The Witness by Grace Livingston Hill Lutz (mobi reader android TXT) 📕

Like A Sudden Cloudburst The Dormitory Had Gone Into A Frenzy Of Sound.

Doors Slammed,  Feet Trampled,  Hoarse Voices Reverberated,  Heavy Bodies

Flung Themselves Along The Corridor,  The Very Electrics Trembled With

The Cataclysm. One Moment All Was Quiet With A Contented

After-Dinner-Peace-Before-Study Hours; The Next It Was As If All The

Forces Of The Earth Had Broken Forth.

Paul Courtland Stepped To His Door And Threw It Back.

"Come On,  Court,  See The Fun!" Called The Football Half-Back,  Who Was

Slopping Along With Two Dripping Fire-Buckets Of Water.

"What's Doing?"

"Swearing-Match! Going To Make Little Stevie Cuss! Better Get In On It.

Some Fight! Tennelly Sent 'Whisk' For A Whole Basket Of Superannuated

Cackle-Berries"--He Motioned Back To A Freshman Bearing A Basket Of

Ancient Eggs--"We're Going To Blindfold Steve And Put Oysters Down His

Back,  And Then Finish Up With The Fire-Hose. Oh,  The Seven Plagues Of

Egypt Aren't In It With What We're Going To Do; And When We Get Done If

Little Stevie Don't Let Out A String Of Good,  Honest Cuss-Words Like A

Man Then I'll Eat My Hat. Little Stevie's Got Good Stuff In Him If It

Can Only Be Brought Out. We're A-Going To Bring It Out. Then We're Going

To Celebrate By Taking Him Over To The Theater And Making Him See 'The

Scarlet Woman.' It'll Be A Little Old Miracle,  All Right,  If He Has Any

Of His Whining Puritanical Ideas Left In Him After We Get Through With

Him. Come On! Get On The Job!"

Drifting Along With The Surging Tide Of Students,  Courtland Sauntered

Down The Corridor To The Door At The Extreme End Where Roomed The

Victim.

He Rather Liked Stephen Marshall. There Was Good Stuff In Him; All The

Fellows Recognized That. Only He Was Woefully Unsophisticated,

Abnormally Innocent,  Frankly Religious,  And A Little Too Openly White In

His Life. It Seemed A Rebuke To The Other Fellows,  Unconscious Though It

Might Be. He Felt With The Rest That The Fellow Needed A Lesson.

Especially Since The Bald Way In Which He Had Dared To Stand Up For The

Old-Fashioned View Of Miracles In Biblical-Lit. Class That Morning. Of

Course An Ignorance Like That Wouldn't Go Down,  And It Was Best He

Should Learn It At Once And Get To Be A Good Fellow Without Loss Of

Time. A Little Gentle Rubbing Off Of The "Mamma's-Good-Little-Boy"

Veneering Would Do Him Good. He Wasn't Sure But With Such A Course

Marshall Might Even Be Eligible For The Frat. That Year. He Sauntered

Along With His Hands In His Pockets; A Handsome,  Capable,  Powerful

Figure; Not Taking Any Part In The Preparations,  But Mildly Interested

In The Plans. His Presence Lent Enthusiasm To The Gathering. He Was High

In Authority. A Star Athlete,  An A Student,  President Of His Fraternity,

Having Made The Phi Beta Kappa In His Junior Year,  And Now In His Senior

Year Being Chairman Of The Student Exec. There Would Be No Trouble With

The Authorities Of The College If Court Was Along To Give Countenance.

Courtland Stood Opposite The End Door When It Was Unceremoniously Thrust

Open And The Hilarious Mob Rushed In. From His Position With His Back

Against The Wall He Could See Stephen Lift His Fine Head From His Book

And Rise To Greet Them. There Was Surprise And A Smile Of Welcome On His

Face. Courtland Thought It Almost A Pity To Reward Such Open-Heartedness

As They Were About To Do; But Such Things Were Necessary In The Making

Of Men. He Watched Developments With Interest.

A Couple Of Belated Participants In The Fray Arrived Breathlessly,

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

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