“Why, yes,” he said hesitatingly.  “I—­I was a little startled.”

“Did they take you for a new kid, Mr. Upton?” asked Blake, the Fifth Former, who sat on Irving’s left.

“For a moment, yes,” admitted Irving, anxious not to pursue the subject.

But Westby proceeded to explain with gusto, while the whole table listened.  “Lou Collingwood and Carrie here and I were in front of the Study, and out came Mr. Upton.  And Lou wanted to nail him for the Pythians, so we all pranced up to him, and I said, ’Hello, new kid; what name, please?’—­just like that; didn’t I, Mr. Upton?”

“Yes,” said Irving grudgingly.  He had an uneasy feeling that he was being made an object of general entertainment; certainly the eyes of all the boys at the table were fixed upon him smilingly.

“What happened then?” asked the blunt Blake.

“Why, then,” continued Westby, “Mr. Upton told us that he wasn’t a new kid at all, but a new master.  You may imagine we were surprised—­weren’t we, Mr. Upton?”

“Oh, I could hardly tell—­”

“The joke was certainly on us.  As the French say, it was a contretemps.  To think that after all the years we’d been here, we couldn’t tell a new kid from a new master!”

Irving was mildly bewildered.  He could not quite determine whether Westby was telling the story more as a joke on himself or on him.  Anyway, in spite of the temporary embarrassment which they had caused him, there seemed to be nothing offensive in the remarks.  He liked Westby’s face; it was alert and good-humored, and the cajoling quality in the boy’s voice and the twinkle in his eyes were quite attractive.  In fact, his manner during supper was so agreeable that Irving quite forgot it was this youth whom he had overheard mimicking him:  “I am not a new kid; I am a master.”

After supper there were prayers in the Common Room; then all the boys except the Sixth Formers went to the Study building to sit for an hour under the eyes of a master, to read or write letters.  On subsequent evenings they would have to employ this period in studying, but as yet no lessons had been assigned; the classroom work had not begun.  The Sixth Form were exempt from the necessity of attending Study, and had the privilege of preparing their lessons in their own rooms.  Irving found, on going up to his dormitory, that the boys were visiting one another, helping one another unpack, darting up and down the corridor and carrying on loud conversations.  He decided, as there were no lessons for them to prepare, not to interfere; their sociability seemed harmless enough.

So, leaving the door of his room open that he might hear and suppress any incipient disorder, he began a letter to Lawrence.  He thought at first that he would confide to his brother the little troubles which were annoying him.  But when he set about it, they seemed really too petty to transcribe; surely he was man enough to bear such worries without appealing to a younger brother for advice.