# The Spirit of the Leader/Chapter 6

BRISTOW, the editor of the Northfield Breeze, bore physical evidence of the fact that he was of the fighting, two-fisted type. His shoulders were broad, his eyes were gray, his chin was square, and his wiry hair grew close to his head. He was the kind of boy you could count on to have decided opinions and a decided way of expressing them.
Bristow, at the moment, was scowling. He had in his hands a copy of the Morning Herald. The scowl grew as he read a story on the first page which bore this heading in big type: "Sloan's Family Fattens on City's Park Pay Roll. Commissioner of Parks and Playgrounds Took Care of Relatives at Public Expense."
Bristow squared his shoulders pugnaciously as he finished reading, and slapped one open hand against the print. "I admit, Praska, that this is good newspaper work. I admit that exposing a man who has used a public position of trust to enrich himself or friends is a useful service. I'm with you on that all the way. I believe that if a news​paper discovers that a public official is a scoundrel and remains silent, it's a cowardly newspaper. But that has nothing to do with the Breeze."
"Wait a moment." Praska's voice was earnest. "If a newspaper discovers that a public official is a fraud, and keeps silent about it, doesn't it become a party to a fraud?"
Bristow nodded. "I'll say so."
"Then the school paper" . . . Praska's voice rose a bit . . . "then the school paper that knows that a bad condition exists in the school and refuses to fight it, makes itself a party to that condition."
"That," Bristow said hotly, "is a matter of opinion. I feel that a school newspaper ought to keep out of agitations. There's enough of that in the daily newspapers."
"I'm talking about service," Praska said patiently, "not agitations. If it were not for the truth-telling newspapers the public would never know who were the rascals. A school paper should be just as fearless for good government in the school. What's happening at Northfield? Order in the halls has gotten away from us this week. Yesterday there was pushing on the stairs and Joe Clayton fell and sprained his ankle. Do you think any great newspaper would remain silent with a riot going on in its city?"
​"Northfield hasn't had a riot."
"We've had disorder."
"Well, why doesn't the faculty suppress it?"
"The faculty will have to, if it keeps up. You know how Dr. Rue feels. He wants the students to learn to control their own affairs. Right now we're falling down. That's where you come in. You sound the call and rally the crowd. Look what a black eye it will be if the faculty has to come in and run this thing for us. It would be the same as though Washington had to step in and run the affairs of a broken-down state."
"And because of that you expect me to pitch into the school with red hot editorials and stir up a smash?"
"I expect the Breeze to do its duty toward the school," Praska said sharply.
"The Breeze does just that when it refuses to blister every time anything goes wrong," Bristow retorted. "Anyway, what has become of the Safety Committee? Can't the Safety Committee handle order? Isn't Lee Merritt chairman of that committee? Do you want me to attack him?"
From the start Praska had hoped that the Safety Committee would be left to sleep in peace. It was the weak spot in his argument. Now that it had been dragged in he knew that he was beaten.
​"I haven't asked you to attack anybody," he said. "I asked you to stand for the best interests of the school."
Bristow flushed. "I'm entitled to my own opinion of how the Breeze can serve the best interests of the school. The Safety Committee comes under your Congress. I think if you would pay more attention to that committee, instead of telling me how to run my paper, you'd find that Northfield is staggering along with some dead wood."
Praska knew the name for the dead wood . . . Lee Merritt. Bristow had been right on that. And the editor had been right in saying that the Safety Committee should have made short work of the disorders that had broken out in the halls.
The Safety Committee had been called into power to police the corridors and to report open lockers. When the need arose, it did not have the judgment to extend its police power in another direction. A wise chairman, realizing the fundamental danger of corridor disorders, would have checked them on general principles or at least have made some move to show that he was taking note of the ringleaders. But Merritt was neither strong, nor wise, nor energetic. The opportunity to take charge of the situation passed. What had been, one day, a temporary lapse, became before the week was out a settled habit.
​What made the whole situation worse, to one of Praska's mood, was that Merritt had been warned. Perry King, wearing the Safety Committee emblem on his arm, had gone to him immediately the corridor disorders had started.
