In the dressing-room he sat on a bench next to Lawrence Upton and began
putting on his clothes in silence. The other boys were talking all round
him, commenting cheerfully on the plays and on the future prospects of
the teams.

Lawrence refrained from discussing the game at all; he asked Westby what
St. Timothy’s boys he knew at Harvard, and where he expected to room
when he went there; he tried to be friendly. But Westby repelled his
efforts, answering in a sullen voice. At last Lawrence finished
dressing; he picked up his bag and turned to Westby.

“Look here,” he said, and there was a twinkle in his eyes. “I’m going to
be at Harvard the next three years; we’re likely to meet. Must a little
hard luck make hard feeling?”

“Oh, there’s no hard feeling,” Westby assured him.

“Glad to hear it. Good-by.” Lawrence held out his hand.

“You’re not going to stay for supper?”

“No. I’m going back with the team on the six o’clock train—hour exam on
Monday. My brother’s waiting for me outside; I want to see him for a
while before we start. I hope to come up here some time again—hope I’ll
see you.”

“Thanks. I hope so. Good-by.”

The words were all right, but Westby spoke them mechanically. It had