He wondered if Lawrence was as skillful at it as Collingwood, for instance; Collingwood had now learned to shoot the ball with accuracy twenty or twenty-five yards.  Occasionally Irving got hold of a football and tested his own capacity in throwing it; his attempts convinced him that in this matter he had a great deal to learn.  Looking back, he could comprehend Louis Collingwood’s indignation and amazement at a master who would coldly turn away when a boy was trying to illustrate for him the forward pass.

One afternoon from watching the football practice Irving moved aside for a little while to see the finish of the autumn clay-pigeon shoot of the Gun Club.

There were only six contestants, and there were not many spectators; most of the boys preferred to stay on the football field, where there was more action; the second Pythians and second Corinthians were playing a match.  But Irving had heard Westby talking at luncheon about the shoot and strolled over more from curiosity to see how he would acquit himself than for any other reason.

The trap was set in the long grass on the edge of the meadow near the woods; Allison was performing the unexciting task of pulling the string and releasing the skimming disks.  When Irving came up, Smythe was finishing; he did not appear to be much of a shot, for he missed three out of the seven “birds” which Irving saw him try for.

Then it was Westby’s turn.  Westby had got himself up for the occasion, in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and leggings; he was always scrupulous about appearing in costumes that were extravagantly correct.  He saw Irving and somewhat ostentatiously turned away.

Irving waited and looked on.  Westby stood in an almost negligent attitude, with his gun lowered; the trap was sprung, the clay pigeon flew—­and then was shattered in the midst of its flight.  It seemed to Irving that Westby hardly brought his gun to his shoulder to take aim.  It could not all be luck either; that was evident when Westby demolished ten clay pigeons in rapid succession.  It was Carroll’s turn now; Westby, having made his perfect score, blew the smoke from the breech and stood by.

Irving went up to him.

“I congratulate you on your shooting, Westby,” he said.  “It seems quite wonderful to a man who never fired a gun off but a few times in his life—­and then it was a revolver, with blank cartridges.”

Westby looked at him coolly.  “It’s funny you’ve never done anything that most fellows do,” he observed.  “Were you always afraid of hurting yourself?”

“I was offering my congratulations, Westby,” said Irving stiffly, and walked away.

“Why did you go at him like that?” asked Carroll, who had heard the interchange.

“Oh,” said Westby, “I wasn’t going to have him hanging round swiping to me, soft-soaping me.”

“I think he was only trying to be decent,” said Carroll.