“Come up to the swimming hole to-morrow afternoon if you want to see
it,” said Collingwood, hospitably. “I’ll just about drown Westby. It
will be a good show.”

“Thank you; I’d like to—”

“But don’t you think, Mr. Upton,”—again it was Westby, with his cajoling
voice and his wheedling smile,—“that I might have just one evening’s
moonlight practice for it?”

“Oh, I don’t believe you need any practice.”

“But you said I might if Mr. Randolph would consent. I don’t see why you
shouldn’t be independent, as well as liberal.”

There was a veiled insinuation in this, for all the good-natured,
teasing tone, and Irving did not like it.

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t let you go swimming
to-night.—I’m glad to have met you all.” And so he took his departure,
and presently the sound of banjo and singing rose again from Westby’s
room.

Irving proceeded to visit the other rooms of the dormitory and to make
the acquaintance of the occupants—boys engaged mostly in arranging
bureau drawers or hanging pictures. They were all friendly enough; it
seemed to him that he could get on with boys individually; it was when
they faced him in numbers that they alarmed him and caused his manner
to be hesitating and embarrassed. One big fellow named Allison was