holding the ball out in the arrested attitude of one about to throw. On
his face was an expression of utter amazement, which rapidly gave place
to indignation. Collingwood had a temper, and sometimes—even when he
was not on the football field—it flared up.

“Of all the chumps!” he muttered; and he turned, and poising the ball
again, flung it with all his strength at the master’s door. It went
straight to the mark, crashed against the upper panel with a tremendous
bang, and rebounded to Collingwood’s feet.

Irving opened the door and came out with a leap.

“Collingwood,” he cried, and his voice was quivering as it had quivered
that morning in class, “did you throw that ball?”

“I did,” said Collingwood.

“Very well. I shall report you. I will have no more of this insolence.”

He swung round and shut himself again in his room. The fellows at the
other end of the corridor had stood aghast; now they came hurrying up.
Collingwood was laughing.

“Kiddy’s getting to be a regular lion,” he said, and when Morrill and
Dennison were for expressing their indignation, he only laughed the
more.

It was not very pleasant for Irving at luncheon. Westby gave him an
amused glance when he came in—more amused than hostile—and Irving
preserved his dignity by returning an unflinching look. Westby made no