The Jester of St. Timothy's Part 3

"Yes," said Irving grudgingly. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being made an object of general entertainment; certainly the eyes of all the boys at the table were fixed upon him smilingly.

"What happened then?" asked the blunt Blake.

"Why, then," continued Westby, "Mr. Upton told us that he wasn't a new kid at all, but a new master. You may imagine we were surprised-weren't we, Mr. Upton?"

"Oh, I could hardly tell-"

"The joke was certainly on us. As the French say, it was a _contretemps_. To think that after all the years we'd been here, we couldn't tell a new kid from a new master!"

Irving was mildly bewildered. He could not quite determine whether Westby was telling the story more as a joke on himself or on him.

Anyway, in spite of the temporary embarra.s.sment which they had caused him, there seemed to be nothing offensive in the remarks. He liked Westby's face; it was alert and good-humored, and the cajoling quality in the boy's voice and the twinkle in his eyes were quite attractive. In fact, his manner during supper was so agreeable that Irving quite forgot it was this youth whom he had overheard mimicking him: "I am not a new kid; I am a master."

After supper there were prayers in the Common Room; then all the boys except the Sixth Formers went to the Study building to sit for an hour under the eyes of a master, to read or write letters. On subsequent evenings they would have to employ this period in studying, but as yet no lessons had been a.s.signed; the cla.s.sroom work had not begun. The Sixth Form were exempt from the necessity of attending Study, and had the privilege of preparing their lessons in their own rooms. Irving found, on going up to his dormitory, that the boys were visiting one another, helping one another unpack, darting up and down the corridor and carrying on loud conversations. He decided, as there were no lessons for them to prepare, not to interfere; their sociability seemed harmless enough.

So, leaving the door of his room open that he might hear and suppress any incipient disorder, he began a letter to Lawrence. He thought at first that he would confide to his brother the little troubles which were annoying him. But when he set about it, they seemed really too petty to transcribe; surely he was man enough to bear such worries without appealing to a younger brother for advice.

There was a loud burst of laughter from a room in which several boys had gathered. It was followed by the remark in Westby's pleasant, persuasive voice,-

"Look out, fellows, or we'll have Kiddy Upton down on us."

"Kiddy Upton!" another voice exclaimed in delight, and there was more laughter.

Kiddy Upton! So that was to be his name. Of course boys gave nicknames to their teachers,-Irving remembered some appellations that had prevailed even at college. But none of them seemed so slighting or so jeering as this of Kiddy; and Irving flushed as he had done when he had been taken for a "new kid." But now his sensitiveness was even more hurt; it wounded him that Westby, that pleasant, humorous person, should have been the one to apply the epithet.

Westby began singing "The Wearing of the Green," to an accompaniment on a banjo. Presently four or five voices, with extravagant brogues, were uplifted in the chorus:-

"'Tis the most disthressful counthry That ever there was seen; For they're hanging men and women too For wearin' of the green."

There was much applause; boys from other rooms went hurrying down the corridor. The banjo-player struck up "The Road to Mandalay;" again Irving recognized Westby's voice.

Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned; it was his part to step up, be genial, make himself known to all these boys who were to be under his care, and show them that he wished to be friendly. He did not wait to debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve or to consider how he should proceed; he acted on the impulse. He walked down the corridor to the third room on the left-the door of Westby's room, from which the sounds of joviality proceeded. He knocked; some one called "Come in;"

and Irving opened the door.

Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the bed; Westby himself was squatting cross-legged on the window seat, with the banjo across his knees. They all rose politely when Irving entered.

"I thought I would drop in and make your acquaintance," said Irving.

"We're bound to know one another some time."

"My name's Collingwood," said the boy nearest him, offering his hand. He was a healthy, light-haired, solidly put together youth, with a genial smile. "This is Scarborough, Mr. Upton."

The biggest of them all came forward at that and shook hands. Irving thought that his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly direct in their gaze; and a lock of black hair overhung his brow in a far from propitiating manner. Yet his bearing was dignified and manly; Irving felt that he might be trusted to show magnanimity.

"Here's Carroll," continued Collingwood; and Irving said, "Oh, I know Carroll; we sat together at supper." Carroll said nothing, merely smiled in an agreeable, non-committal manner; so far it was all that Irving had discovered he could do.

"That fellow with the angel face is Morrill," Collingwood went on, "and the one next to him, with the aristocratic features, is Baldersnaith, and this red-head here is Dennison,-and that's Westby."

Irving, shaking hands round the circle, said, "Oh, I know Westby."

"Sit down, won't you, Mr. Upton?" Westby pushed his armchair forward.

"Thank you; don't let me interrupt the singing."

"Maybe you'll join us?"

Irving shook his head. "I wish I could. But please go on."

Westby squatted again on the window-seat and plucked undecidedly at the banjo-strings. Then he cleared his throat and launched upon a negro melody; he sang it with the unctuous abandon of the darkey, and Irving listened and looked on enviously, admiring the display of talent. Westby sang another song, and then turned and pushed up the window.

"Awfully hot for this time of year, isn't it?" he said. "Fine moonlight night; wouldn't it be great to go for a swim?"

"Um!" said Morrill, appreciatively.

"Will you let us go, Mr. Upton?" Westby asked the question pleadingly.

"Won't you please let us go? It's such a fine warm moonlight night-and it isn't as if school had really begun, you know."

"But I think the rules don't permit your being out at this time of night, do they?" said Irving.

"Well, but as I say, school hasn't really begun yet. And besides, Scabby here is almost as good as a master-and so is Lou Collingwood; I'm the only really irresponsible one in the bunch-"

"Where do you go to swim?"

"In the pond, just beyond the isthmus-only about a quarter of a mile from here. Come on, fellows, Mr. Upton's going to let us go."

Irving laughed uneasily. "Oh, I didn't say that. If Mr. Randolph is willing that you should go, I wouldn't object."

"You're in charge of this dormitory," argued Westby. "And if you gave us permission, Mr. Randolph wouldn't say anything."

"I don't feel that I can make an exception to the rules," said Irving.

"But school hasn't really begun yet," persisted Westby.

"I think it really has, so far as observing the rules is concerned,"

replied Irving.

"You might go with us, sir-and that would make it all right."

"But I don't believe I want to go in swimming this evening."

"I'm awfully afraid you're going to be just like granite, Mr. Upton,"

sighed Westby,-"the man with the iron jaw." He turned on the others a humorous look; they all were smiling. Irving felt uncomfortable again, suspecting that Westby was making game of him, yet not knowing in what way to meet it-except by silence.

"I'll tell you what I will do with you to-morrow, Wes," said Collingwood. "I'll challenge you to that water duel that we were to have pulled off last June."

"All right, Lou," said Westby. "Carrie here will be my trusty squire and will paddle my canoe."

Carroll grinned his a.s.sent.

"I'll pick Ned Morrill for my second," said Collingwood. "And Scabby can be referee."