"A gang out there's been rushing and jostling on the stairs," he had said. "Big Jim Fry's the ringleader. They'll try it out at the next period bell—they always do if they get away with it once. We'll jump in and order them back into line as soon as it starts. That will put a quick bee on funny work in the halls."
Merritt, whose spirit was docile, whose nature was timid, who lacked the iron to dare, grew alarmed at the suggestion. "We haven't any authority to do that."
"Have they any authority to crowd on the stairs and break the lines? Hasn't a citizen the right to stop a crime if he sees it being committed? Didn't we learn that in our civics? What those fellows are doing is a school crime. If somebody's got to take a chance on maybe going a step too far, isn't it better for us to take that step on the right side than for them to take it on the wrong?"
Merritt had been unable to make up his mind.
Perry had shrugged his thin, narrow shoulders and had gone off, to complain bitterly to his friends, in confidence, that what the Safety Com​mittee needed most was a chairman with convictions and the courage to see them through.
Praska was thinking of all this as he watched Bristow disappear up the stairs, and then turned his own steps toward Room 13. The school dayhad not yet begun. Mr. Banning caught his eye as he came through the doorway and motioned him forward. The boy came to the desk at which the teacher sat.
"George," said Mr. Banning, "I've been thinking about those hall disorders. Have you had any idea of using the Breeze?"
"I've just had a talk with Bristow. He won't touch it. He thinks a school paper ought to leave that stuff alone. He says crusades and agitations should be left for the daily newspapers. The Breeze is a mighty good paper, but I don't think it gets any better by refusing to do what ought to be done for Northfield."
Mr. Banning nodded ever so slightly. He recognized in the boy a spirit that put the school and its welfare first, a type of citizenship that later would put the country and its problems first.
"What will you do now?" he asked.
"I've called a meeting of the Congress after school to-day," Praska answered.
But he had no great hopes that much good would come from this. When all was said and ​done, the real trouble with the Safety Committee was Lee Merritt's leadership. A word, a hint, and forces could have been set to work in the Congress that would speedily have forced Merritt to resign. Hostile criticism would have engulfed him. Yet Praska had no heart for so ruthless a course. Had the chairman of the Safety Committee been purposely lax, Praska would have fought him without mercy. But Merritt was acting to-day as he would act to-morrow and all through his life—wabbling when he should have been firm, hesitating when every necessity called for prompt action, afraid, even when he was in the right, to touch the quick of fortune and take his chances. Merritt should not have been chairman of anything. He lacked the essential strength. The fault lay with the school itself for ever having signalled him out and given him power.
And so when the Congress, composed of delegates from all the home rooms, met soberly and seriously that afternoon, there was a woeful lack of suggestion, a pitiable attempt to carry an air of faith in what they were doing. Merritt sat there, making notes, wrinkling his forehead in thought, blindly unaware of the glances of doubt and perplexity that were bent on him by boy delegates and by girl delegates. Presently, with the ​bright air of one who has struck upon a rare and fortuitous thought, he arose to his feet.
"Mr. Chairman."
"Mr. Merritt," said Praska.
"I believe that this matter should come within the activities of the Safety Committee. As you know, this committee was brought into being to patrol the corridors and guard clothing lockers. We were not told point-blank to preserve order and I did not want to do anything that might arouse criticism and get any member of the committee into trouble."
Perry King gave a groan.
"I beg pardon," said Merritt questioningly, thinking that some one had spoken.
The meeting was silent.
"I move," Merritt went on after a moment, "that the Safety Committee be enlarged and empowered to handle the disorders in the hall."
"Why enlarged?" Betty Lawton asked.
"Why—er—there aren't enough of us to handle the situation. We need a big committee. I think we ought to ask students to volunteer for the work. Get in fresh blood. The more students we have on the committee the greater force we'll have."
Praska, with an effort, kept his face expressionless. Poor Merritt! Mere numbers, the chair​man knew, never yet made a committee formidable. And yet it might be that fresh blood would work some sort of miracle. It was worth trying because it was the only thing left to try. Praska caught Perry's glance; a signal passed between them. Perry, astounded, sat still. The signal was repeated. Perry arose to his feet.
