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. 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