about, now leaping, now dodging, to avoid the flying sphere--it was too
much. It angered me.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Daniel Arker!" I cried. "The idea of
a boy that comes of good church folks like yours talking that way about
one of the prophets! I'll dally with you no more. The boys shall see
you as you are. It's books!"

I threw the window open and shouted, "Books!" I pounded on the ledge
with my ruler and shouted, "Books!"

For a minute the boys feigned not to see me, and played the harder,
trying to drown my cries in their yells to the runners on the bases. But
the girls took up my call and came trooping schoolward. The little boys
began to break away, and soon the school resounded with the shuffle of
feet, the clatter of empty dinner pails, and the banging of desk tops.

"It's books, William; hurry," I cried to the last laggard.

I knew this boy well. He was the biggest in the school, and to hold his
position among his fellows he had to defy me. As long as I watched him,
he must lag. The louder I called, the deafer he must seem to be. His
post was hemmed around by tradition. It was his by divine right, and it
involved on its holder duties sometimes onerous, often dangerous; but for
him to abate one iota of his privileges would be a reflection on his
predecessors, an injustice to his heirs. It would mean scholastic
revolution. He knew that I must yell at him. My position also was
hemmed about by tradition. To appear not to fear the biggest boy was one
of the chief duties of a successful pedagogue. We understood each other.
So I yelled once more and closed the window. The moment my back was