So Westby walked on, gloomily reproaching himself, unconscious that at
that very moment, walking a hundred yards behind, Irving was defending
him.

“A month ago, Lawrence, I’d have been glad to have you light on Westby
as you did,” he said. “But now I’m rather sorry.”

“Why so?”

“Oh, he’s had some hard luck lately, and—well, I don’t know. Those
encounters with a boy don’t seem to me worth while.”

“You’ve got to suppress them when they’re fresh like that,” insisted
Lawrence. “For a fellow to talk to you in that fresh way before a
guest—and that guest your brother—I don’t stand for it; that’s all.”

“No, I don’t either. Well, it doesn’t matter much; reproof slides off
Westby like water off a duck’s back.”

They talked of other things then until Lawrence had to join his team and
enter the athletic house with them to dress.

Out on the field Irving mingled with the crowd, walked to and fro
nervously, stopped to say only a word now to a boy, now to a master, and
then passed on. It was foolish for him to be so excited, so tremulous,
he told himself. Lawrence had parted from him with the same calmness
with which he might have gone to prepare for bed. It was all the more
foolish to be so excited, because the accessories to promote a
preliminary excitement were lacking,—rivalry, partisanship; the visiting
team had no supporters.