looked at him and caught his eye, and on a sudden impulse leaned back
and laughed. Carroll joined in, Westby blushed once more, the Sixth
Formers at the next table looked over and began to laugh; the other boys
cast wondering glances.

“What’s the joke, Mr. Upton?” asked Blake.

“Oh, don’t ask _me_,” said Irving. “Ask Westby.”

“What is it, Wes?” said Blake, and could not understand why he received
such a vicious kick under the table, or why Carroll said in such a
jeering way, “Yes, Wes, what _is_ the joke, anyhow?”

When the meal was over, Westby’s friends lay in wait for him outside in
the hall, crowded round, and began patting him on the back and offering
him their jocular sympathy. To have the joke turned on the professional
humorist appeared to be extremely popular; and the humorist did not take
it very well. “Oh, get out, get out!” he was saying, wrenching himself
from the grasp of first one and then another. And Irving came out just
as he exclaimed in desperation, “Just the same, I’ll bet it’s all a
fake; I’ll bet he hasn’t got a brother!”

He flung himself around, trying to escape from Collingwood’s clutch,
and saw Irving. The smile faded from Irving’s face; Westby looked at him
sullenly for a moment, then broke away and made a rush up the stairs.




CHAPTER VIII