obtaining the Sixth Form dormitory.

“The older they are, the less trouble they are,” said Wythe. “My first year I was over at the Lower School, looking after the little kids. Half the time they’re sick and whimpering and have to be coddled, and the rest of the time they have to be spanked.”

“It hardly matters what age they are,” lamented Marcy, pessimistically. “There’s bound to be a dormitory disorder once in so often.”

“What do you do in that case?” asked Irving.

“Jump hard on some one,” answered Wythe. “Try to get the leader of it, but if you can’t get him, get somebody. Report him,—give him three sheets.”

“That means writing Latin lines for three hours on half-holidays?”

“Yes, and six marks off in Decorum for the week. Of course they’ll come wheedling round you, wanting to be excused; you have to use your own discretion about that.”

“Do you have any Sixth Form classes?” asked Marcy.

“Yes,” Irving answered. “In Geometry.”

“That means you’ll have to take the upper hand and hold it, right from the start. If you have one crowd in dormitory to look after and another crowd in class, you can afford to relax a little now and then; but when it’s the same boys in both—they watch for any sign of weakening.”

“There will be only two of them at your table, any way, Mr. Upton,” said Randolph. He passed over a list. “The others are all Fourth and Fifth Formers—only Westby and Carroll from the Sixth!”

“Westby!” Wythe sighed. “Maybe we were premature in congratulating you. I’d forgotten about Westby.”

“What is the matter with him?” asked Irving.

“His cleverness, and his attractiveness. He smiles and smiles and is a villain still. He was in my dormitory year before last and kept it in a constant turmoil. And yet if you have any sense of humor at all you can’t help being amused by him—even sympathizing with him—though it’s apt to be at your own expense.”

“He’s perfectly conscienceless,” declared Marcy.

“And yet there’s no real harm in him,” said Randolph.

“He seems to be something of a puzzle.” Irving spoke uneasily. “And he’s to be at my table—I’m to have a table?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, one or two of the Sixth Formers—Scarborough, for instance—have tables. But we don’t let all the Sixth Formers eat together; we try to scatter them. And Westby and Carroll have fallen to your lot.”

“If you happen to see either of them before supper, I should like to meet them,” Irving said.

He felt that if he could make their acquaintance separately and without witnesses, he could produce a better impression than if he waited and confronted them before a whole table of strange faces.

But as it happened, that was just the way that he did meet Westby and Carroll. When the supper bell sounded, the hallway of the Upper School was crowded with boys, examining the schedule which had been posted and which assigned them to their seats in the dining-room. Irving, after waiting nervously until more than half the number had entered the dining-room and deriving no help from any of the other masters, went in and stood at the head of the third table, as he had been instructed to do. Four or five boys were already standing there at their places; they looked at him with curiosity and bowed to him politely. The crowd as it entered thinned; Irving was beginning to hope that Westby and Carroll had gone elsewhere,—and then, just as Mr. Randolph was mounting to the head table on the dais, two boys slipped in and stood at the seats at Irving’s right. He recognized them as having been two of the three who had laughed when he had proclaimed himself a master. One was the slim, tall fellow who had called him “new kid.”

For a moment at Irving’s table, after the boys had rattled into their seats, there was silence. In front of Irving were a platter of cold tongue and a dish of beans, and he began to put portions of each on the plates piled before him. Then as he passed the first plate along the line he looked up and said, “I think we’d better find out who everybody is. So each fellow, as he gets his plate, will please sing out his name.”

That was not such a bad beginning; there was a general grin which broadened into a laugh when the first boy blushingly owned to the name of Walnut. Then came Lacy and Norris, and then Westby.

“Oh,” said Irving. “I think you’re to be in my dormitory, aren’t you?”

“I believe so.” Westby looked at him quizzically, as if expecting him to make some reference to their encounter; but Irving passed on to his next neighbor, Carroll, and then began with the other side of the table.

He liked the appearance of the boys; they were quiet-looking and respectful, and they had been responsive enough to his suggestion about announcing their names. A happy inspiration told him that so long as he could keep on taking the initiative with boys, he would have no serious trouble. But it was one thing to recognize an effective mode of conduct, and another to have the resourcefulness for carrying it out. Irving was just thinking what next he should say, when Westby fell upon him.

“Mr. Upton,”—Westby’s voice was curiously distinct, in spite of its quietness,—“wasn’t it funny, our taking you for a new kid this afternoon?”

Because the question was so obviously asked in a lull to embarrass him, Irving was embarrassed. The interest of all the boys at the table had been skillfully excited, and Westby leaned forward in front of Carroll, with mischievous eyes and smile. Irving felt his color rising; he felt both abashed and annoyed.

“Why, yes,” he said hesitatingly. “I—I was a little startled.”

“Did they take you for a new kid, Mr. Upton?” asked Blake, the Fifth Former, who sat on Irving’s left.

“For a moment, yes,” admitted Irving, anxious not to pursue the subject.

But Westby proceeded to explain with gusto, while the whole table listened. “Lou Collingwood and Carrie here and I were in front of the Study, and out came Mr. Upton. And Lou wanted to nail him for the Pythians, so we all pranced up to him, and I said, ‘Hello, new kid; what name, please?’—just like that; didn’t I, Mr. Upton?”

“Yes,” said Irving grudgingly. He had an uneasy feeling that he was being made an object of general entertainment; certainly the eyes of all the boys at the table were fixed upon him smilingly.

“What happened then?” asked the blunt Blake.

“Why, then,” continued Westby, “Mr. Upton told us that he wasn’t a new kid at all, but a new master. You may imagine we were surprised—weren’t we, Mr. Upton?”

“Oh, I could hardly tell—”

“The joke was certainly on us. As the French say, it was a contretemps. To think that after all the years we’d been here, we couldn’t tell a new kid from a new master!”

Irving was mildly bewildered. He could not quite determine whether Westby was telling the story more as a joke on himself or on him. Anyway, in spite of the temporary embarrassment which they had caused him, there seemed to be nothing offensive in the remarks. He liked Westby’s face; it was alert and good-humored, and the cajoling quality in the boy’s voice and the twinkle in his eyes were quite attractive. In fact, his manner during supper was so agreeable that Irving quite forgot it was this youth whom he had overheard mimicking him: “I am not a new kid; I am a master.”

After supper there were prayers in the Common Room; then all the boys except the Sixth Formers went to the Study building to sit for an hour under the eyes of a master, to read or write letters. On subsequent evenings they would have to employ this period in studying, but as yet no lessons had been