# The Spirit of the Leader/Chapter 4

THE football season was over—the last game had been played. Basketball had not yet begun the hectic run of its schedule. Perry King, at his desk in Home Room 13 sighed dolefully.
"Might as well be a hermit," he reflected. "There won't be enough excitement for what's left of this semester to muss a fellow's hair."
But Perry was wrong. Life had a way of bobbing up with unexpected surprises. Three days later Frank Baldwin, president of the Northfield Congress—in another school the body might have been termed the Student Council—resigned with the announcement that his family was moving from town. And the school, aroused from its quiet, found itself confronted with the duty of electing some one to fill his place.
"Praska!" cried Perry. "Room 13 wants George Praska. Nothing to it but Praska. Might as well hold the election at once and get it over with! Praska!"
​If Perry's plan had been to stampede the school for his candidate, he almost succeeded. The cry was taken up in the halls. Northfield remembered how, under Praska's leadership, the school had marched to the City Hall and had had muddy Nelson Avenue improved. Perry, flushed and excited, buttonholed Littlefield in the doorway of the physics laboratory.
"If we can get that election called at once," he said, "Praska will go over without opposition. And then we'll have a Room 13 fellow bossing the whole show. Room 13 has three votes in the Congress—yours, Praska's and mine. I'll make a motion to hold the election at once. You and Praska will vote for it. We'll pick up enough support from other members of the Congress to jam the motion through. If you ask me, I'll say that it will be pretty work."
But student participation in the government of Northfield High had endowed many of the body with a true sense of values, a gravity of thought, and a perception of real responsibility. Littlefield, instead of giving off sparks of enthusiasm, grew sober. His eyebrows drew down in a frown.
"I don't like that," he said. "And I know Praska wouldn't be a party to it. It's not Praska's style."
​"Do you think the school could get anybody better than George Praska?" Perry demanded hotly.
"No. But rushing through an election just to seat our own candidate would make a bad precedent. This year it would give us Praska. But how about next year, or the year after? We've got to think of the school. You and Praska and I will be through here in a year or so, but the school will be here long after we're out. That's what count's—not to-morrow, but a long line of to-morrows."
Perry was silent. "I guess you're right," he said at last. Littlefield flashed him a look of approval. The abrupt manner in which he had surrendered an unsound theory was indication of what Northfield was doing for its young citizen.
But though Perry had surrendered, he could not stifle a secret regret. He had developed an uncanny knack of interpreting popular sentiment. The sharp brain, functioning above his thin, bony body, seemed able to read what a group might be thinking. He knew that, at the moment, Praska was the choice of the school. But the moment would pass. Other candidates would be brought forward—it was in the nature of things that this should happen. And shrewd instinct told him that certainty passed out of an election ​once the friends of rival candidates began to run main issues up obscure and unexpected bypaths.
In due time the Northfield Congress met and promulgated its findings. Nominations, the Congress ordered, must be made from the home rooms; and each home room was limited to one choice. The names of candidates, the decree ran, would be placed on the ballot in alphabetical order, and the Congress would supervise the election. Five days were given in which to make nominations.
Room 13 promptly nominated Praska. Three other home rooms promptly indorsed him. Then came a halt. Perry went scouting to learn thei reason.
"Opposition," he reported to Littlefield.
Littlefield scowled. "Where?"
"The girls."
Next day one of the girls' home rooms nominated Lee Merritt, who was serving as a member of the Congress.
In Room 13 there were outbursts of mirth. Hammond, the captain of the eleven, was convulsed with laughter.
"You don't mean that they've named old 'Nimble-feet' Merritt?"
Perry nodded.
"Why, all that fellow can do is dance. That's ​where he got his nickname. What did he ever do for the school?"
"He was chairman of the committee that gave the Thanksgiving Day Entertainment," said Littlefield.
Hammond snorted. "He had a good live committee. The committee members did the work and saved his bacon. He's a fusser with the girls, and that's the only place he shines."
"Yes," Perry said slowly; "and there are four hundred and fifty girls in Northfield and about three hundred and fifty fellows. He's the best dancer in the school, and the girls crowd each other for a chance to be his partner. He has a way with them. There's no getting away from that. He's popular with them. You can't get away from that. And if they really get behind old 'Nimble-feet' they've got the votes."
"Who," said Littlefield, "who sprung his nomination?"
