Westby crimsoned, and Irving felt that again he had been too severe with
him; the boy had been trying to convey an apology, without actually
making one; it might have been well to let him off.

But Irving reflected that the account was still far from even and that
perhaps this unwonted adversity might be good for Westby. Irving did not
realize quite how much teasing had been visited upon Westby in
consequence of his disastrous error, or how humiliated the boy had been
in his heart. For Westby was proud and vain and sensitive, accustomed to
leadership, unused to ridicule; for two days now the shafts of those
whom he had been in the habit of chaffing with impunity had been
rankling. Because of this sensitive condition, the final rebuke at the
luncheon table, before all the boys, cut him more deeply than Irving
suspected. Afterwards Westby said to Carroll,—

“Oh, very well. If he couldn’t accept my acknowledgment of my mistake,
but had to jump on me again—well, it’s just spite on his part; that’s
all. I don’t care; I can let him alone after this. That seems to be what
he wants.”

“A month ago he wouldn’t have asked more than that of you,” observed
Carroll. “And you didn’t feel like obliging him then.”

The implication that Irving had worsted him galled Westby.

“Oh,” he retorted, “the best of jokes will wear out. Kiddy was a
perfectly good joke for a while—”

Carroll annoyed him by laughing.