The Witness | Page 2

shedding their mackinaws as they ran, and casting them down at
Courtland's feet.
"Look after those, will you, Court? We've got to get in on this," shouted
one as he thrust a noisy bit of flannel head-gear at Courtland.
Courtland gave the garments a kick behind him and stood watching.
There was a moment's tense silence while they told the victim what
they had come for, and while the light of welcome in Stephen
Marshall's eyes melted and changed into lightning. A dart of it went
with a searching gleam out into the hall, and seemed to recognize
Courtland as he stood idly smiling, watching the proceedings. Then the
lightning was withheld in the gray eyes, and Marshall seemed to
conclude that, after all, the affair must be a huge kind of joke, seeing
Courtland was out there. Courtland had been friendly. He must not let
his temper rise. The kindly light came into the eyes again, and for an
instant Marshall almost disarmed the boldest of them with his brilliant
smile. He would be game as far as he understood. That was plain. It
was equally plain that he did not understand yet what was expected of
him.
Pat McCluny, thick of neck, brutal of jaw, low-browed, red of face,
blunt of speech, the finest, most unmerciful tackler on the football team,
stepped up to Stephen and said a few words in a low tone. Courtland
could not hear what they were save that they ended with an oath, the
choicest of Pat Cluny's choice collection.

Instantly Stephen Marshall drew himself back, and up to his great
height, lightning and thunder-clouds in his gray eyes, his powerful arms
folded, his fine head crowned with its wealth of beautiful gold hair
thrown a trifle back and up, his lips shut in a thin, firm line, his whole
attitude that of the fighter; but he did not speak. He only looked from
one to another of the wild young mob, searching for a friend; and,
finding none, he stood firm, defying them all. There was something
splendid in his bearing that sent a thrill of admiration down Courtland's
spine as he watched, his habitual half-cynical smile of amusement still
lying unconsciously about his lips, while a new respect for the country
student was being born in his heart.
Pat, with a half-lowering of his bullet head, and a twisting of his ugly
jaw, came a step nearer and spoke again, a low word with a rumble like
the menace of a bull or a storm about to break.
With a sudden unexpected movement Stephen's arm shot forth and
struck the fellow in the jaw, reeling him half across the room into the
crowd.
With a snarl like a stung animal Pat recovered himself and rushed at
Stephen, hurling himself with a stream of oaths, and calling curses
down upon himself if he did not make Stephen utter worse before he
was done with him. Pat was the "man" who was in college for football.
It took the united efforts of his classmates, his frat., and the faculty to
keep his studies within decent hailing distance of eligibility for playing.
He came from a race of bullies whose culture was all in their fists.
Pat went straight for the throat of his victim. His fighting blood was up
and he was mad clear down to the bone. Nobody could give him a blow
like that in the presence of others and not suffer for it. What had started
as a joke had now become real with Pat; and the frenzy of his own
madness quickly spread to those daring spirits who were about him and
who disliked Stephen for his strength of character.
They clinched, and Stephen, fresh from his father's remote Western
farm, matched his mighty, untaught strength against the trained bully of
a city street.

For a moment there was dead silence while the crowd in breathless
astonishment watched and held in check their own eagerness. Then the
mob spirit broke forth as some one called out:
"Pray for a miracle, Stevie! Pray for a miracle! You'll need it, old boy!"
The mad spirit which had incited them to the reckless fray broke forth
anew and a medley of shouts arose.
"Jump in, boys! Now's the time!"
"Give him a cowardly egg or two--the kind that hits and runs!"
"Teach him that we will be obeyed!"
The latter came as a sort of chant, and was reiterated at intervals
through the pandemonium of sound.
The fight raged on for minutes more, and still Stephen stood with his
back against the wall, fighting, gasping, struggling, but bravely facing
them all; a disheveled object with rotten eggs streaming from his face
and hair, his clothes plastered with offensive yolks. Pat had him by the