"Shag's going to read that address!" said Hal, sitting up with an odd drawn but determined look around his mouth.
"Well, he isn't!" blurted Shorty. "There's a big meeting in the classroom, and there's a row on—the biggest row you ever saw."
"Shag Larocque read that address!" yelled Simpson from the hall; "not if I know it! He's not a decent sport, even—he won't resent an insult. I called him a Red River halfbreed and he never said a word—just swallowed it!"
"Shut that door!" shouted Hal, the color surging into his face, "and shut yourselves on the outside! Go to the classroom, insult him all you like, but you'll be sorry for it—take my word for it!"
Once more they banged the door. No sooner was it closed than Hal sprang out of bed. 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. "Shorty, how dare you speak of Shag Larocque like that?" Hal cried furiously.
"And how dare you support him?" Shorty flung back. "How dare you ask us to have as our leader a halfbreed North-West Indian, who is the son of your father's cook?"
"Yes, he is the son of my father's cook, and if I ever get the chance I'll cook for him on my knees—cook for him and serve him; he saved my life and nearly lost his own—while you, Shorty, a far better swimmer, would have let me drown like a dog."