"I don't know. But Betty Lawton is helping his candidacy."
Littlefield gave a low whistle of consternation. Betty Lawton was, without question, the leading spirit in the girls' rooms.
"Confound girls, anyway," Hammond said bitterly.
The following morning two more of the girls' ​rooms came out for Merritt. Betty Lawton's influence was showing its strength. In a corner of the cafeteria, Perry, Hammond and Littlefield held a council of gloom.
"If the worst comes to the worst," Littlefield said, "we might try stuffing the ballot boxes."
"No crooked work at Northfield," Perry said sharply.
Littlefield gave him a glance of scorn. "Did you think I meant it? Of course there's nothing crooked at Northfield."
But there was. Just before classes were dismissed that afternoon the news spread through the school that money had been stolen from three clothing lockers on the first floor.
In the auditorium, the following morning, Mr. Rue, the principal, faced the students with unwonted gravity.
"As a rule," he said, "the faculty prefers to have matters of ordinary interest to Northfield announced by duly elected officials of the student body. We like to see Northfield citizens function intelligently for themselves. But the matter that must come before you this morning is of such extraordinary character that I deem it best to handle the matter myself.
"Three of the clothing lockers were rifled yesterday, and money was stolen from all three. ​Fortunately, the amounts taken were small; but that does not lessen the seriousness of the occurrence. All of us, alive to the best interests of Northfield, have been asking, in our hearts, one question. Was this thing done by a citizen of Northfield? I can tell you that it was not.
"We have definitely established the fact that some outsider entered the school, committed the thefts, and left. However, there is an aspect to the case that must give us pause. The intruder did not force a door nor break a lock. Each locker that was robbed had been left open. This was, in itself, a frank and careless invitation to loss.
"To this extent Northfield has been guilty of poor citizenship. Good citizenship writes as its cardinal virtue obedience to law. The law calls for clothing lockers to be kept locked. The person who committed the thefts broke the moral law and the law of organized society. The students who left their lockers invitingly open broke the law of the school. No bank leaves its money out on the sidewalk. Such a condition would be akin to tempting people to steal. The giver of a bribe is as guilty as the taker; and he who by carelessness tempts another to commit a theft is as guilty, in the larger meaning, as the one who steals.
​"We must have no more of this laxness at Northfield. Last night we got in touch with every member of our Congress. The school day has hardly begun, but the Congress has already met, and is organized to handle the situation. A 'Safety Committee' has been organized with Mr. Lee Merritt as chairman; and it will have Room B-2 in the basement as its headquarters. This committee will patrol all corridors, and will test lockers during the day to see that they are kept locked. If a locker is found open, a warning slip will be left on the knob. A second slip will be for the second offense. But if a locker is found open for the third time, everything in it will be taken to the committee room and the owner will have to identify his property in order to get it back.
"The members of this committee will wear arm bands, and on each band will be two letters—'S' and 'C'. Their authority, where open lockers are found, is to be accepted by the school. I am sorry that the Congress has had to name such a committee. It should not be necessary for us to police ourselves. The Congress asks me to inform you that the committee will be disbanded just as soon as Northfield shows that it is capable of obeying its own laws without supervision."
The school filed soberly from the auditorium; ​but once in the corridors the walls echoed a medley of excited debate and speculation. Back in Room 13 Mr. Banning held the boys while waiting for the next period bell.
"I think," he said, "that Room 13 has a representative on the Safety Committee."
Perry King arose. "I'm on the committee. We won't have our arm bands until to-morrow."
"Can't do anything in this school," little Johnny Dunn chortled, "without Room 13 having a finger in the pie."
"Let Room 13 keep its hands clean by not making it necessary to be reported by the Safety Committee," Perry said savagely. Plainly he was chewing some cud of bitter reflection. Mr. Banning looked at him in surprise. Littlefield nudged Hammond.
"Something's gone wrong," he observed wisely. "I'll bet it has something to do with the election."
It did have something to do with the election. Twice, before the period bell rang, Perry tried to catch Praska's eye; later there was no chance to overtake him in the orderly lines out in the hall. During the morning he heard that one more room had declared for Praska. That was good. The information was followed by the announcement that the two remaining rooms—a girls' room and Merritt's own home room—had taken a stand ​for the rival candidate whose specialty was dancing. Perry's face grew long. He counted the minutes until noon, and then hastened down to the cafeteria. Praska was eating at a corner table.
