"I guess it's up to me, Ironsides, to stand treat. Such things don't happen every day. Go ahead—do your worst."
Bill Appleby and "Mista" Laloo, the rival livery men, Bill Orum, the cobbler, Barnum of the village store, even Doc Cubberly, the bell-ringer, with his little dog, stopped to watch him pass. When he crossed the campus youngsters gambolled up to his side with solicitous inquiries and the inevitable:
"Say, weren't you awfully scared?"
Even in the classroom the Roman, after flunking him, would say:
"That will do now, Smith. You may sit down—gently."
So he was now "Old Ironsides." He liked the name and was proud of it. It had a certain grim, uncompromising sternness about it that lent it dignity. It sounded well and it had patriotic associations.
For a whole week he knew the intoxication of popularity, of being the celebrity of the hour, of the thrill that runs up and down the back when a dozen glances are following, and the music of a murmured name, admiringly pronounced. Then abruptly another hero was exalted and he fell.
One evening after supper, while the fourth form lounged on the esplanade of the Upper, Turkey Reiter and Slugger Jones amused themselves with teasing Goat Phillips, who, being privileged by his diminutive size, responded by butting his tormentors in vigorous fashion.
"My, what an awful rambunctious, great big Goat," said Reiter, defending himself. "Do goats eat neckties?"
"I'll eat yours," responded the youngster recklessly.