Chapter 7

THE WORM BEGINS TO TURN

After the charge which Westby had flung at him so furiously, Irving looked in amazement to the other boys for an explanation. They were all Corinthians, and he saw gloom and resentment in their faces.

"I think it was pretty rough, Mr. Upton, to penalize him for an unintentional foul," said Morrill. "He'd have beaten Flack if they'd started even."

"But it _was_ a foul," protested Irving. "So I had to penalize him. I made it as small a penalty as I could."

"You didn't have to penalize him unless you wanted to," said Morrill grimly. "Of course you had a perfect right to do as you pleased, only--" He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, followed by the other Corinthians.

Irving stood stricken. So this was the outcome; in seeking to be sympathetic and to be understood, he had only caused himself somehow to be more hated and despised. Bitterness rose within him, bitterness against Westby, against Morrill, against boys in general, against the school. And only an hour ago, from what he had seen and heard, he had felt that he could like Westby, and had been not without some hope that Westby might some time like him.

He saw Barclay standing with Mr. Randolph by the table on which were the prize cups; Barclay was bending over, arranging them, and the boys were gathering on the opposite side of the track, being "policed back" by the half-dozen members of the athletic committee. Evidently the award of prizes was to be made at once, and either Barclay or Randolph was to hand out the cups--perhaps also to make a speech. But Irving could not wait; he must satisfy himself of his doubts and fears, and so he hurried forward and touched Barclay on the shoulder.

"Just a moment, please," he said, as Barclay turned. "Did I do anything wrong?"

"You penalized Westby a yard for fouling, I heard; is that so?"

"Yes."

"Well, you were within your rights. But if it was obviously an unintentional foul, I shouldn't have been so strict."

"I misunderstood what you told me," sighed Irving. "I thought that in case of foul a fellow _had_ to be penalized."

"Oh, no." Barclay was busy; he had to think up something to say, by way of a speech, and he turned and began fussing again with the cups.

Irving walked away. Even his friend Barclay was not sympathetic, did not understand the seriousness of what had happened. He could not stay longer to be the target of hostile, vengeful eyes; he felt that half the boys there were blaming him in their hearts for the defeat of their team--and that the others had no gratitude to him for their victory. Not that it would have made him feel any better if they had; he had only wanted and tried to be fair.

He walked away from the field, crossed the track, and passed round into the avenue that led up to the School. When he had gone as far as the bend where from behind the cluster of trees the School buildings became visible, he heard the pleasant ripple of laughter from the crowd. Some one, probably Barclay, was making a speech; to think of being able to stand before boys and make them laugh like that! It seemed to Irving that he had never before known what envy was.

He spent a mournful hour in his room; then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, he closed his door. The boys were returning from the field; he felt sure there would be remarks about him by Westby and Morrill and other Corinthians up and down the corridor, and he preferred not to hear them. To his surprise there was rather less disturbance than usual; perhaps the boys were too tired after their exciting and active afternoon to indulge in noisy skylarking. So Irving did not have to emerge from his solitude until the supper bell rang. Even then he waited until all the boys had passed his door and were clattering down the stairs. Yet as he descended, Westby's indignant voice floated up to him,--

"Just because I guyed him--he felt he had to get even."

At supper Westby did not look at Irving. One of the boys, Blake, made a comment; he said,--

"That was a mighty good race you ran, Westby; hard luck you were handicapped."

"You can call it hard luck if you want," said Westby.

"How did it happen, anyway?" Blake asked, quite innocently.

"Oh, don't ask _me_," said Westby.

Three or four of the boys who did know glanced slyly at Irving, and Irving, though he had meant to say nothing, spoke up; there was electricity in the air.

"Westby was unfortunate enough to foul Flack at the start; that was all there was to it," he said. "I saw it and set him back a yard. I was under the impression that in case of foul a penalty had to be imposed--and I made the penalty as light as possible."

He felt that this statement ought to appease any reasonable boy. But Westby was not in a reasonable mood. He paid no attention to Irving; he addressed the table.

"I told Scarborough he might have known things would be botched somehow."

"Why?" asked Blake.

"Oh, you've got to have officials who know their business."

There was an interval of silence at the table; Westby, having fired his shot, sat straight, with cheeks flushed, looking across at Blake.

"Westby feels that he has had provocation and therefore may be rude." Irving spoke at last with calmness. "It's true that I never officiated before at any races. At the same time, I don't believe I did anything which some experienced officials would not have done. There are probably a good many who believe in penalizing a runner for clumsy and stupid interference as well as for deliberate intent to foul."

