retrogressing to his uncle's selection--finger paints.

His supply of drawing paper was not tampered with. But it was not
replaced. When it was gone, Jimmy was presented with a blackboard and
boxes of colored chalk.

By Christmas every possession was gone--replaced--the new toys tailored
to Jimmy's physical age. There was a Christmas tree, and under it a pile
of gay bright boxes. Jimmy had hardly the heart to open them, for he knew
what they would contain.

He was right.

Jimmy had everything that would keep a five-year-old boy
contented ... and not one iota more. He objected; his objections got him
nowhere. Mrs. Mitchell was reproachful: Ingratitude, Jimmy! Mr. Mitchell
was scornful: Maybe James would like to vote and smoke a pipe?

And Paul Brennan was very clear. There was a way out of this, yes. Jimmy
could have whatever he liked. There was just this one step that must be
taken first; the machine must be put back together again.

When it came time for Jimmy to start school he was absolutely delighted;
nothing, nothing could be worse than this.

At first it was a novel experience.

He sat at a desk along with forty-seven other children of his size,
neatly stacked in six aisles with eight desks to the tier. He did his
best to copy their manners and to reproduce their halting speech and