And when the curtain rose on the most
notoriously flagrant play the city boasted, they added to its flagrance
by their whispered explanations and remarks.
Stephen, in his ridiculous garb, sat in their midst, a prisoner, and
watched the play he would not have chosen to see; watched it with a face
of growing indignation; a face so speaking in its righteous wrath that
those about who saw him turned to look again, and somehow felt condemned
for being there.
Sometimes a wave of anger would sweep over the young man, and he would
turn to look about him with an impulse to suddenly break away and
attempt to defy them all. But his every movement was anticipated, and he
had the whole football team about him! There was no chance to move. He
must stay it through, much as he disliked it. He must stand it in spite
of the tumult of rage in his heart. He was not smiling now. His face had
that set, grim look of the faithful soldier taken prisoner and tortured
to give information about his army's plans. Stephen's eyes shone true,
and his lips were set firmly together.
"Just one nice little cuss-word and we'll take you home," whispered a
tormentor. "A single little word will do, just to show you are a man."
Stephen's face was gray with determination. His yellow hair shone like a
halo about his head. They had taken off his hat and he sat with his arms
folded fiercely across the back of "Andy" Roberts's nifty evening coat.
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