Moved by this impulse, he descended to the kitchen—precincts which he
had never before entered and in which his appearance created at first
some consternation. The cook, however, was obliging; and when he had
confessed himself the incapable one who had sent out the mutilated beef
to be carved, she was most reassuring in her speech, and taking the cold
remains of a similar cut from the ice chest, she gave him an object
lesson. She demonstrated to him how he should begin the attack, how he
might foil the bone that existed only to baffle, how slice after slice
might fall beneath his sure and rapid slashes.

“I see,” said Irving, taking the knife and fork from her and making some
imaginary passes. “The fork so—the knife so. And you will always be sure
to have a sharp carving knife for me—very sharp?”

The cook smiled and promised, and he extravagantly left her
contemplating a dollar bill.

Shortly after he had returned to his room the bell on the Study building
rang, announcing the end of the morning session. There was half an hour
before luncheon; soon the boys came tramping up the stairs and past
Irving’s closed door. Soon also a racketing began in the corridors;
Irving suspected an intention to bait him still further; it was
probably Westby once again. He waited until the noise became too great
to be ignored—shouting and battering and scuffling; then he went forth
to quell it.

To his surprise Westby was not engaged in the disturbance—was, in fact,
not visible. Collingwood, with his back turned, was in the act of
hurling a football to the farther end of the corridor, where Scarborough