would be easier—”

“Thank you, but the suggestion is unnecessary,” Irving retorted. He
added to the other boys, while he struggled, “It’s the meat, I guess,
not the knife, after all—”

“Why, I shouldn’t say it was the meat,” interposed Westby. “The meat’s
quite tender.”

Irving glanced at him in silent fury, clamped his lips together, and
went on sawing. He finally was able to hand to Carroll a plate on which
reposed a mussy-looking heap of beef. Carroll wrinkled his nose over it
as Westby had done.

“If I might venture to suggest, sir,” said Westby politely, “you could
send it out and have it carved in the kitchen.”

Irving surrendered; he looked up and said to the maid,—

“Please take this out and have it carved outside.”

He felt that he could almost cry from the humiliation, but instead he
tried to assume cheerfulness and dignity.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have to keep you fellows waiting; we’ll try to
arrange things so that it won’t happen again.”

The boys accepted the apology in gloomy silence. At Scarborough’s table
their plight was exciting comment; Irving was aware of the curious
glances which had been occasioned by the withdrawal of the roast. It