He had spoken mildly; he did not even emphasize the words "clumsy and stupid." But the retort went home; the Pythians at the table,--of whom Blake was one,--chuckled; and Westby, with a deeper shade of crimson on his face and a sudden compression of his lips, lowered his eyes.

Irving had triumphed, but after the first moment he felt surprisingly little satisfaction in his triumph. He could not help being sorry for Westby; the boy was after all right in feeling that he had been deprived of a victory to which he had been entitled. And as Irving looked at his downcast face, he softened still further; Westby had so often delighted in humiliating him, and he had longed for the opportunity of reprisal. Now it had come, and Westby was humiliated, and the audience were not unsympathetic with Irving for the achievement; yet Irving felt already the sting of remorse. Westby was only a boy, and he was a master; it was not well for a master to mortify a boy in the presence of other boys--a boy whose disappointment was already keen.

The letters were distributed; there was one for Irving from his brother. It contained news that made the world a different place from what it had been an hour ago. Lawrence was playing left end on the Harvard Freshman football eleven; not only that, but in the first game of the season, played against a Boston preparatory school, he had made the only touchdown. He added that that didn't mean much, for he had got the ball on a fluke; still, the tone of the letter was excited and elated.

And it excited and elated Irving. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket; he sat for a moment looking out of the window with dreamy eyes and an unconscious smile. Lawrence was succeeding, was going to succeed, in a way far different from his own--if his own college course could be said in any sense to have terminated in success. Lawrence would have the athletic and the social experience which he had never had; Lawrence would be popular as he had never been; Lawrence would go brilliantly through college as he had never done. Everything now was in Lawrence's reach, and he was a boy who would not be spoiled or led astray by the achievement of temporary glories.

In the vision of his brother's triumphant career, Irving was transported from the troubles and perplexities, from the self-reproaches and the doubts which had been making him unhappy. He wanted now to share his happiness, to take the boys into his confidence--but one can share one's happiness only with one's friends. There was Westby, aggrieved and hostile; there was Carroll, sitting next to him, the queer, quizzical, silent youth, with whom Irving had been entirely unable to establish any relation of intimacy; no, there were no boys at his table with whom he was intimate enough to appeal for their interest and congratulations. And feeling this, he shrank from communicating the news,--though he felt sure that even Westby, who was going to Harvard the next year, might be interested in it; he shrank from anything like boasting. He found an outlet soon; Barclay came to see him that evening.

"I looked for you this afternoon, after the giving out of the prizes," said Barclay. "But I couldn't find you."

"No, I didn't wait for that. Did you make a speech? I heard the boys laughing and cheering as I came away."

"Oh, yes, I got off a few stale jokes and some heavy-footed persiflage. It went well enough.--But I looked for you afterwards because I felt I may have seemed rather short when you came up; the truth is, I was racking my brain at that moment; Scarborough had just sprung the fact on me that I must make the speech."

"Oh, it was all right," said Irving. "I'm sorry to have bothered you at such a time. I was just a little agitated because Westby was rather angry over being penalized in the hundred--"

"So I hear. Well, it was hard luck in a way--but after all you had a perfect right to penalize him; he did foul, and he ought to be sport enough to take the consequences."

"I suppose it wouldn't have been--it wouldn't be possible to run the race over?"

"Certainly not. Besides, Westby has no right to say that if he'd started even with Flack, he'd have beaten him. It's true that he gained half a yard on Flack in the race; but it's also true that Flack knew he had that much leeway. There's no telling how much more Flack might have done if he'd had to. So if Westby says anything to me, I shall tell him just that."

"I feel sorry about the thing anyway. I'm sorry I made a mess of it--as usual."

"Oh, cheer up; it's not going to do you any harm with the fellows. A little momentary flash from Westby and Morrill--"

"No, I wasn't thinking of myself."

"You weren't!" The bluntness of Barclay's exclamation of astonishment caused Irving to blush, and Barclay himself, realizing what he had betrayed to Irving's perception, looked embarrassed. But Irving laughed.

"I don't wonder you're surprised. I guess that's been the worst trouble with me here--thinking about myself. And that was what was troubling me when I went to you this afternoon. But it isn't any longer. I feel bad about Westby. I can't help thinking I did rob him of his race--and then I sat on him at supper into the bargain."

Barclay shouted with laughter. "You sat on Westby--and you're sorry for it! What's happened to you, anyway? Tell me about it."

Irving narrated the circumstances. "And I want to be friendly with him," he concluded. "Don't you think I might explain that it was a blunder on my part--and that I'm sorry I blundered?"

"I wouldn't," said Barclay. "He's beginning to respect you now. Don't do anything to make him think you're a little soft. That's what he wants to think, and he'd construe any such move on your part unfavorably."