"Speed it up," Perry said. "I want to talk to you, and I can't do it here. There's too big a crowd." He got a tray, and brought his own meal back to the table. "I've got an earful for you," he added, "and don't make any mistake about that."
Twenty minutes later, on the quiet landing of a little used rear stairway, the earful was duly delivered.
"Four home rooms have declared for you," Perry said, "and four have declared for Merritt. Of course the fact that a home room indorses a candidate doesn't mean that the other fellow won't get any votes from that room. You'll get everything in your room; Merritt will get everything in his. But in the other rooms that indorsed Merritt, you got some votes, and he got some votes in the rooms that indorsed you. A room indorsement is simply a majority opinion. It doesn't bind the fellow who voted against the majority to swing into line and make the choice unanimous."
Praska smiled his slow smile. "Why get excited about that?"
​"Four rooms against four rooms," said Perry. "The girls' rooms have the most votes. They're going to control this election."
"Why shouldn't they, if they have the most votes?"
"But 'Nimble-feet' Merritt is chairman of the Safety Committee."
There was something in the way the sentence was said that brought Praska's brows together in a frown. Plainly his friend was hinting at something queer—but he could not follow him. "What of that?" he asked at last.
"Oh, you ninny," Perry said pityingly. "Can't you see what's going to happen? By and by some of the girls will leave their lockers open for the third time. Their things will be brought down to the committee room. And what will 'Nimble-feet' do? Will he make them toe the mark? He will not. He'll apologize to them for making them come down and they'll go away figuring that he's just the nicest fellow in Northfield. What chance will you have against that?"
Praska's face was grave. "You mean Merritt will use the Safety Committee as part of his campaign?"
"No; no." Perry was impatient. "He won't be able to do anything else. It's his way. He always gushes over a girl. And members of the ​committee, that the whole school know are for you, will have to play along as he plays or your election is gone."
They looked into each other's eyes as men do who seek to read each other's souls. Praska was the first to speak.
"Let's go back," he said, and started down the stairs.
Perry sighed. The interview had not gone as he had counted. He had come there to warn Praska of the defeat that lay ahead; to tell him——. A chill of doubt stabbed at him and he grew icy with apprehension. As he started to follow, his steps were slow, his feet were heavy.
"Praska stooping to that," he said in a whisper. "I can't believe it."
And then Praska turned and came back up the stairs. In his eyes now was a look of pain as though the thing that brought him back might hurt; but his jaw was squared.
"Perry," he said rapidly, after the fashion of one who seeks to get an unpleasant duty over with, "the presidency of the Congress is the greatest honor that Northfield can give. It's a big temptation, but——. Oh, we got to play the game. If I thought that a single vote came to me because some friend in Room 13 let things slide and winked at——. You know what Mr. Rue ​said this morning about open lockers. Bad citizenship! We can't stand for that. I don't care how many votes——"
Perry gave a cry of understanding. "You mean you think I'm going to do 'Nimble-feet's' stunt and play for votes?"
"Isn't that what you were trying to tell me?"
"You poor prune! I wanted you to see what you were up against. I wanted to tell you that I was going to treat everybody who came down to the committee-room without gloves. I was trying to tell you I was just about going to lose you that election."
"And I thought it was the other thing," said Praska.
Perry was going to announce what he had believed, but stifled the words before they were uttered. Somehow, the thought itself seemed to carry a sting of insult. After a moment his lips twisted into a crooked smile.
"'I would rather be right than be president.' Regular Henry Clay stuff. Remember when we first heard that saying of Clay's? Back in the eighth grade of grammar school. It didn't mean much then; but Mr. Banning said something about it last week. I'll tell the world he drove it home to me."
"It's the spirit of America," Praska said pas​sionately. And Perry wondered how he could ever have dreamed that Praska would sell his ideals for an honor.
There are, in every school, a shiftless few who cannot be touched by the finer things, and who take their responsibilities lightly. Close on their heels tread the laggards, the thoughtless and indifferent. Northfield was no exception to the common rule. And so it came to pass that before many days lockers were being emptied by the Safety Committee, and uneasy and blustering students were coming down to Room B-2 to claim their temporarily-confiscated belongings.
