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.