"Well, perhaps so." Irving sighed.

"You're stiffening up quite a lot," observed Barclay.

"I was very wobbly when Westby and the other fellows went for me after that race," confessed Irving. "If I stiffened up, I guess it was just the courage of desperation. And I don't think that amounts to much. But I've cheered up for good now."

"How's that?"

Somewhat shyly Irving communicated the proud news about his brother.

"Oh, I read about him in to-day's Boston newspaper," exclaimed Barclay.

"What?" asked Irving. "Where was it? I didn't see it."

"You probably don't read all the football news, as I do. But you will after this." Barclay laughed. "Yes, there was quite an account of that game, and Upton was mentioned as being the bright particular star on the Freshman team. It never occurred to me that he was your brother."

"Naturally not. I wish I could get away to see the game with the Yale Freshmen; I've never seen Lawrence play. But I don't suppose I could manage that, could I?"

Barclay looked doubtful. "The rector's pretty strict with the masters as well as with the boys. Especially when a man has charge of a dormitory. I somehow think it wouldn't be wise to try it,--your first term."

"I suppose not. Well, I shall certainly read the football columns from now on."

"I wonder," remarked Barclay, "if we couldn't get the Harvard Freshmen up here to play a practice game with our School eleven--say, the week before the St. John's game? It would be good practice for them as well as for us; three or four years ago the Freshmen played here."

"Oh, I wish we could." Irving's face lighted up. "I'll write to my brother, and perhaps he can arrange it with the captain and manager."

"I'll talk it over with Collingwood first," said Barclay. "And then we'll proceed officially; and you can pull any additional wires that are possible through your brother." He rose to go. "I shouldn't wonder," he added, "if that brother of yours turned out to be a useful asset for you here."

"I should prefer to stand on my own legs," said Irving. "I shan't advertise it round that I have a football brother."

"Oh, it won't be necessary for you to do that; things have a way of leaking out." Barclay laughed as he took his departure.

As it happened, the next day Louis Collingwood, the captain of the School eleven, went to Barclay to consult him about the outlook for the season.

"It seems to me we'll have a good School team," said Collingwood, "but no second eleven capable of giving them hard practice--the kind they'll need to beat St. John's. If we could only arrange one or two games with outside teams, to put us into shape--"

"I was thinking of that," said Barclay. "I wonder if we mightn't get the Harvard Freshmen up here. They have a good eleven, apparently."

"Yes, awfully good, from all that the papers say. Don't you suppose their schedule is filled up?"

"It may be--but perhaps they could give us a date. Suppose you come over to my house this evening and we'll send a letter off to their captain. And I'm sure"--Barclay threw the remark out in the most casual manner--"Mr. Upton will be glad to approach them for us through his brother."

"His brother? Who's that?"

"Why, didn't you know? His brother plays left end on the team--"

"Kiddy Upton's brother on the Harvard Freshmen! No!"

"Whose brother?"

"Mr. Upton's, I meant to say." Louis grinned. "Is he really, Mr. Barclay?"

"I'm rather surprised you didn't know it. But I guess Mr. Upton is the kind that doesn't talk much."

"I should think he'd have let that out."

"Well, he let it out to me. I suspect--though he hasn't told me--that he's helping to put his brother through college. And his success in doing that will naturally depend largely on his success or failure here as a master."

"You mean--keeping his job?"

Barclay nodded. "Yes. Oh, I don't suppose there's any real doubt about that. He's a perfectly competent teacher, isn't he? You know; you have a class with him."

"Ye-es," said Louis, slowly. "The trouble has been, the fellows horse him a good deal--though not quite so much as they did."

"They'll get over that when they know him better," remarked Barclay.

He knew that Louis Collingwood went away feeling much impressed, and he was pretty sure he had done Irving a good turn.

It was in the noon half-hour, while Collingwood was holding this interview with Mr. Barclay, that Westby, reading the Harvard news in his Boston paper, went giggling into Morrill's room.

"There's a fellow named Upton playing on the Freshmen." He showed Morrill the name. "Let's get a crowd and go in to Kiddy; I'll get him rattled."

"How?" asked Morrill.

"Oh, ask him if this fellow's a relation of his, and say I supposed of course he must be--such athletic prowess, and all that sort of thing; with a crowd standing there giggling you know how rattled he'll get."

"All right," said Morrill, who was an earnest admirer of Westby's wit.

So they collected Dennison and Smythe and Allison and Carroll and Scarborough, and marched up the corridor--humorously tramping in step--to Irving's door. There Westby, newspaper in hand, knocked. Irving opened the door.

