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.