“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.