“Come, move on, all you fellows,” said Irving; the others were still
hanging about and laughing; “move on, move on! Carroll, you and Westby
take that ladder down and put it back where you got it.”

He stayed to see that the order was carried out; then he returned to his
room. He felt that though he had conquered in this instance, he had
adopted the wrong tone, and that he must offer something else than
peevishness and irritation to ward off Westby’s humor; already it gave
indications of becoming too audacious. Yet on the whole Irving was
pleased because he had at least asserted himself—and had rather enjoyed
doing it. And an hour later it seemed to him that he had lost all that
he had gained.

Roast beef was the unvarying dish at Sunday dinner; a large and fragrant
sirloin was set before the head of each table to be carved. Irving took
up the carving knife and fork with some misgivings. Hitherto he had had
nothing more difficult to deal with than steaks or chops or croquettes
or stews; and carving was an art that he had never learned; confronted
by the necessity, he was amazed to find that he had so little idea of
how to proceed. The first three slices came off readily enough, though
they were somewhat ragged, and Irving was aware that Westby was
surveying his operations with a critical interest. The knife seemed to
grow more dull, the meat more wobbly, more tough, the bone got more and
more in the way; the maid who was passing the vegetables was waiting,
all the boys except the three who had been helped first were waiting,
coldly critical, anxiously apprehensive; silence at this table had begun
to reign.

Irving felt himself blushing and muttered, “This knife’s awfully dull,”