as he sawed away. At last he hacked off an unsightly slab and passed it
to Westby, whose turn it was and who wrinkled his nose at it in
disfavor.

“Please have this knife sharpened,” Irving said to the maid. She put
down the potatoes and the corn, and departed with the instrument to the
kitchen.

Irving glanced at the other tables; everybody seemed to have been
served, everybody was eating; Scarborough, who was in charge of the next
table, had entirely demolished his roast.

“I’m sorry to keep you fellows waiting,” Irving said, “but that’s the
dullest knife I ever handled.”

He addressed the remark to the totally unprovided side of his table; he
turned his head just in time to catch Westby’s humorous mouth and droll
droop of an eyelid. The other boys smiled, and Irving’s cheeks grew more
hot.

“You’ll excuse me, Mr. Upton, if I don’t wait, won’t you?” said Westby.
“Don’t get impatient, fellows.”

The maid returned with the carving knife; Westby paused in his eating to
observe. Irving made another unsuccessful effort; the meat quivered and
shook and slid under his attack, and the knife slipped and clashed down
upon the platter.

“Perhaps if you would stand up to it, sir, you would do better,”
suggested Westby, in an insidious voice. “Nobody else does, but if it