"You don't seem to realize, Minas, that there is such a thing as esprit de corps. Even though you know something about French, it doesn't absolve you from doing as the rest of the class does, so long as you're a member of it."
Paul remained silent, relentless.
"You see that, don't you?"
Paul would have one more shot, were it suicidal. "I don't see what esprit de corps has to do with my wasting my time. I'd rather be in the library reading French books than saying J'ai, tu as, il a."
The vindictive mimicry of the last phrase brought a suppressed chuckle from the class. The savage whispered, "Sail into him, Polly!" With the bully's instinct he had hit on the nickname which John Ashmill had made traditional in Hale's Turning.
"I think, Minas," said the teacher, "you had better leave the room, and report your grievance to the head master at three."
Paul gathered up his books and departed. As he was closing the door he heard the teacher say, "Now, class, once more, J'ai'"
The "cons" had it at last. He would not report to the head master. He flung his books into a locker and walked out of the building. Nearly two dollars remained of his fund. Setting out for the heart of the town he mentally composed a telegram to Dr. Wilcove. "Will not stay here a minute longer. Can you come or shall I return?" That was the form he finally approved.
Yet when it came to the scratch he hesitated. The telegraph office was in sight now, and his knees were trembling, his steps lagging. He pictured Dr. