The Jester of St. Timothy's Part 14

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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed round into the avenue that led up to the School. When he had gone as far as the bend where from behind the cl.u.s.ter 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 pa.s.sed 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 ent.i.tled. 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 embarra.s.sed. 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 circ.u.mstances. "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?"