CHAPTER VII
THE WORM BEGINS TO TURN
After the charge which Westby had flung at him so furiously, Irving looked in amazement to the other boys for an explanation. They were all Corinthians, and he saw gloom and resentment in their faces.
“I think it was pretty rough, Mr. Upton, to penalize him for an unintentional foul,” said Morrill. “He’d have beaten Flack if they’d started even.”
“But it was a foul,” protested Irving. “So I had to penalize him. I made it as small a penalty as I could.”
“You didn’t have to penalize him unless you wanted to,” said Morrill grimly. “Of course you had a perfect right to do as you pleased, only—” He shrugged his shoulders and walked away, followed by the other Corinthians.
Irving stood stricken. So this was the outcome; in seeking to be sympathetic and to be understood, he had only caused himself somehow to be more hated and despised. Bitterness rose within him, bitterness against Westby, against Morrill, against boys in general, against the school. And only an hour ago, from what he had seen and heard, he had felt that he could like Westby, and had been not without some hope that Westby might some time like him.
He saw Barclay standing with Mr. Randolph by the table on which were the prize cups; Barclay was bending over, arranging them, and the boys were gathering on the opposite side of the track, being “policed back” by the half-dozen members of the athletic committee. Evidently the award of prizes was to be made at once, and either Barclay or Randolph was to hand out the cups—perhaps also to make a speech. But Irving could not wait; he must satisfy himself of his doubts and fears, and so he hurried forward and touched Barclay on the shoulder.