down the
corridor to his room, shouting and jeering.

When Irving went down to lunch, Carroll, the quizzical, silent Carroll,
welcomed him with a grin. Westby turned a bright pink and looked away.
At the next table Allison and Smythe and Scarborough were all looking
over at him and smiling; and at the table beyond that Collingwood and
Morrill and Dennison were craning their necks and exhibiting their joy.
Westby, the humorist, had suddenly become the butt, a position which he
had rarely occupied before.

He was quite subdued through that meal. Once in the middle of it, Irving