It was in Room B-2 that Perry's scathing tongue won for him the nickname of the "BawlerOut——"
"Why," said Littlefield in admiration, "you never heard such dressing downs in your life. To hear that long-legged bantam talk you'd think he was the Constitution of the United States and the Supreme Court rolled into one. Half the fellows who go down there could squeeze his ear and make him dance to their music; but they take what he has to say and walk out like tame ducks."
Friend or mere acquaintance—it was all the same to Perry. He had been placed in power to see that a necessary and vital law was obeyed. He ​recognized no other creed. Those who came to wheedle grew abashed before his indignant glare. A few came to threaten, only to become silent under his withering indignation. He knew neither fear nor favor, excuse nor extenuation. Northfield had soiled itself through contact with a thief. It was never to happen again. Soft words had no power, friendship no appeal, to turn him from that.
Between times he found occasion to campaign for Praska. One boy whom he had flayed in the morning, he approached for support in the afternoon. The student eyed him coldly.
"You were certainly around when nerve was given out," he commented. "A few hours ago you scalped me; now you're asking for favors."
"What do you want me to be," Perry demanded, "a Northfield fellow or a trimmer?"
The student flushed. "A Northfield fellow," he said after a moment. "I wouldn't promise to vote for Praska; but I haven't promised to vote for Merritt, either."
Merritt, on the other hand, took his duties with light ease. During his periods of patrol, he walked the corridors faithfully; but there were times when Room B-2 did not see him for an entire day and the committee took care of itself. "When he would come in, he would always wear ​an air of busy importance. He would glance briefly through the record book, sign the reports that others had prepared, and then he was gone.
"Good work," he would say from the doorway. "Somebody had better stay on deck. That stuff we took out of locker 136—Morris will be down looking for that this afternoon. Somebody'll have to be here to give it to him."
Perry regarded him with sour disfavor.
The campaign ran on and grew feverish with the days. Twice the auditorium was given over to political mass meetings—once so that Merritt's friends could plead his case, again so that Praska's adherents could advance his claims. Neither Betty Lawton nor Perry were among the orators. Perry was down in Room B-2 doing work that had to be done. Betty was in the assembly, merely a listener, but she applauded each speaker who said a good word for Merritt. Littlefield, who was watching her narrowly, saw that.
It was after the meeting called to help him that Merritt made one of his brief visits to the headquarters of the Safety Committee. He had been praised for the sharp manner in which the committee was supervising the lockers; his spirit had expanded mellowly under the tide of ap​proval. No doubt he thought he had earned all the good things that had been said of him. And while he was in the committee room making his perfunctory examination of the records, a girl from the junior class came in to claim several articles that had been removed from her open locker.
Merritt sprang nimbly to his feet. "Miss Hunt! I'm sorry you have had to come down here. Has it inconvenienced you? Really, I could have taken care of this if you had let me know. We had to take them; no way out of it. It's a school order. You'll keep your locker closed hereafter, won't you? Going right upstairs?"
"Yes; Betty Lawton is waiting for me." In fact, Betty stood in the doorway.
"Let me carry them for you," Merritt said quickly, and draped the girl's coat over his arm. Chatting and laughing he led the way from the room.
Perry, who had seen it all, made a bow to an imaginary visitor. "Oh, Miss Dillpickle! What an outrage that your own things should have been taken from your own locker. I am humiliated that this should have happened to you. Of course, the school says you deserve this punishment, but what's good citizenship between friends?" He kicked over the chair that Merritt ​had just vacated. "Of all the rot," he said in disgust.
But calling Merritt's methods names did not minimize their danger to Praska. Here was a girl offender who had been treated apologetically, and another girl who had witnessed the deference that she had been shown. They would spread a report of Merritt's consideration through the girls' home rooms. And with Betty Lawton telling it—
Perry waited glumly until another member of the committee came to relieve him. This was Wednesday. The election was to be held Friday. All day to-morrow for the telling of a sympathetic story of what a thoughtful, engaging young man Lee Merritt was. All of Friday, until the hour of the election, for the story to be told and retold. If Merritt had been deliberately seeking votes through his connection with the Safety Committee, Perry might have found a savage joy in counter-plotting; but Merritt, who could find so little time for his committee chairmanships, seemed innocently unaware of the strength he was building up behind his gallantries. Perry shook his head helplessly and went upstairs.
The hour was well on toward four o'clock; yet by rare good luck, he met Praska going out the school door. Perry was nothing if not curious.
​"What kept you so late?"
