Irving opened the door and came out with a leap.
“Collingwood,” he cried, and his voice was quivering as it had quivered that morning in class, “did you throw that ball?”
“I did,” said Collingwood.
“Very well. I shall report you. I will have no more of this insolence.”
He swung round and shut himself again in his room. The fellows at the other end of the corridor had stood aghast; now they came hurrying up. Collingwood was laughing.
“Kiddy’s getting to be a regular lion,” he said, and when Morrill and Dennison were for expressing their indignation, he only laughed the more.
It was not very pleasant for Irving at luncheon. Westby gave him an amused glance when he came in—more amused than hostile—and Irving preserved his dignity by returning an unflinching look. Westby made no further overtures for a while; the other boys chattered among themselves, about football and tennis, and Irving sat silent at the head of the table. At last, however, Westby turned to him.
“Mr. Upton,” said Westby deferentially, “how would you explain this? There’s a dog, and he must be doing one of two things; either he’s running or he’s not running. If he’s not doing the one, he is doing the other, isn’t he?”
“I suppose so,” said Irving.
“Well, he’s not running. Therefore—he is running. How do you explain that, Mr. Upton?”