“I was offering my congratulations, Westby,” said Irving stiffly, and
walked away.

“Why did you go at him like that?” asked Carroll, who had heard the
interchange.

“Oh,” said Westby, “I wasn’t going to have him hanging round swiping to
me, soft-soaping me.”

“I think he was only trying to be decent,” said Carroll.

“I like a man who is decent without trying,” Westby retorted.

Yet whether his nerves were a little upset by the episode or his eye
thrown off by the wait, Westby did not do so well in the next round. The
trap was set to send the birds skimming lower and faster; Westby missed
two out of ten, and was tied for first place with Carroll. And in the
final shoot to break the tie, Westby lost.

He shook hands with Carroll, but with no excess of good humor. He knew
he was really the better shot, and even though Carroll was his closest
friend, the defeat rankled.

At supper Blake congratulated Carroll across the table.

“You won, did you, Carroll?” asked Irving.

“Yes, sir—by a close shave.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t stay to see it.” The remark was innocent in