humor—”

“I’ll hold no argument with you,” cried Irving; in his excitement his
voice rose thin and thrill. “Leave the room at once.”

Westby laid the pointer and the chalk on the shelf, blew the dust from
his fingers, and walked towards his seat. Irving took a step forward;
his face was white.

“What do you mean!—What do you mean! I told you to leave the room.”

Westby faced him with composure through which showed a sneer; for the
first time the boy was displaying contempt; hitherto his attitude had
been jocose and cajoling.

“I was going for my cap,” he said, and his eyes flashed scornfully.
Then, regardless of the master’s look, he continued past the row of his
classmates, took up his cap, and retraced his steps towards the door.
Irving stood watching him, with lips compressed in a stern line; the
line thinned even more when he saw Westby bestow on his friends a droll,
drooping wink of the left eyelid.

And then, while all the class sat in silence, Westby did an audacious
thing—a thing that set every one except Irving off into a joyous titter.
He went out of the door doing the sailor’s hornpipe,—right hand on
stomach, left hand on back, left hand on stomach, right hand on back,
and taking little skips as he alternated the position. And so, skipping
merrily, he disappeared down the corridor.

Irving returned to his platform. His hands were trembling, and he felt