Chapter 10

MASTER AND BOY

For several days Westby's unnatural quiet was attributed to his sensitiveness over the error which had given the Harvard Freshmen their victory. It was most noticeable at Irving's table; there his bubbling spirits seemed permanently to have subsided; he wrapped himself in silence and gloom. His manner towards Irving was that of haughty displeasure. Carroll was at a loss to understand it and questioned him about it one day.

"Oh, I'm just tired of him--tired of hearing his everlasting brag about his brother," Westby said sharply.

"He bragged so little about him once you wouldn't believe he had a brother," replied Carroll. "I don't see that he brags much more about him now."

"Well, I see it, and it annoys me," retorted Westby rudely. "I think I'll see if I can have my seat changed. I'd rather sit at Scabby's table."

Mr. Randolph, however, the head of the Upper School, refused to grant Westby's petition.

"You don't give any special reason," he said. "You have friends at Mr. Upton's table; you ought to be contented to stay there. What's the matter? Are you having friction with some one?"

"I should be better satisfied if I were at Scarborough's table," said Westby.

"We can't gratify every individual preference or whim," replied Mr. Randolph.

He asked Irving if he knew of any reason why Westby should be transferred and told him that the boy had asked for the change.

"Oh, it's just between him and me," said Irving wearily. "We don't get on."

"Then you'd like to have him go, too?"

"No, I wouldn't. When he's his natural self, I like him. And I haven't yet given up the hope that some time we'll get together."

He met Westby's coldness with coolness. But on the morning of the St. John's game, after breakfast, he drew Westby aside. He held a letter in his hand.

"Westby," he said, "I don't know that you will care to hear it, but I have a message for you from my brother."

Westby cast down his eyes and reddened. "I don't suppose I shall care to hear it," he said with a humility that amazed Irving. "But go ahead--give it to me, Mr. Upton."

"I don't quite understand--he just asked me to say to you that he hopes you'll get your chance in the game to-day. He felt you were rather cut up by your hard luck in the Freshman game."

"Didn't he--isn't he--" Westby hesitated for an uncomfortable moment, then blurted out, "Isn't he sore at me, Mr. Upton?"

"What for?"

"For saying about him what I did--about his trying to lay Collingwood out when he tackled."

"He doesn't know you said it."

"Oh! Didn't you tell him?"

"No. The criticism was unjust--there was no use in repeating it."

"It was unjust." Westby had lowered his voice. "I am very much ashamed, Mr. Upton."

"That's all right," said Irving. He took Westby's hand. "I hope too you'll get your chance in the game."

"Thank you." Westby spoke humbly. "I hope if I do, I won't make a mess of it again."

That game was far different in color and feeling from the one with the Freshmen on the Saturday before. Long before it began the boys of St. John's with their blue banners and flags and the boys of St. Timothy's with their red were ranged on opposite sides of the field, hurling defiant, challenging cheers across at one another; for St. Timothy's a band, in which Scarborough beat the drum and was director, paraded back and forth; the little boys were already hopping up and down and trembling and squealing with excitement; already their little voices were almost gone.

Irving knew that to himself alone was this occasion one of less moving interest than that of the preceding Saturday; as he stood and looked on at the waving red and the waving blue and later at the struggle that was being waged in the middle of the field, he wondered how on this afternoon that other game between the red and the blue was going, and how Lawrence was acquitting himself.

Certainly it could not, he thought, be any more close, more hotly contested, than this of the two rival schools. All through the first half they fought each other without scoring.

Once St. Timothy's had got down to St. John's fifteen-yard line, but then had been unable to go farther, and Dennison had missed by only a few feet his try for a goal from the field.

Early in the second half St. Timothy's met with misfortune. Dennison was laid out by a hard tackle; when at last he got to his feet, he limped badly. Louis Collingwood took him by the arm and walked round with him; Dennison was arguing, protesting. But Collingwood led him towards the side-line, patting him on the back, and called "Westby!"

The spectators cheered the injured player who came off so reluctantly; then they cheered Westby as he ran out upon the field. Irving was near the group of substitutes when Dennison hobbled in.

"Hurt much, Denny?" asked Briggs.

"No--just that same old ankle--hang it all!" Dennison slipped into a blanket and lowered himself painfully to the ground.

Irving's eyes were upon Westby; he hoped that this time the boy would not fail. Westby had an opportunity now to steady his nerves; it was St. Timothy's ball and only the first down. Collingwood gave the signal; Irving watched closely, saw Westby take the ball on the pass and dive into the line. In a moment all the St. Timothy's eleven seemed to be behind him, hurling him through, and St. Timothy's on the side-lines waved and shouted, for Westby had gained five yards.

Collingwood called on him again; he gained three yards more. Irving shouted with the rest; he turned to Mr. Randolph and said,--

"That ought to give Westby confidence."

