“No. The criticism was unjust—there was no use in repeating it.”

“It was unjust.” Westby had lowered his voice. “I am very much ashamed,
Mr. Upton.”

“That’s all right,” said Irving. He took Westby’s hand. “I hope too
you’ll get your chance in the game.”

“Thank you.” Westby spoke humbly. “I hope if I do, I won’t make a mess
of it again.”

That game was far different in color and feeling from the one with the
Freshmen on the Saturday before. Long before it began the boys of St.
John’s with their blue banners and flags and the boys of St. Timothy’s
with their red were ranged on opposite sides of the field, hurling
defiant, challenging cheers across at one another; for St. Timothy’s a
band, in which Scarborough beat the drum and was director, paraded back
and forth; the little boys were already hopping up and down and
trembling and squealing with excitement; already their little voices
were almost gone.

Irving knew that to himself alone was this occasion one of less moving
interest than that of the preceding Saturday; as he stood and looked on
at the waving red and the waving blue and later at the struggle that was
being waged in the middle of the field, he wondered how on this
afternoon that other game between the red and the blue was going, and
how Lawrence was acquitting himself.

Certainly it could not, he thought, be any more close, more hotly