Irving recognized Westby’s voice.

Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned; it was his part to step
up, be genial, make himself known to all these boys who were to be under
his care, and show them that he wished to be friendly. He did not wait
to debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve or to consider how he
should proceed; he acted on the impulse. He walked down the corridor to
the third room on the left—the door of Westby’s room, from which the
sounds of joviality proceeded. He knocked; some one called “Come in;”
and Irving opened the door.

Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the bed; Westby himself was
squatting cross-legged on the window seat, with the banjo across his
knees. They all rose politely when Irving entered.

“I thought I would drop in and make your acquaintance,” said Irving.
“We’re bound to know one another some time.”

“My name’s Collingwood,” said the boy nearest him, offering his hand. He
was a healthy, light-haired, solidly put together youth, with a genial
smile. “This is Scarborough, Mr. Upton.”

The biggest of them all came forward at that and shook hands. Irving
thought that his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly direct in their
gaze; and a lock of black hair overhung his brow in a far from
propitiating manner. Yet his bearing was dignified and manly; Irving
felt that he might be trusted to show magnanimity.

“Here’s Carroll,” continued Collingwood; and Irving said, “Oh, I know
Carroll; we sat together at supper.” Carroll said nothing, merely smiled