"Mr. Upton, sir," began Westby, "sorry to disturb you, sir." The boys all began to grin, and Irving saw that he was in for some carefully planned attack. "I was just reading my morning paper, sir, and I wanted to ask you what relation to you the man named Upton is that's playing on the Harvard Freshman eleven, sir."

Irving's eyes twinkled; if ever the enemy had been delivered into his hands!

"What makes you think he's a relation?" he asked, with an assumption of cold dignity.

"Oh, we all feel sure he must be, sir. Of course your well-known and justly famous interest in all athletic sports, sir--not to say your prowess in them, sir--it's natural to suppose that any athlete named Upton would belong to the same family with you, sir."

The boys were all on the broad grin; Westby's manner was so expansively courteous, his compliments were so absurdly urbane, that Irving threw off his air of coldness and adopted a jaunty manner of reply which was even more misleading.

"Oh, well, if you've been so clever as to guess it, Westby," he said, "I don't mind telling you--it's my brother."

Westby bestowed on his confederates--quite indifferent as to whether Irving detected it or not--his slow, facetious wink. He returned then to his victim and in his most gamesome manner said,--

"I supposed of course it was your brother, sir. Or at least I should have supposed so, except that I didn't know you had a brother at Harvard. Wasn't it rather--what shall I say?--_peu aimable_ not to have taken us, your friends, into your confidence? Would you mind telling us, sir, what your brother's first name is?"

"My brother's first name? Lawrence."

"Hm!" said Westby, referring to his newspaper. "I find him set down here as 'T. Upton.' But I suppose that is a misprint, of course."

"I suppose it must be," agreed Irving.

"Newspapers are always making mistakes, aren't they?" said Westby. "Such careless fellows! We'd like awfully to hear more about your brother Lawrence, Mr. Upton."

The broad grin broke into a snicker.

"Why, I don't know just what there is to tell," Irving said awkwardly.

"What does he look like, sir? Does he resemble you very much?--I mean, apart from the family fondness for athletics."

Irving's lips twitched; Westby was enjoying so thoroughly his revenge! And the other boys were all stifling their amusement.

"We are said not to look very much alike," he answered. "He is of a somewhat heavier build."

"He must be somewhat lacking, then, in grace and agility, sir," said Westby; and the boys broke into a shout, and Irving gave way to a faint smile.

At that moment Collingwood came up the stairs.

"Hello, Lou," said Westby, with a welcoming wink. "We're just congratulating Mr. Upton on his brother; did you know that he has a brother playing on the Harvard Freshmen?"

"Yes," said Collingwood. "I've just heard it from Mr. Barclay."

The boys stared at Collingwood, then at Irving, whose eyes were twinkling again and whose smile had widened. Then they looked at Westby; he was gazing at Collingwood unbelievingly,--stupefied.

"What's the matter with you?" asked Collingwood.

And then Irving broke out into a delighted peal of laughter. He could find nothing but slang in which to express himself, and through his laughter he ejaculated,--

"Stung, my young friend! Stung!"

They all gave a whoop; they swung Westby round and rushed him down the corridor to his room, shouting and jeering.

When Irving went down to lunch, Carroll, the quizzical, silent Carroll, welcomed him with a grin. Westby turned a bright pink and looked away. At the next table Allison and Smythe and Scarborough were all looking over at him and smiling; and at the table beyond that Collingwood and Morrill and Dennison were craning their necks and exhibiting their joy. Westby, the humorist, had suddenly become the butt, a position which he had rarely occupied before.

He was quite subdued through that meal. Once in the middle of it, Irving looked at him and caught his eye, and on a sudden impulse leaned back and laughed. Carroll joined in, Westby blushed once more, the Sixth Formers at the next table looked over and began to laugh; the other boys cast wondering glances.

"What's the joke, Mr. Upton?" asked Blake.

"Oh, don't ask _me_," said Irving. "Ask Westby."

"What is it, Wes?" said Blake, and could not understand why he received such a vicious kick under the table, or why Carroll said in such a jeering way, "Yes, Wes, what _is_ the joke, anyhow?"

When the meal was over, Westby's friends lay in wait for him outside in the hall, crowded round, and began patting him on the back and offering him their jocular sympathy. To have the joke turned on the professional humorist appeared to be extremely popular; and the humorist did not take it very well. "Oh, get out, get out!" he was saying, wrenching himself from the grasp of first one and then another. And Irving came out just as he exclaimed in desperation, "Just the same, I'll bet it's all a fake; I'll bet he hasn't got a brother!"

He flung himself around, trying to escape from Collingwood's clutch, and saw Irving. The smile faded from Irving's face; Westby looked at him sullenly for a moment, then broke away and made a rush up the stairs.