"Room 13 is turning out an election circular to-morrow. They asked me to wait while they got up the copy. Johnnie Baffin owns a small printing press; some of the fellows are going around there to-night and after Johnnie sticks the type they're going to print the job."
"Funny I wasn't told about that," Perry said with a shaft of jealousy.
"One thing at a time," Praska said. "You're making a job of the Safety Committee—and a good job, too."
Perry's face lengthened. He told of what had happened in Room B-2—told it bitterly for he was sore in spirit. Praska looked past him, a far-away stare in his eyes, as though in the distance he saw visions of strength and truth.
"Betty Lawton and every girl in Northfield," he said at last, "is a citizen of Northfield. That's the thing to remember. They're just as proud of Northfield as the rest of us. They're just as much interested in the school as any fellow. Of course, girls expect fellows to be nice to them, but I don't think they look for it, or want it, at the price of something big."
"Big what?" Perry demanded.
"Northfield citizenship," Praska answered. "Not the make-believe kind; the real thing."
​Perry sniffed. "You wouldn't say that if you saw the way those two girls acted to-day."
"Maybe they haven't thought of it from the right angle. Maybe they just accepted what Merritt did as the courtesy a fellow would naturally show a girl. Down in my heart I believe they're just as much alive to the real things as any of us are. I think they'd be insulted if they thought the school had one line of treatment for the boy citizens and another for the girl. I think they want to play the big game with us, and that they're ready to play it with us. I think they're eager and willing to take the knocks that go with the big game. They're not asking to be babied. They're citizens; and the fellow who refuses to judge them as citizens belittles them and belittles the school."
Perry had listened with a rising color in his cheeks. At the end he shook his head as though breaking away from a charm of words.
"Wouldn't it be fine for the school if things ran like that?" he asked wistfully.
Praska was disappointed. "You're one of those who think a girl has to be babied?"
"The bulk of 'Nimble-feet' Merritt's support is coming from the girls' home rooms," Perry said practically. It was an argument that admitted of no answer. He trudged off and left ​Praska there still staring into the distance as though he still saw a vision.
Next morning the circulars that had been run off on Johnnie Baffin's press made their appearance in the school. Perry read one with interest:
Room 13 Asks You to Elect Him on His Record
You will vote a prepared ballot for President of the Congress.
Why?
Because George Praska fought for a prepared ballot last fall in Room 13 elections. The principle for which he fought was sound. Every home room in Northfield has adopted it.
You won't have to wade across muddy Nelson Avenue hereafter.
Why?
Because George Praska led Northfield to the City Hall and had the street improved.
A Vote for Praska Is A Vote for Progress
"Who wrote it?" Perry asked.
"I did," Littlefield said modestly. "Don't you like it?"
Perry liked it immensely. The more he thought of it, the more its arguments seemed conclusive and sweeping. Coming the day before the election, it would rivet attention on the candidates and their known capabilities. Later, in physics, when his mind should have been dissecting some problems that had to do with the energy of steam, his imagination was captivated by pictures of signs that the school would find on Nelson Avenue next morning. He intended to erect them. He even knew how the signs would look: "Thank Praska for a Clean Street." That, he told himself proudly, would be a knockout, the last straw, the winning hit, the grand finale that would bring home the bacon.
At noon, after eating, he went outdoors to decide just where the signs should go. On the outdoor steps he paused. Merritt was on the sidewalk, the center of a group of eagerly-questioning girls. He held in his hand one of the Praska circulars, and was talking lightly. Some of his audience began to laugh.
​"Isn't that perfectly ridiculous," came a clear soprano voice. Perry turned on his heels and reentered the school. He was in no mood to go back to Room 13. It was not his hour for Safety Committee duty; yet a sort of restlessness led him down to Room B-2. The committee quarters were deserted. Clothing, in neat piles over in a corner, told him that some lockers had been cleaned out that day. He began to look through the slips on his desk. George Hartford, Frank Mason, Elizabeth Lawton——. Even as his eyes opened wide, there was a sound from the hall, a patter of feet on the floor, and then a voice.
"Oh, Perry, won't you please let me have my things? I'm in an awful hurry."
For just a moment Perry hesitated. Temptation to make political capital of the situation touched him—he who had vowed to handle the work with honor. This girl was a leader. She could influence votes. And then the temptation was gone, routed before his feeling for a higher duty and the stern necessity of upholding a Northfield ideal. Slowly he took from the desk the paper that bore her name.
