up, executing a derisive flourish over his prostrate form, and then
prancing away to the cheers of the populace.

But there were no more violent encounters, such as had taken place in
the class-room; Westby never quite crossed the line again; and Irving
controlled his temper on threatening occasions. These occurred in
dormitory less often; the fine weather and the fall sports—football and
tennis and track athletics—kept the boys out-doors. On rainy afternoons
there was apt to be some noise and disorder—usually there was what was
termed an “Allison hunt,” which took various forms, but which, whether
resulting in the dismemberment of the boy’s room or the pursuit and
battery of him with pillows along the corridors, invariably required
Irving’s interference to quell it. This task of interference, though it
was one that he came to perform more and more capably, never grew less
distasteful or less humiliating; he saw always the row of faces wearing
what he construed as an impudent grin. What seemed to him curious was
the fact that Allison after a fashion enjoyed—at least did not
resent—the outrages of which he was the subject; after them he would be
found sitting amicably with his tormentors, drinking their chocolate and
eating their crackers and jam. This was so different from his own
attitude after he had been teased that Irving could not understand it.
After studying the case, he concluded that the “Allison hunts” were not
prompted by any hatred of the subject, but by the fact merely that he
was big, clumsy, good-natured, slow-witted—easy to make game of—and
especially by the fact that when aroused he showed a certain joyous rage
in his own defense. But Irving saw no way of learning a lesson from
Allison.

As the days went on, the sense of his isolation in the School became
more oppressive. He had thought that if only the fellows would let him