"I hope it does; he's so erratic," Mr. Randolph answered. "If only he's starting in now on one of his brilliant streaks!"

Lane, the Fifth Form halfback, tried to go round the end on the next play, but made no gain. Then Westby was driven again at left tackle, but he got only two yards.

Collingwood gave the signal for a criss-cross; Lane took the ball, and passed it to Westby, who was already on the run. Westby got clear of the St. John's end, and seemed well started for a brilliant run; but their halfback chased him across the field and finally, by a tremendous diving tackle, pulled him down. As it was, Westby had made so much of a gain that the distance had to be measured; he had failed by only a few inches to make the required amount, and the ball went to St. John's on their thirty-five-yard line.

St. John's made two ineffectual rushes; then their fullback, Warner, prepared to kick. Westby and Collingwood raced to their places in the back field.

There was a tense moment on both sides; then Warner sent the ball flying high and far. It was Westby's ball; the St. John's ends and one of their tackles came down fast under the kick.

Irving, with his heart in his throat, watched Westby; the boy, with both hands raised, was wabbling about, stepping to the right, to the left, backward, forward; the ends were there in front of him, crouched and waiting; Collingwood tried to fend them off, but the big tackle rushed in and upset him, and at the same instant the ball fell into Westby's arms--and slipped through them.

One of the ends dropped on the ball, rolled over with it a couple of times, rolled up on his feet again and was off with it for the St. Timothy's goal; he had carried it to the twenty-yard line when Collingwood pulled him down. St. John's were streaming down their side line, shrieking and waving their blue flags; St. Timothy's stood dazed and silent.

"Oh, butterfingers!" cried Briggs, stamping his foot.

"Just like Wes--he wouldn't make a football player in a thousand years!" exclaimed Windom.

Irving heard the comments; he heard other comments. If St. John's should score now! He hoped they wouldn't; he was sorry enough for Westby. But St. John's did score, by a series of furious centre rushes, and their fullback kicked the goal. And when, fifteen minutes later, the referee blew his whistle, the game was St. John's, by that score of six to nothing.

Irving could understand why some of the St. Timothy's boys had tears in their eyes. It was pretty trying even for him to see the triumphant visitors rush upon the field, toss the members of their team upon their shoulders, and bear them away exultantly to the athletic house, yelling and flaunting their flags, while the St. Timothy's players walked disconsolately and silently behind them.

It was trying afterwards to stand by and see those blue-bedecked invaders form into long-linked lines and dance their serpentine of victory on St. Timothy's ground. It was trying to stand by and watch barge after barge bedecked with blue roll away while the occupants shouted and waved their hats--and left the field to silence and despair.

But still St. Timothy's did not abandon the scene of their defeat. They waited loyally in front of the athletic house to welcome and console their team when it should emerge. Collingwood led the players out, and the crowd gave them a good one.

Collingwood said, with a smile, though in an unsteady voice, "Much obliged, fellows," and waved his hand.

Then the crowd dispersed; slowly they all walked away.

That evening, as Irving was about to leave his room to go down to supper, a boy brought him a telegram. It was from his brother; it said,--

"We licked them, twelve to six. Feeling fine. Lawrence."

At the table Irving tried not to appear too happy. He apologized for his state of mind and told the boys the cause; those who, like Carroll, were Harvard sympathizers derived a little cheer from the news, and the others seemed indifferent to it. Westby was not there. The training table was vacant, and at the other tables were empty chairs where substitutes on the team had sat. Mrs. Barclay was entertaining the football players.

"I wish I was breaking training there," said Carroll to Irving; "she has the most wonderful food."

In the discussion of the game there seemed to be little disposition to blame Westby.

"After all," said Blake, "he was only a sub, and he never got so very much practice in handling punts. I don't think fellows ought to be sore on him."

"No, he's just sore on himself," said Carroll.

"It's hard luck, anyhow; except for that one thing he played mighty well."

The mail boy passed, leaving a letter for Irving. It was in his uncle's handwriting; and his uncle never wrote to him; it was his aunt who kept him posted on all the news of home. Did this mean that she was ill--or that some disaster had befallen?

Irving determined that if it was bad news, he would reserve it until he should be alone; he put the letter in his pocket and waited anxiously for the meal to end.

When he was again in his room, he tore open the envelope and read this letter:--

DEAR IRVING,--I have not helped you and Lawrence much financially. I thought it would do you and him no harm to try out your own resources. But I always meant to give you a lift whenever it should seem wise, and whenever a lift could be most advantageously arranged.

Your father was never able to lay up any money; his work was of a kind that did not permit that. But he would always have shared with me whatever he had. I have had it in mind to do the same by his children. I have sold half the farm--the western half--your half and Lawrence's. There is four thousand dollars in cash for each of you, and four thousand on a mortgage for each of you at six per cent. You had better draw out of school-teaching as soon as possible and study law--if that is still what you most want to do.