"I second the motion," he said gruffly, and sat down. After the meeting he waited for Praska and hotly demanded an explanation.
"Let him try it," Praska said patiently. "It can't make things any worse. He's entitled to a try, anyway."
"You watch," was Perry's gloomy return. "Something funny will come out of this."
Something queer did come of it. Next morning Merritt posted a notice asking for volunteers to join the Safety Committee and preserve discipline.
Big Jim Fry was the first student to send in his name.
Three of Northfield's citizens reacted characteristically to Jim Fry's advent into the forces of law and order. Praska took the news with a worried frown between the eyes. Merritt grew flustered and spoke nervously of asking the Congress to rescind the order to increase the committee. Perry openly and bluntly spoke his mind.
"Personally," he said, "this looks to me like ​some kind of dodge. This fellow's record has never been any too good. Yet you can never tell. He may come into the committee and do a real job. Sometimes fellows are like that—give them a little responsibility and they stick out their chests and go right to it. We've got to take him in; but I'll tell anybody who likes to know that I haven't much faith in what's running around inside his head."
"We—we don't want any trouble in the committee," Merritt said with a greater show of nervousness. "We'll have to trust that Fry . . ."
"Trust nothing," Perry said grimly. "I'm going to keep an eye on him."
Jim Fry would have been amused in his boisterous way had he been aware of Perry's determination. The idea of Perry—thin, gangling, serious Perry—keeping an eye on him, would have filled him with uproarious mirth. Nature had made Jim Fry burly and belligerent. Physical strength had made him the leader in a certain crowd in the school, physical strength was the only attribute that could draw his respect. Perry's idea of watching him would have sent him off intd roars of laughter.
His distorted, mistaken sense of humor had prompted him to start the disorders that had spread through the school corridors. It had ​seemed a good lark. A craftier idea moved him to join the Safety Committee. As a member of the committee he would wear a committee arm band. He could, if he so elected, patrol the corridors for a part of each study period—this in addition to his regular periods of patrol. Under school law and school custom he would be immune from questioning as to why he came and went. He would be free to come and go—and the Candy Kitchen, home of sundaes, sodas and delectable sweets, was only a matter of a dozen steps across the street.
From the moment school opened in the morning until it closed in the afternoon, with the exception of the noon hour, the Candy Kitchen was forbidden ground. More than one Northfield boy, hazarding the blockade for the sake of a frosted chocolate or a pineapple frappe, had been discovered in his sin of transgression and had been punished. Twice had Jim Fry suffered penalty. But now he saw before him a safe passport to forbidden delights. As a member of the Safety Committee he could openly cross Nelson Avenue and enter the place. His excuse could always be that he was searching for Northfield defaulters. Not that he ever expected to be questioned; but it was good to have an excuse already prepared should the need for it ever arise.
​A day later he received his black arm band with the letters "S. C." standing out in white. The same day he left the school and crossed to the Candy Kitchen. Charlie, the clerk behind the soda fountain, viewed him with surprise.
"You on the committee?"
Jim grinned. "I'll say so. Any of our fellows around? No? Well, I've done my duty and looked for them. Let's have a vanilla, and don't be stingy with the measure."
Charlie scooped out the ice cream. "I thought you committee fellows were the honor boys and couldn't take advantage of things to sneak over here for a drink?"
"Don't make me laugh," said Big Jim. As he drank his soda he glanced down at his arm band and chuckled. The soda finished, he crossed the street casually and entered the school.
Perry King, from an upstairs hall window, happened to see Big Jim go to the Candy Kitchen, and return. He went downstairs and met Fry as he entered the building.
"Anybody over there?" Perry asked.
Big Jim's eyes narrowed. "No. I had a hunch I'd find a certain fellow busy at Charlie's counter. I guess I was too early. Suppose you keep a watch on the place."
Why, Perry reflected, should Big Jim's eyes ​have changed? "I guess I won't waste time on it," he said dryly, and walked away.
