“Westby,” said Irving. “Westby!” He had to raise his voice.

“Yes, sir?” Westby looked up innocently.

“I will have to ask you to discontinue your reading.”

“But this is not a newspaper.”

“It’s part of one.”

“Yes, sir, but the rule is against bringing newspapers to table—not
against bringing newspaper clippings to table.”

“The rule’s been changed,” said Irving. “It now includes clippings.”

“You see how it is, fellows.” Westby turned to the others.
“Persecuted—always persecuted. If I’m within the rules—they change the
rules to soak me. Well,”—he folded up his clippings and put them in his
pocket,—“the class in current topics is dismissed. But instead Mr. Upton
has very kindly consented to entertain us this evening—some of his
inimitable chit-chat—”

“I wouldn’t always try to be facetious, Westby,” said Irving.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” replied Westby urbanely. “If I have wounded
your sensibilities—I would not do that—never—_jamais—pas du tout_.”

Irving said nothing; it seemed to him that Westby always had the last
word; it seemed to him as if Westby was always skillfully tripping him