him about how I’d worried him. That’s why the chump had it in for me.”

“Chump, Wes! Such a peach of a good looker?”

“Oh, shut up. I don’t care if he is good looking; he’s fresher than
paint.”

“He would think that was a queer criticism for you to make.”

Westby stalked on in angry silence. He was more wounded than he could
let Carroll know. There was a side to him which he shrank from
displaying,—the gentle, affectionate side of which Irving had had a
glimpse when the boy was anxiously watching his young cousin Price in
the mile run; and to this quality Lawrence’s greeting of his brother had
unconsciously appealed. Westby had stood by and heard his words, “_You_
carry that, you little fellow!” had seen the humor in his eyes and the
gentleness on his lips, and had felt something in his own throat.

For all his affectation of worldliness and cynicism, the boy was a
hero-worshiper at heart, and could never resist being attracted by a
fine face and a handsome pair of eyes and a pleasant voice; Lawrence had
in the first glance awakened an enthusiasm which was eager for near
acquaintance. And now, although he talked so venomously against him, it
was not Lawrence whom he reproached in his heart; it was himself.

Why had he been unable to resist the impulse to be smart, to be funny,
to be cheap? He might have known that a fellow like Lawrence would see
through his remark and would resent it; he might have known that his
silly, clownish wink could not escape Lawrence’s keen eyes.