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

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 Gray With Determination. His Yellow Hair Shone Like A

Halo About His Head. They Had Taken Off His Hat And He Sat With His Arms

Folded Fiercely Across The Back Of "Andy" Roberts's Nifty Evening Coat.

"Just One Little Real Cuss To Show You Are A _Man_," Sneered The

Freshman.

But Suddenly A Smothered Cry Arose. A Breath Of Fear Stirred Through The

House. The Smell Of Smoke Swept In From A Sudden Open Door. The Actors

Paused,  Grew White,  And Swerved In Their Places; Then One By One Fled

Out Of The Scene. The Audience Arose And Turned To Panic,  Even As A

Flame Swept Up And Licked The Very Curtain While It Fell.

All Was Confusion!

The Football Team,  Trained To Meet Emergencies,  Forgot Their Cruel Play

And Scattered,  Over Seats And Railing,  Everywhere,  To Fire-Escapes And

Doorways,  Taking Command Of Wild,  Stampeding People,  Showing Their

Training And Their Courage.

Stephen,  Thus Suddenly Set Free,  Glanced About Him,  And Saw A Few Feet

Away An Open Door,  Felt The Fresh Breeze Of Evening Upon His Hot

Forehead,  And Knew The Upper Back Fire-Escape Was Close At Hand. By Some

Strange Whim Of A Panic-Maddened Crowd But Few Had Discovered This Exit,

High Above The Seats In The Balcony; For All Had Rushed Below And Were

Struggling In A Wild,  Frantic Mass,  Trampling One Another Underfoot In A

Mad Struggle To Reach The Doorways. The Flames Were Sweeping Over The

Platform Now,  Licking Out Into The Very Pit Of The Theater,  And People

Were Terrified. Stephen Saw In An Instant That The Upper Door,  Being

Farthest Away From The Center Of The Fire,  Was The Place Of Greatest

Safety. With One Frantic Leap He Gained The Aisle,  Strode Up To The

Doorway,  Glanced Out Into The Night To Take In The Situation; Cool,

Calm,  Quiet,  With The Still Stars Overhead,  Down Below The Open Iron

Stairway Of The Fire-Escape,  And A Darkened Street With People Like Tiny

Puppets Moving On Their Way. Then Turning Back,  He Tore Off The

Grotesque Coat And Vest,  The Confining Collar,  And Threw Them From Him.

He Plunged Down The Steps Of The Aisle To The Railing Of The Gallery,

And,  Leaning There In His Shirt-Sleeves And The Queer Striped Trousers,

He Put His Hands Like A Megaphone About His Lips And Shouted:

"Look Up! Look Up! There Is A Way To Escape Up Here! Look Up!"

Some Poor Struggling Ones Heard Him And Looked Up. A Little Girl Was

Held Up By Her Father To The Strong Arms Reached Out From The Low Front

Of The Balcony. Stephen Caught Her And Swung Her Up Beside Him,  Pointing

Her Up To The Door,  And Shouting To Her To Go Quickly Down The

Fire-Escape,  Even While He Reached Out His Other Hand To Catch A Woman,

Whom Willing Hands Below Were Lifting Up. Men Climbed Upon The Seats And

Vaulted Up When They Heard The Cry And Saw The Way Of Safety; And Some

Stayed And Worked Bravely Beside Stephen,  Wrenching Up The Seats And

Piling Them For A Ladder To Help The Women Up. More Just Clambered Up

And Fled To The Fire-Escape,  Out Into The Night And Safety.

But Stephen Had No Thought Of Flight. He Stayed Where He Was,  With

Aching Back,  Cracking Muscles,  Sweat-Grimed Brow,  And Worked,  His Breath

Coming In Quick,  Sharp Gasps As He Frantically Helped Man,  Woman,  Child,

One After Another,  Like Sheep Huddling Over A Flood.

Courtland Was There.

He Had Lingered A Moment Behind The Rest In The Corner Of The Dormitory

Corridor,  Glancing Into The Disfigured Room; Water,  Egg-Shells,  Ruin,

Disorder Everywhere! A Little Object On The Floor,  A Picture In A Cheap

Oval Metal Frame,  Caught His Eye. Something Told Him It Was The Picture

Of Stephen Marshall's Mother That He Had Seen Upon The Student's Desk A

Few Days Before,  When He Had Sauntered In To Look The New Man Over.

Something Unexplained Made Him Step In Across The Water And Debris And

Pick It Up. It Was The Picture,  Still Unscarred,  But With A Great Streak

Of Rotten Egg Across The Plain,  Placid Features. He Recalled The Tone In

Which The Son Had Pointed Out The Picture And Said,  "That's My Mother!"

And Again He Followed An Impulse And Wiped Off The Smear,  Setting The

Picture High On The Shelf,  Where It Looked Down Upon The Depredation

Like Some Hallowed Saint Above A Carnage.

Then Courtland Sauntered On To His Room,  Completed His Toilet,  And

Followed To The Theater. He Had Not Wanted To Get Mixed Up Too Much In

The Affair. He Thought The Fellows Were Going A Little Too Far With A

Good Thing,  Perhaps. He Wanted To See It Through,  But Still He Would Not

Quite Mix With It. He Found A Seat Where He Could Watch What Was Going

On Without Being Actually A Part Of It. If Anything Should Come To The

Ears Of The Faculty He Wanted To Be On The Side Of Conservatism Always.

That Pat Mccluny Was Not Just His Sort,  Though He Was Good Fun. But He

Always Put Things On A Lower Level Than College Fellows Should Go.

Besides,  If Things Went Too Far A Word From Himself Would Check Them.

Courtland Was Rather Bored With The Play,  And Was Almost On The Point Of

Going Back To Study When The Cry Arose And Panic Followed.

Courtland Was No Coward. He Tore Off His Handsome Overcoat And Rushed To

Meet The Emergency. On The Opposite Side Of The Gallery,  High Up By

Another Fire-Escape He Rendered Efficient Assistance To Many.

The Fire Was Gaining In The Pit; And Still There Were People Down There

Swarms Of Them,  Struggling,  Crying,  Lifting Piteous Hands For

Assistance. Still Stephen Marshall Reached From The Gallery And Pulled

Up,  One After Another,  Poor Creatures,  And Still The Helpless Thronged

And Cried For Aid.

Dizzy,  Blinded,  His Eyes Filled With Smoke,  His Muscles Trembling With

The Terrible Strain,  He Stood At His Post. The Minutes Seemed

Interminable Hours,  And Still He Worked,  With Heart Pumping Painfully,

And Mind That Seemed To Have No Thought Save To Reach Down For Another

And Another,  And Point Up To Safety.

Then,  Into The Midst Of The Confusion There Arose An Instant Of Great

And Awful Silence. One Of Those Silences That Come Even Into Great Sound

And Claim Attention From The Most Absorbed.

Paul Courtland,  High In His Chosen Station,  Working Eagerly,

Successfully,  Calmly,  Looked Down To See The Cause Of This Sudden

Arresting Of The Universe; And There,  Below,  Was The Pit Full Of Flame,

With People Struggling And Disappearing Into Fiery Depths Below. Just

Above The Pit Stood Stephen,  Lifting Aloft A Little Child With

Frightened Eyes And Long Streaming Curls. He Swune Assembling Of The Newly Elected