After that, in some strange fashion trouble seemed to lift its head in whatever part of the school building Big Jim was on duty. If a sudden clamor of boisterousness broke out in a corridor while classes were changing rooms, it was usually a corridor in which he was stationed. If the lines on the stairs suddenly began to race and grow confused and disorganized, it generally happened to the lines over which he was supposed to exercise supervision. With the greatest frankness in the world he would tell Lee Merritt about it.
"It started," he said, "and I hustled right for the middle of it, but by the time I got there it was all over. You couldn't tell what had happened or who had started it. You couldn't pin it on anybody."
Merritt, for all that he had spoken of trusting his first recruit, was beginning to have doubts as to that recruit's probity. "It's funny," he said hesitatingly, "that these things always seem to happen in your territory."
The veins in Big Jim Fry's neck stuck out. His face grew red. "What do you mean by that?" he demanded.
Merritt—easy-going Merritt—shrank from ​controversy. "Why, nothing much, only it—it does seem funny."
Big Jim's savage look became a smile. He had seen boys before this falter at the menace of his bulk. The conversation had taken place near the foot of a stairway; he failed to notice that a form had come down the stairs and had stopped one tread from the bottom.
"I'm going over to the Candy Kitchen to see if any Northfield fellows have sneaked over," he said. "I suppose that looks funny, too, doesn't it?"
Merritt did not answer. Big Jim swung around with a swagger, and stopped short. Perry King was on the stairway.
"Got another hunch that a Northfield fellow is going to be there?" Perry asked.
Big Jim was puzzled. He could never quite fathom this boy who surveyed the world so seriously through brooding eyes. Sometimes he thought Perry's questions were asked in good faith; sometimes a jeering irony that he could not decipher seemed to mock him.
"No," he said, after a moment; "I'm just going over on general principles."
That, Perry decided, was honest at any rate. He could have slipped across the street later to see what Big Jim was doing; but that would have ​been spying and he revolted against the thought. When he had said that he would keep an eye on him he had meant it in a sense of supervision, not as a threat of espionage. Perry had a strong sense of idealism. To him, the fact that he could go anywhere during the school day without hindrance or question, raised the Safety Committee's work to the heights of sanctity. He might suspect that some member of the committee was playing false, but he would not stalk him for verification. Something within his soul would not permit him to skulk after the shadow of one whom Northfield had raised to a place among a trusted few.
And yet suspicion grew slowly and imperceptibly. Twice, within the next four days, there were renewed disturbances in Big Jim's territory. Merritt, faced with the grim knowledge that a larger Safety Committee had not put an end to disorders, came to Perry.
"I'm taking Big Jim off corridor duty at period time," he said. "Fill in for him, will you?"
Perry nodded. "Have you told him?"
"Yes. I told him he had been on for two weeks and could shift to something softer."
Perry grunted. It was like Merritt to avoid speaking the unpleasant truth. He went down to his place, and was there when the 10:40 bell ​sounded. Out into the corridors poured Northfield's eight hundred. The lines, like undulating snakes passed up and down the stairs. All of a sudden there was a rush, a scattering of students who were pushed from behind, confusion, and subdued laughter from those who had engineered the stampede.
Perry's voice rang out. "Lewis! I saw that. Step down here, please."
A boy, wearing the flush of guilt, dropped out of one of the lines. Somebody murmured "Gosh! I thought this was Big Jim's station, what's happened to him to-day?" The changing classes passed on, but Lewis remained behind, scowling and uncomfortable.
"I'm going to hand in your name," Perry said. "What's your Home Room . . . 11, isn't it? I hope they give you a dressing down that will make you sick."
Lewis shuffled his feet.
"This rough-housing's got to stop. You fellows won't be satisfied until the faculty steps in and suspends student participation in school government. Then, after the student body gets a black eye, you'll be satisfied."
"Why don't you do some reforming in your own committee?" Lewis demanded sulkily. "You yank me out, but just because Big Jim is a mem​ber of the committee you let him get away with murder."
"No member of the committee gets away with anything," Perry said sharply.
