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.
"You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink," shouted
one onlooker. "Cut it out, fellows! It's no use! You can't set him
cussing. He never learned how. He could easier lead in prayer. You have
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.
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