Your aunt is well and sends her love. We are both looking forward to seeing you and Lawrence at Christmas.

Your affectionate uncle,

ROBERT UPTON.

A flood of warm emotion poured through Irving; his eyes filled. He had sometimes thought his uncle selfish and narrow--and all the time he had been working towards this!

Irving wrote his reply; he wrote also to Lawrence. Then he took his letters down to the Study building, to post them so that they might go out with the night mail. On his way he passed the Barclay house; it was all brightly lighted, the sound of laughter and of gay boy voices rang out through the open windows; the notes of a piano then subdued them, and there burst out a chorus in the sonorous measured sweep of "Wacht am Rhein."

Irving stood for a few moments and listened; his exultant heart was responsive to that shouted song. Fellows who could sing like that, he thought, must have trodden disappointment under heel.

An hour later, when Irving sat in his room, the boys who had been entertained at the Barclays' came tramping up the stairs. They were still singing, but they stopped their song before they entered the dormitory. Irving met them to say good-night--first Dennison and then Morrill and then Louis Collingwood.

"Have you heard the new song Wes has got off, Mr. Upton?" asked Dennison.

"No, what's that?"

"Hit it up, Wes."

"Oh, choke it off." Collingwood grinned uneasily.

"Go on, Wes,--strike up. We'll all join in."

"Wait till I get my banjo--you don't mind, do you, Mr. Upton?"

"No. I'd like to hear it."

So Westby hastened to his room and returned, bearing the instrument; and all the other boys gathered round, except Collingwood, who stood sheepishly off at one side. Westby twanged the strings and then to the accompaniment began,--

"Across the broad prairies he came from the west, With fire in his eye and with brawn on his chest; His arms they were strong and his legs they were fleet; There was none could outstrip his vanishing feet; We made him our captain--what else could we do? You ask who he is? Do I hear you say, 'Who?'"

Then they all came in on the chorus:--

"He is our Lou, he is our honey-Lou, He is our pride and joy; He is our Loo-loo, he is our Loo-loo, He is our Lou-Lou boy."

"Silly song!" exclaimed Collingwood with disgust.

"Wes made it up just this evening, at Mrs. Barclay's," said Dennison. "We were all singing, and after a while Wes edged in to the piano and sprung this on us. Don't you think it's a good song?"

"So good that I wish I could furnish inspiration for another," said Irving.

Westby joined in the laugh and looked pleased.

"Good-night, everybody," said Collingwood; he walked away to his room. The others followed, all except Westby, to whom Irving said,--

"Will you wait a moment? I should like to have a little talk with you." He led the boy into his room and pushed forward his armchair.

Westby seated himself with his banjo across his knees and looked at Irving wonderingly.

"The fellows seem pretty cheerful after their defeat, don't they?" said Irving.

A shadow crossed Westby's face. "They've been very decent about it," he answered.

Irving put his hand on Westby's arm.

"Do you know why they're so decent? It's because you've cheered them up yourself. Who was the fellow, Westby, that said he didn't care who might make his country's laws if only he might write its songs?"

"Oh--no--that's got nothing to do with me."

"You needn't care who makes the touchdowns. Your job is to do something else. It's no discredit to you if because of lack of training or adaptability, you can't hang on to a ball at a critical moment. There are plenty of fellows who can do that.--I suppose you don't see it yet yourself--but you know the message my brother sent you? I shall tell him that you got your chance to-day--and took it."

"I don't see how."

"Well, I don't know how you managed it exactly. But I could see when those fellows came upstairs just now that you stood better with them than you ever had done before. It must have been because you showed the right spirit--and I know by experience, Westby, that it's awfully hard to show the right spirit when you're down."

There was silence for a few moments.

"I guess I've made it hard for you," said Westby at last, in a low voice. "You're different from what I thought you were."

Irving's low laugh of exultation sprang from the heart. "Maybe I am--and maybe you were right about me, too. A fellow changes. A month ago, I was wondering what use there could ever be in my studying law--trying to practise, mixing with men--when I couldn't hold my own with a handful of boys. For some reason, I don't feel that way any longer.--Well, that's about all I wanted to say to you, Westby." He stood up. "Good-night."

Westby rose and shook hands. "Good-night, sir."

He passed out and quietly closed the door. Irving stood at the window, gazing beyond the shadowy trees to the dim silver line of the pond, touched now by the moonlight. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Irving called.

It was Westby again.

"Oh, Mr. Upton," he said, "I meant to tell you--I heard at Mr. Barclay's how the Freshman game came out; I wish, if you would, you'd send your brother my congratulations."

"Thank you, I will."

"Good-night, sir."

"Good-night."

The door closed softly. Irving turned again and pressed his forehead against the window-pane with a smile. It was a smile not merely of satisfaction because he had won his way at last, though he was not indifferent to that; he was happy too because this night he felt he had come close to Westby.