His legs shook with weakness, his hands trembled with
illness, but he began to get into some clothes, and his young face
flushed scarlet and white in turn.
Out in the classroom a perfect bedlam reigned. Dozens of voices shouted,
"Shag's the man for us! Hurrah for Shag!" and dozens replied, "Who will
join the anti-Indians? Who will vote for a white man to represent white
men? This ain't an Indian school--get out with the Indians!"
Then Shorty took the floor. "Boys," he yelled, "we won't stand for it.
No Indian's going to be head of this school, and Shag Larocque isn't
even a decent Indian, he's a halfbreed, a French halfbreed, he's--"
The door burst open and Hal Bennington flung himself into the room; his
trousers were dragged up over his nightshirt, his feet were in slippers
without socks, his hair was unbrushed, his eyes were brilliant with
fever, his face was pinched and grey; but his voice rang out powerfully,
"Stop it, boys!" He had taken in the situation instantly--the crowd
breaking from all rule, two masters endeavoring to restore order, and
Shag, alone, terribly alone, his back to the wall, his face to the
tumult, standing like a wild thing driven into a corner, but yet
gloriously game.
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