The Witness | Page 3

throat, but still he stood and fought as best he could.
Some one seized the bucket of water and deluged both. Some one else
shouted, "Get the hose!" and more fellows tore off their coats and threw
them down at Courtland's feet; some one tore Pat away, and the great
fire-hose was turned upon the victim.
Gasping at last, and all but unconscious, he was set upon his feet, and
harried back to life again. Over-powered by numbers, he could do
nothing, and the petty torments that were applied amid a round of
ringing laughter seemed unlimited; but still he stood, a man among
them, his lips closed, a firm set about his jaw that showed their labor
was in vain so far as making him obey their command was concerned.
Not one word had he uttered since they entered his room.
"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink," shouted

one onlooker. "Cut it out, fellows! It's no use! You can't set him cussing.
He never learned how. He could easier lead in prayer. You have to
teach him how. Better cut it out!"
More tortures were applied, but still the victim was silent. The hose had
washed him clean again, and his face shone white from the drenching.
Some one suggested it was getting late and the show would begin.
Some one else suggested they must dress up Little Stevie for his first
play. There was a mad rush for garments. Any garments, no matter
whose. A pair of sporty trousers, socks of brilliant colors--not mates, an
old football shoe on one foot, a dancing-pump on the other, a white
vest and a swallow-tail put on backward, collar and tie also backward, a
large pair of white-cotton gloves commonly used by workmen for
rough work--Johnson, who earned his way in college by tending
furnaces, furnished these. Stephen bore it all, grim, unflinching, until
they set him up before his mirror and let him see himself, completing
the costume by a high silk hat crammed down upon his wet curls. He
looked at the guy he was and suddenly he turned upon them and smiled,
his broad, merry smile! After all that he could see the joke and smile!
He never opened his lips nor spoke--just smiled.
"He's a pretty good guy! He's game, all right!" murmured some one in
Courtland's ear. And then, half shamedly, they caught him high upon
their shoulders and bore him down the stairs and out the door.
The theater was some distance off. They bore down upon a trolley-car
and took a wild possession. They sang their songs and yelled
themselves hoarse. People turned and watched and smiled, setting this
down as one more prank of those university fellows.
They swarmed into the theater, with Stephen in their midst, and took
noisy occupancy. Opera-glasses were turned their way, and the girls
nudged one another and talked about the man in the middle with the
queer garments.
The persecutions had by no means ceased because they had landed their
victim in a public place. They made him ridiculous at every breath.
They took off his hat, arranged his collar, and smoothed his hair as if he

were a baby. They wiped his nose with many a flourishing
handkerchief, and pointed out objects of interest about the theater in
open derision of his supposed ignorance, to the growing amusement of
those of the audience who were their neighbors. And when the curtain
rose on the most notoriously flagrant play the city boasted, they added
to its flagrance by their whispered explanations and remarks.
Stephen, in his ridiculous garb, sat in their midst, a prisoner, and
watched the play he would not have chosen to see; watched it with a
face of growing indignation; a face so speaking in its righteous wrath
that those about who saw him turned to look again, and somehow felt
condemned for being there.
Sometimes a wave of anger would sweep over the young man, and he
would turn to look about him with an impulse to suddenly break away
and attempt to defy them all. But his every movement was anticipated,
and he had the whole football team about him! There was no chance to
move. He must stay it through, much as he disliked it. He must stand it
in spite of the tumult of rage in his heart. He was not smiling now. His
face had that set, grim look of the faithful soldier taken prisoner and
tortured to give information about his army's plans. Stephen's eyes
shone true, and his lips were set firmly together.
"Just one nice little cuss-word and we'll take you home," whispered a
tormentor. "A single little word will do, just to show you are a man."
Stephen's face was