“If I might venture to suggest, sir,” said Westby politely, “you could send it out and have it carved in the kitchen.”
Irving surrendered; he looked up and said to the maid,—
“Please take this out and have it carved outside.”
He felt that he could almost cry from the humiliation, but instead he tried to assume cheerfulness and dignity.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “to have to keep you fellows waiting; we’ll try to arrange things so that it won’t happen again.”
The boys accepted the apology in gloomy silence. At Scarborough’s table their plight was exciting comment; Irving was aware of the curious glances which had been occasioned by the withdrawal of the roast. It seemed to him that he was publicly disgraced; there was a peculiar ignominy in sitting at the head of a table and being unable to perform the simplest duty of host. Worst of all, in the encounter with Westby he had lost ground.
The meat was brought on again, sliced in a manner which could not conceal the unskillfulness of the original attack.
“Stone cold!” exclaimed Blake, the first boy to test it.
Irving’s temper flew up. “Don’t be childish,” he said. “And don’t make any more comments about this matter. It’s of no importance—and cold roast beef is just as good for you as hot.”
“If not a great deal better,” added Westby with an urbanity that set every one snickering.