"Except ice cream and sodas at the Candy Kitchen?" Lewis retorted. "What do you think he goes over there for every day? I've heard him telling how he gets away with it."
Perry's hand shook a little as he entered Lewis' name and room number in his memorandum book. Abruptly, after that, he went off to look for Merritt, whom he knew he would find on the second floor. The chairman of the Safety Committee was standing near the head of the stairs, dejection in every line of his figure.
"Where's Jim Fry?" Perry demanded.
"Candy Kitchen," Merritt answered listlessly. "I—I think he's gone there to buy something; his talk of scouting for fellows who have skinned over there is just a blind. I saw him taking money from his pocket as he crossed the street."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"What can I do about it?"
"You can go over there and see what he's up to. I don't like this thing of spying on a committee member, but Jim Fry's been carrying his game too far. He's even been boasting of how he gets away with it. I heard that a little while ago. ​What he needs is somebody to go over there and tell him that the game is up."
But Merritt's expression showed that the curse of indecision was working its spell upon him. Perry started down the stairs again.
"I'm going after him," he flung back over his shoulder.
Big Jim, leisurely consuming a plate of chocolate ice cream, looked up as Perry pushed open the Candy Kitchen door. He called a startled "Hey, Charlie; get this out of sight."
The soda clerk, busy washing glasses, looked up blankly. "What's that?" he asked.
Then it was too late. Perry was in the store. Big Jim, with an angry shake of his head, helped himself to another spoonful of the chocolate mixture.
"You know the rules," Perry said quietly.
"I know what will happen to you if you try to start anything with me," Big Jim said savagely. The veins were standing out on his neck; but if Perry noticed them he made no sign. Only by the manner in which the nostrils of his thin nose had grown pinched was it evident that he had settled himself to an unswerving purpose.
"You're not worthy of that band on your arm," he said. "I'm going to take it from you."
Nobody heard the door open nor saw Lee ​Merritt come in as one on an unhappy errand. Charlie, the clerk, stood with towel in his hands forgetful of the glasses he had started to dry. Perry took a step forward.
"What are you going to do?" Big Jim demanded.
"I'm going to take away your arm band."
"You try it and I'll squash your nose so that it will touch your ears."
Plainly Big Jim expected that threat to settle the matter. As he stood there, his shoulders hunched, his head thrust forward on its thick neck, he looked to be twice the size of the pale, thin boy who confronted him.
Perry came forward another step. Big Jim drew back his arm. "I'll flatten you," he warned.
"Keep your arm that way," said Perry. "It will be easier for me to take out the pins."
Big Jim wanted to drive out with his fist—and couldn't. Some power outside himself, some power he could not explain, some power greater than all his bulge of muscle, would not let him strike. Surprise, amazement, consternation, uneasiness, passed through the shadows of his eyes. He felt the touch of fingers, felt the pins come out, felt the band loosen, saw it pulled away—and stood with his arm drawn back and permitted it to be done.
​"If I hit you one——" he began uncertainly.
Perry folded the band and put it in his pocket. "Jim Fry," he said evenly, "I charge you with being a traitor to the ideals of Northfield High. I summon you to stand trial before the Northfield Congress."
The trial was held three days later in an anteroom of the office of Dr. Rue, principal of the school. At the invitation of the Congress, Dr. Rue and Mr. Randolph, the faculty adviser of the Congress, were present; but they took no official part in the proceedings. Praska presided. The other members of the Congress, twenty-odd in number, sat as a jury serious and silent along one side of the room. A boy named Maxwell, a senior, was to present the case against the defendant. Big Jim had been told that he could select a student to represent him. Instead he came in alone, swaggering and insolent.
"I don't need counsel," he told Praska. "I can take care of myself."
"This case is serious," Praska reminded him.
Big Jim's glance, as it swept the jury, was disdainful, "I'm glad you think so," he said, and sat down. At first he had been of a mind not to bother to come to the trial. Then he had decided to put in an appearance and show how little he thought of the proceedings.
​Maxwell cleared his throat, consulted some notes, and called Lee Merritt to the stand.
