Westby was going on and on; he had a hilarious audience now of three tables. From the platform at the end of the dining-room Mr. Randolph looked down and shook his head—shook it emphatically; and Irving, seeing it, understood the signal.
“Westby,” said Irving. “Westby!” He had to raise his voice.
“Yes, sir?” Westby looked up innocently.
“I will have to ask you to discontinue your reading.”
“But this is not a newspaper.”
“It’s part of one.”
“Yes, sir, but the rule is against bringing newspapers to table—not against bringing newspaper clippings to table.”
“The rule’s been changed,” said Irving. “It now includes clippings.”
“You see how it is, fellows.” Westby turned to the others. “Persecuted—always persecuted. If I’m within the rules—they change the rules to soak me. Well,”—he folded up his clippings and put them in his pocket,—“the class in current topics is dismissed. But instead Mr. Upton has very kindly consented to entertain us this evening—some of his inimitable chit-chat—”
“I wouldn’t always try to be facetious, Westby,” said Irving.