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?