Rhein.”

Irving stood for a few moments and listened; his exultant heart was
responsive to that shouted song. Fellows who could sing like that, he
thought, must have trodden disappointment under heel.

An hour later, when Irving sat in his room, the boys who had been
entertained at the Barclays’ came tramping up the stairs. They were
still singing, but they stopped their song before they entered the
dormitory. Irving met them to say good-night—first Dennison and then
Morrill and then Louis Collingwood.

“Have you heard the new song Wes has got off, Mr. Upton?” asked
Dennison.

“No, what’s that?”

“Hit it up, Wes.”

“Oh, choke it off.” Collingwood grinned uneasily.

“Go on, Wes,—strike up. We’ll all join in.”

“Wait till I get my banjo—you don’t mind, do you, Mr. Upton?”

“No. I’d like to hear it.”

So Westby hastened to his room and returned, bearing the instrument; and
all the other boys gathered round, except Collingwood, who stood
sheepishly off at one side. Westby twanged the strings and then to the