“No, I wouldn’t. When he’s his natural self, I like him. And I haven’t
yet given up the hope that some time we’ll get together.”

He met Westby’s coldness with coolness. But on the morning of the St.
John’s game, after breakfast, he drew Westby aside. He held a letter in
his hand.

“Westby,” he said, “I don’t know that you will care to hear it, but I
have a message for you from my brother.”

Westby cast down his eyes and reddened. “I don’t suppose I shall care to
hear it,” he said with a humility that amazed Irving. “But go ahead—give
it to me, Mr. Upton.”

“I don’t quite understand—he just asked me to say to you that he hopes
you’ll get your chance in the game to-day. He felt you were rather cut
up by your hard luck in the Freshman game.”

“Didn’t he—isn’t he—” Westby hesitated for an uncomfortable moment, then
blurted out, “Isn’t he sore at me, Mr. Upton?”

“What for?”

“For saying about him what I did—about his trying to lay Collingwood out
when he tackled.”

“He doesn’t know you said it.”

“Oh! Didn’t you tell him?”