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