"You are chairman of the Safety Committee of this school?"
"I am."
"Is Jim Fry a member of the committee?"
"Yes; but he has been suspended."
"Did you see Jim Fry go to the Candy Kitchen last Tuesday?"
"Yes. I saw him cross the street and take money from his pocket and that made me think he was going over there to buy something."
"Did you follow him over?"
"I . . . Perry King was the first to go over. When I got there Perry was telling him that he was going to take the band from his arm."
Maxwell then called Perry to the stand.
"Did you go to the Candy Kitchen last Tuesday during school hours?"
"Yes."
"Was Jim Fry there?"
"Yes."
And alternate question and answer continued until the scene in the Candy Kitchen was painted in.
Big Jim sat sprawled back in his chair, taking note of the witness with a bored air. At the end of the testimony, he ignored Praska's invitation ​to question Perry, just as he had declined to crossexamine Merritt.
Solemnly, with Praska bringing up the rear, the Congress retired to consider a verdict. Big Jim, with his hands in his pockets, wandered out after them. The main hall was full of students waiting to learn the result of the trial. Two or three of Big Jim's friends came to him and pointed to Perry and Merritt in earnest conversation near the entrance doors.
"Aren't they members of the Congress any more, Jim? They didn't go upstairs with the others."
"They can't vote on the verdict," Big Jim answered. "They were witnesses."
"How did it go—did they rip it into you?"
"It's a joke," said Jim. He believed it, too. Schoolboys like himself going through the motions of a solemn trial, just as though what they did amounted to something. A grin touched his lips.
After a time Praska came down the stairs and led the Congress back to the trial room. Students in the hall made a silent path for them, awed by something in the bearing of these representatives who held so much of the school's destiny in their hands. Big Jim shambled after them, suddenly ill at ease in spite of himself.
​There was a scraping of chairs as the Congress settled into its seats. Ott, one of the members, a commercial student, took a stenographer's notebook from his pocket, opened it, and held it ready on his knee. Still the same silence that had been with the Congress as it came down the stairs! Praska stood up at his place.
"James Fry," he said, "arise and hear the sentence of the Northfield Congress."
Big Jim remained in his seat.
"Stand!" Praska cried. His lips were set in a thin line. The indignant flame of an outraged loyalty burned in his eyes. He was very stiff, very straight, the very figure of Justice inexorably dealing out its decrees.
Slowly—slowly—Big Jim came to his feet. A force he could not comprehend compelled him to obey. He was witnessing a moral victory, and did not know it.
"James Fry," Praska began, "you have been duly found guilty of the charges brought against you. Judging by the way you have behaved yourself to-day, you are either unaware of the seriousness of what you have done or else you are totally unable to realize the Northfield spirit. In either case you are to be pitied.
"But pity cannot blind us to the fact that conduct such as yours is dangerous. You deserted ​the duty you were given to do. Northfield called upon you to stand by her, and you promised that you would, and then stole away. You are as bad as the sentry who, in time of war, sells out his company to the enemy.
"How could you do it? Have you no sense of pride in what this school has done? Do you ever feel the thrill of American history—the struggle of the weak and scattered Colonies, the sufferings at Valley Forge, the day of victory at Yorktown, the growth of a nation? But the young American army had its Benedict Arnold, and Northfield has you. Knowing what was at stake, knowing that there was talk of the faculty's stepping in and telling the students that they had failed, you sold us out. Arnold sold out for money and for revenge. You were cheaper than that. You, a Northfield fellow, sold out Northfield for a plate of ice cream. Jim Fry, how could you do it?"
A twitching spasm ran through Big Jim's nerves. Had he and Praska been alone he would have laughed this off; but every member of the Congress was listening to this arraignment. A dull red stained his cheeks, and his gaze held itself fixedly upon a far corner of the room.
"A wrong as great as yours," Praska went on after a silence, "demands a great atonement. Will you apologize to Northfield in the auditorium?"
​Big Jim's head went back. "Before the whole school?"
"Yes."
