better than most.”

The others jeered. But Westby, however he might complain, was faithful
at practice and accepted good-naturedly his position upon the second
eleven, and the hard battering to which every one on the second eleven
was subjected.

The day when he got round Morrill, the first eleven’s left end, and
scored a touchdown—the only one which in that week of practice the
second eleven scored—brought him so much applause that he began really
to think there might be a chance of his ousting Dennison from the
regular position. When that notion entered his head he ceased to be
facetious about the training; he became suddenly as serious as
Collingwood himself. But in spite of that, he remained Dennison’s
substitute.

The Saturday set for the game with the Harvard Freshmen was an Indian
Summer day. In the early morning mist wreathed the low meadows and the
edges of the pond; it seemed later to dissipate itself through all the
windless air in haze. The distant hills were blue and faint, the elms in
the soft sunlight that filtered down had a more golden glow.

“Great day,” was the salutation that one heard everywhere; “great day
for the game.”

Now and then in his morning classes Irving’s thoughts would wander,
there would be a gentle rush of excitement in his veins. He would turn
his mind firmly back to his work; he did not do any less well that day
because his heart was singing happily.