"Won't you sit down?" he said.
She looked at him in surprise. "But I'm in a hurry."
"That's twice to-day you've been in a hurry. ​The first time when you were so much in a hurry that you forgot to protect your locker. The doctors say that hurry kills people. You don't want to die young, do you?"
She thought for a moment that he was joking; but the look on his face dispelled that theory. A judge, sentencing a prisoner to death, could not have been more serious. His voice carried a solemnity that made her uneasy. She did not mean to do it—and yet she sank into the chair toward which he had motioned.
"Socially, Miss Lawton," he said, "it is always a pleasure to meet you, but I do not care to meet you under the circumstances that prevail to-day. You have left a locker open. Because you and others are careless, one student had to give up part of a study period to patrol your corridor, to take your things out, and to bring them here for safe keeping. I have to stay here, too, to give them back to you when you get ready to come for them. Do you think it fair that your carelessness should make extra work for others? You may be waited on at home; I have nothing to say about that. But you can't expect to have people pick up and carry for you here. It isn't the Northfield spirit."
An angry spot of red had begun to burn in the girl's cheeks.
​"I came for my clothing," she said icily; "not to be lectured by you."
"No," Perry said. "You came here convicted of bad citizenship. We can't pass bad citizenship over with a smile. It's too serious. If you object to getting both clothing and the truth at the same time, you can go to Mr. Rue's office and complain."
The girl half arose from her chair, and then dropped back. She bit her lips. This tall, thin monster who stood before her with the austere gravity of an executioner had all the best of it. She could not go to the principal's office without having to explain there how her locker had come to be open. Better a session with Perry than a session with Mr. Rue. She leaned back in the chair, turned her eyes toward the door leading to the hall, and began to hum.
Perry went over to the clothing and brought back one of the piles. "Personal belongings must be identified before surrender," he said.
"One silk handbag."
The girl continued to stare out of the door.
"Not identified," said Perry. "We'll put that aside. It must belong to somebody else."
Betty sprang to her feet. "That's mine. My initials are inside. My mother gave me that last Christmas."
​"You must value it," Perry observed, "to throw it in an open locker and leave it there."
The girl's cheeks were burning. "I won't stay here to be insulted."
"You wouldn't be here at all if you obeyed the Northfield laws. One fur hat and one coat trimmed with fur."
"Mine," Betty snapped. "My name's stamped on the hat lining, and one of my notebooks is in the right-hand coat pocket."
"One vanity case, one pair of gloves with a hole in one finger."
"You needn't criticise my gloves," the girl cried angrily.
"I wouldn't know anything about them if they hadn't been brought here," Perry reminded her.
She wanted to walk out, to leave her belongings there, to turn an outraged back upon him and leave him to a hollow triumph. But, somehow, even in her wrath, she felt a compelling, arresting force that would not let her go. He was gathering up the clothing, piling it neatly and she walked toward him tight-lipped, to take what was hers. He did not push it to her across the desk.
"It's worse for a girl to be careless," he said, "than it is for a fellow. People expect a girl to be orderly. If she isn't orderly, what kind of ​home will she have after she's married? Everything will be upset. I'd think about that, Miss Lawton," he said gravely, and held the pile toward her.
She snatched it from him. "The 'Bawler out!'" Her voice shook. "No wonder they call you that. Bawler out! They ought to call you a tyrant."
"And a girl like you," said Perry, "who's a leader, ought to stand with the law of Northfield and not against it."
A stamp of her foot, a toss of a raven-black head, something that sounded like a cry of protest, and she was gone. Carefully, methodically, Perry wrote on the slip the date when the things taken from the locker had been claimed. Under this he signed his name with curious deliberation.
Upstairs, in one of the corridors, he met Littlefield. "Seen Praska?" he asked.
Littlefield shook his head.
"If you see him——" Perry paused a moment. "Tell him Betty Lawton came to Room B-2 for her clothing. Tell him he's licked to a frazzle. He'll understand."
Leaving the basement of the school, Betty Lawton did not go directly to her own home room. She had begun to cry, and had then dried her tears with the resolve that nothing Perry King could do or say would make her cry. But her ​eyes were red, and she did not want to take this tell-tale sign back where others could see it.
She was in one of the rear corridors, between a window and the foot of a side stairway. Two boys began to descend the stairs. She walked to the window, turned her back, and looked outdoors as though absorbed in something she saw. But the first words caught her attention.
