Stephen bore it all, grim, unflinching, until they set
him up before his mirror and let him see himself, completing the
costume by a high silk hat crammed down upon his wet curls. He looked at
the guy he was and suddenly he turned upon them and smiled, his broad,
merry smile! _After all that_ he could see the joke and smile! He never
opened his lips nor spoke--just smiled.
"He's a pretty good guy! He's game, all right!" murmured some one in
Courtland's ear. And then, half shamedly, they caught him high upon
their shoulders and bore him down the stairs and out the door.
The theater was some distance off. They bore down upon a trolley-car and
took a wild possession. They sang their songs and yelled themselves
hoarse. People turned and watched and smiled, setting this down as one
more prank of those university fellows.
They swarmed into the theater, with Stephen in their midst, and took
noisy occupancy. Opera-glasses were turned their way, and the girls
nudged one another and talked about the man in the middle with the queer
garments.
The persecutions had by no means ceased because they had landed their
victim in a public place. They made him ridiculous at every breath. They
took off his hat, arranged his collar, and smoothed his hair as if he
were a baby. They wiped his nose with many a flourishing handkerchief,
and pointed out objects of interest about the theater in open derision
of his supposed ignorance, to the growing amusement of those of the
audience who were their neighbors.
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