Barclay shouted with laughter. “You sat on Westby—and you’re sorry for it! What’s happened to you, anyway? Tell me about it.”
Irving narrated the circumstances. “And I want to be friendly with him,” he concluded. “Don’t you think I might explain that it was a blunder on my part—and that I’m sorry I blundered?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Barclay. “He’s beginning to respect you now. Don’t do anything to make him think you’re a little soft. That’s what he wants to think, and he’d construe any such move on your part unfavorably.”
“Well, perhaps so.” Irving sighed.
“You’re stiffening up quite a lot,” observed Barclay.
“I was very wobbly when Westby and the other fellows went for me after that race,” confessed Irving. “If I stiffened up, I guess it was just the courage of desperation. And I don’t think that amounts to much. But I’ve cheered up for good now.”
“How’s that?”
Somewhat shyly Irving communicated the proud news about his brother.
“Oh, I read about him in to-day’s Boston newspaper,” exclaimed Barclay.
“What?” asked Irving. “Where was it? I didn’t see it.”