“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Westby. “I don’t believe old Hoopo would
have interfered much on my account,—but I guess he couldn’t stand for
Lou Collingwood getting three sheets. And Kiddy, the fox, tried to make
us think he was being magnanimous!”

Westby chuckled over his humorous discovery, and as soon as possible
imparted it to Collingwood.

“Oh, well, what if the rector did make him do it?” said Collingwood.
“The way he did it shows he’s all right—”

“Trying to get the credit with us for being just and generous!” observed
Westby. “Oh, I don’t mind; of course it’s only Kiddy.”

And it was Westby’s view of the matter which most of the boys heard and
credited. So the improvement in the general attitude for which Irving
had hoped was hardly to be noticed. He had some gratification the next
Sunday when the roast beef was brought on and he carved it with
creditable ease and dispatch; the astonishment of the whole table, and
especially of Westby and Carroll, was almost as good as applause. He
could not resist saying, in a casual way, “The knife seems to be sharp
this Sunday.” And he felt that for once Westby was nonplussed.

But the days passed, and Irving felt that he was not getting any nearer
to the boys. At his table the talk went on before him, mainly about
athletics, about college life, about Europe and automobiles,—all topics
from which he seemed strangely remote. It needed only the talk of these
experienced youths to make him realize that he had gone through college
without ever touching “college life,”—its sports, its social diversions,
its adventures. It had been for him a life in a library, in classrooms,