"Perry King!" came a voice. "He's nothing but a bag of wind. Likes to hear himself talk."
"I don't think you've got him sized up right," came an answer.
"I didn't know you were in love with him. You wanted to beat him up after that dressing down he gave you in the Safety Committee room."
"Well, I've changed my mind about that. He came to me that same day and began to urge me to consider Praska for President of the Congress. 'You've got a fine nerve,' I told him, 'to ask favors from me after what you said to me to-day.' He came right back at me. 'What do you want me to be,' he asked, 'a trimmer or a Northfield fellow?' There's a whole lot in that. If he had wanted to trim he could have made a lot of votes for Praska; and I'll bet a gold mine he's lost Praska votes by the way he's bawled out fellows. But that's Perry. He's for the ​school, and nothing else matters. I'll bet if Praska got nailed with an open locker he'd bawl him out as hard as he'd hand it to you or me."
The footsteps went along the corridor, turned a corner, and were swallowed in a host of other sounds. By and by, across the willful face of Betty Lawton, a new expression began to find its way. He had spoken of the Northfield spirit. "You can't," he had said, "pass bad citizenship over with a smile." And he had added something that gave her pause the longer she thought of it. A leader ought to stand for the law of Northfield and not against it. He had called her a leader—and in the same breath had condemned her. All at once a new and strange respect for this monster, this bawler out, began to run through her veins.
Presently she was stirred to action. Going to her locker, she hung up her clothing and carefully locked the door. As she turned away she saw Merritt. Suddenly she was moved to try a strange conclusion.
"Lee," she called as she reached his side, "my locker was emptied by the committee."
"Gosh," he said. "Isn't that tough luck? You girls who forget to turn a key will get into trouble. When did it happen?"
"This morning some time."
​"I wish you had told me sooner. I might have been able to fix it up for you at once. Wait here. I'll go down and get your things."
"You needn't," she said in a voice that baffled him. "I got them a little while ago from Perry King." As she went to her home room with the red now gone from her eyes, her heels seemed to tap out "bad citizenship, bad citizenship" on the floor. Merritt had tried to smooth things for her; Perry had called her strictly to account. As between the two her choice ran to the sturdy, uncompromising viewpoint that gave no favors and asked none.
Yet, after a time, she was conscious of a vague disquietude. Suppose Praska, confronted with complaint of Perry's methods, should try to pour an unctuous oil of insincerity upon the troubled water. Her mouth grew thin-lipped again, as it had done earlier that day down in Room B-2. She had tested Merritt by the light that Perry King had given her. Now she would test Praska.
She did not come upon him until just before school closed for the day. They met outside Mr. Rue's office to which both had gone on errands.
"George," she said boldly, "Perry King is one of your chief lieutenants, isn't he?"
"Yes; he is."
"I had to go to the Safety Committee room ​to-day to claim some clothing. You know what the school calls him—the 'Bawler-Out.' Do you think he ought to talk to a girl the same way he talks to a boy?"
"I have nothing to do with the Safety Committee, Betty."
She felt a stirring of regret. In her present mood she wanted to encounter the strength of a leader with the courage to stand for his convictions. Praska she thought was trimming.
"Never mind that," she said. "I know you're not on the committee. But you're running for office, and Perry is one of your chief supporters. You know what he's been doing in Room B-2. The whole school knows. Do you believe in his talking to a girl like that?"
"I believe," Praska said slowly, "that if a girl and a fellow are to be equal in their citizenship, they must be equal in their responsibility. Perry wasn't insulting, was he?"
"N—no, not exactly. He hurt my feelings."
"Perhaps you hurt his feelings by breaking a Northfield law. Did you not leave your locker open?"
"Yes."
"Then Perry did what I would have done had I been in his place."
At that moment the message that Perry had ​sent to him ran through Praska's mind—"licked to a frazzle." A wry smile twisted his lips even as he bowed and took a step past the girl.
But she stopped him with a quick little gesture, half imperative, half entreating.
"George," she said, "I've been doing some campaign work for Lee Merritt, but I've seen some things to-day that have changed my mind. You never met my Uncle Bob, did you? He's captain of a steamer that runs to South America. He says that no boat can sail a true course without a strong hand on the tiller. You can count on my support when the Northfield Congress open the polls to-morrow."