There was a loud burst of laughter from a room in which several boys had gathered.  It was followed by the remark in Westby’s pleasant, persuasive voice,—­

“Look out, fellows, or we’ll have Kiddy Upton down on us.”

“Kiddy Upton!” another voice exclaimed in delight, and there was more laughter.

Kiddy Upton!  So that was to be his name.  Of course boys gave nicknames to their teachers,—­Irving remembered some appellations that had prevailed even at college.  But none of them seemed so slighting or so jeering as this of Kiddy; and Irving flushed as he had done when he had been taken for a “new kid.”  But now his sensitiveness was even more hurt; it wounded him that Westby, that pleasant, humorous person, should have been the one to apply the epithet.

Westby began singing “The Wearing of the Green,” to an accompaniment on a banjo.  Presently four or five voices, with extravagant brogues, were uplifted in the chorus:—­

    “’Tis the most disthressful counthry
      That ever there was seen;
    For they’re hanging men and women too
      For wearin’ of the green.”

There was much applause; boys from other rooms went hurrying down the corridor.  The banjo-player struck up “The Road to Mandalay;” again Irving recognized Westby’s voice.

Irving decided that he must not be thin-skinned; it was his part to step up, be genial, make himself known to all these boys who were to be under his care, and show them that he wished to be friendly.  He did not wait to debate with himself the wisdom of this resolve or to consider how he should proceed; he acted on the impulse.  He walked down the corridor to the third room on the left—­the door of Westby’s room, from which the sounds of joviality proceeded.  He knocked; some one called “Come in;” and Irving opened the door.

Three boys sat in chairs, three sat on the bed; Westby himself was squatting cross-legged on the window seat, with the banjo across his knees.  They all rose politely when Irving entered.

“I thought I would drop in and make your acquaintance,” said Irving.  “We’re bound to know one another some time.”

“My name’s Collingwood,” said the boy nearest him, offering his hand.  He was a healthy, light-haired, solidly put together youth, with a genial smile.  “This is Scarborough, Mr. Upton.”

The biggest of them all came forward at that and shook hands.  Irving thought that his deep-set dark eyes were disconcertingly direct in their gaze; and a lock of black hair overhung his brow in a far from propitiating manner.  Yet his bearing was dignified and manly; Irving felt that he might be trusted to show magnanimity.

“Here’s Carroll,” continued Collingwood; and Irving said, “Oh, I know Carroll; we sat together at supper.”  Carroll said nothing, merely smiled in an agreeable, non-committal manner; so far it was all that Irving had discovered he could do.