“Typhoid. Mr. Randolph told me.”

“Who’s taken his place?” It was another voice that asked this question.

“A new man—named Upton. I haven’t laid eyes on him yet.”

“Wouldn’t it be a joke—!” The speaker paused to laugh. “Suppose it
should turn out to be the new kid!”

“‘I am not a new kid; I am a master.’”

The mimicry was so accurate that Irving winced and then flushed to the
temples. In the laughter that it produced he closed his door quietly and
sat down to think. He couldn’t be courageous now; he felt that he could
not step out and face those fellows who were laughing at him. Of course
they were the ones who ought to be embarrassed by his appearance, not
he; but Irving felt they would lend one another support and brazen it
through, and that he would be the one to exhibit weakness. He decided
that he must wait and try to make himself known to each one of them
separately—that only by such a beginning would he be likely to engage
their respect.

It was the first time that he had been brought face to face with his
pitiable diffidence. He was ashamed; he thought of how differently
Lawrence would have met the situation—how much more directly he would
have dealt with it. Irving resolved that hereafter he would not be
afraid of any multitude of boys. But he refrained from making his
presence known in the dormitory that afternoon.