"If you think you can get away with anything like that on me, you're crazy."
"Then the sentence of the Northfield Congress," Praska said clearly, "is that you be dishonorably dismissed from the Safety Committee and that the verdict of the Congress be published in the next number of the Northfield Breeze."
The case was closed. Big Jim's eyes had to come away from the corner then, and as he swung around he faced his jury.
"I guess I can get along without the Safety Committee," he said. "I never thought much of that bunch, anyway. As for the Breeze, that's a laugh."
He swaggered oil; and out in the corridor the waiting students clustered about him to learn what had happened. By and by, when Praska and Perry came out, the crowd had dwindled to a handful. The two boys went upstairs to the editorial room of the Breeze, and were lucky enough to find Bristow reading a batch of poems that some ambitious student had dropped into the contribution box. Praska explained that the Congress wanted the verdict in the Fry case published in full.
​Bristow frowned and tapped an impatient pencil against his desk. "You know I don't believe in that sort of stuff, Praska. We talked it over a couple of weeks ago. Now you come in here to fight it out all over again."
"No," Praska shook his head. "I didn't come here to argue anything. I came here to ask you to do what the Congress, every member of it, thinks ought to be done."
"The whole Congress?" Bristow asked thoughtfully, and got up from his chair and began to pace the room. After a time he halted in the center of the floor.
"What right," he demanded, "has the Congress to tell me what I ought to publish?"
"The Congress is the voice of Northfield," said Praska.
Bristow sighed. "That's what has got me licked," he said after a moment. "When you and I had it out downstairs it was my opinion against yours. This is different. This is the combined opinion of the Congress against me. In America the majority rules. That's democracy. That's fair. Bring me that verdict and I'll put it in."
Bristow published the Fry story in the next issue of the school paper, under a single-column head on page one:
Dismissed and Censured
That day was the most uncomfortable that Big Jim had ever lived. Every time he saw students reading the paper he thought they were reading the verdict in his case. If he saw three or four talking, he was sure they were talking about him,—and in many cases they were. Every eye that met his seemed to reflect the question that Praska had asked: "How could you do it?"
No one flung him a cordial or casual word; some cut him dead; two or three—Hammond, the football captain, among them—parked scathing disapproval into a short sentence.
​Big Jim's boisterousness departed. He became quiet. His manner grew subdued. The same force that has controlled men of all ages, in all walks of life had been brought to bear upon him in the sheltered confines of his school. It was the pressure of public opinion, then, as always, so largely shaped by the press.
And another was to feel that pressure on that day. At noon Merritt came to Praska, where the president of the Congress sat alone in a corner of the cafeteria.
"George," Merritt said, "I'm going to resign as chairman of the Safety Committee. I should have done it long ago. I didn't realize what a rotten job I was doing until that story came out in the Breeze about Big Jim. There's been talk since then. Some of the fellows have been asking why I didn't go over to the Candy Kitchen after Big Jim—why Perry had to do it? Well, why did he have to do it? Because I fell down on the job. I guess I've been falling down right along, only I didn't look at it in that way. Anyway, I'm out, and the Congress can name some fellow who'll make a better chairman than I have made."
During the last period of the day Mr. Banning, in the civics classroom, had to call Big Jim three times before he could arouse him from his thought. At the end of the period the teacher ​stopped the boy at the door and drew him to one side.
"What's the matter, Fry?" he asked.
Big Jim did not answer.
Mr. Banning made a shrewd guess. "That story in the Breeze get under your skin?"
The boy nodded. "I deserved it, I guess. I'm not kicking. Only . . . only . . ."
"Only it seems cruel to publish it where everybody can read it, and carry it around with them, and read it again. Jim, there was never a man with a bad record made public who didn't feel the same way. The Breeze couldn't harm you if you had not first harmed the school. What you're thinking now is that this thing may hang over you all through high school. It may—it may not. It all depends upon you. There's a way to live it down."
"How?" The boy was eager.
"By playing the game the Northfield way and with the Northfield spirit."
Big Jim squared his shoulders; then, with no further words, walked out of the civics classroom with his head up.