"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.
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