“Have you heard the new song Wes has got off, Mr. Upton?” asked Dennison.

“No, what’s that?”

“Hit it up, Wes.”

“Oh, choke it off.”  Collingwood grinned uneasily.

“Go on, Wes,—­strike up.  We’ll all join in.”

“Wait till I get my banjo—­you don’t mind, do you, Mr. Upton?”

“No.  I’d like to hear it.”

So Westby hastened to his room and returned, bearing the instrument; and all the other boys gathered round, except Collingwood, who stood sheepishly off at one side.  Westby twanged the strings and then to the accompaniment began,—­

    “Across the broad prairies he came from the west,
    With fire in his eye and with brawn on his chest;
    His arms they were strong and his legs they were fleet;
    There was none could outstrip his vanishing feet;
    We made him our captain—­what else could we do? 
    You ask who he is?  Do I hear you say, ‘Who?’”

Then they all came in on the chorus:—­

    “He is our Lou, he is our honey-Lou,
      He is our pride and joy;
    He is our Loo-loo, he is our Loo-loo,
      He is our Lou-Lou boy.”

“Silly song!” exclaimed Collingwood with disgust.

“Wes made it up just this evening, at Mrs. Barclay’s,” said Dennison.  “We were all singing, and after a while Wes edged in to the piano and sprung this on us.  Don’t you think it’s a good song?”

“So good that I wish I could furnish inspiration for another,” said Irving.

Westby joined in the laugh and looked pleased.

“Good-night, everybody,” said Collingwood; he walked away to his room.  The others followed, all except Westby, to whom Irving said,—­

“Will you wait a moment?  I should like to have a little talk with you.”  He led the boy into his room and pushed forward his armchair.

Westby seated himself with his banjo across his knees and looked at Irving wonderingly.

“The fellows seem pretty cheerful after their defeat, don’t they?” said Irving.

A shadow crossed Westby’s face.  “They’ve been very decent about it,” he answered.

Irving put his hand on Westby’s arm.

“Do you know why they’re so decent?  It’s because you’ve cheered them up yourself.  Who was the fellow, Westby, that said he didn’t care who might make his country’s laws if only he might write its songs?”

[Illustration:  A SHADOW CROSSED WESTBY’S FACE]

“Oh—­no—­that’s got nothing to do with me.”

“You needn’t care who makes the touchdowns.  Your job is to do something else.  It’s no discredit to you if because of lack of training or adaptability, you can’t hang on to a ball at a critical moment.  There are plenty of fellows who can do that.—­I suppose you don’t see it yet yourself—­but you know the message my brother sent you?  I shall tell him that you got your chance to-day—­and took it.”