without appealing to a younger brother for advice.

There was a loud burst of laughter from a room in which several boys had
gathered. It was followed by the remark in Westby’s pleasant,
persuasive voice,—

“Look out, fellows, or we’ll have Kiddy Upton down on us.”

“Kiddy Upton!” another voice exclaimed in delight, and there was more
laughter.

Kiddy Upton! So that was to be his name. Of course boys gave nicknames
to their teachers,—Irving remembered some appellations that had
prevailed even at college. But none of them seemed so slighting or so
jeering as this of Kiddy; and Irving flushed as he had done when he had
been taken for a “new kid.” But now his sensitiveness was even more
hurt; it wounded him that Westby, that pleasant, humorous person, should
have been the one to apply the epithet.

Westby began singing “The Wearing of the Green,” to an accompaniment on
a banjo. Presently four or five voices, with extravagant brogues, were
uplifted in the chorus:—

“’Tis the most disthressful counthry
That ever there was seen;
For they’re hanging men and women too
For wearin’ of the green.”

There was much applause; boys from other rooms went hurrying down the
corridor. The banjo-player struck up “The Road to Mandalay;” again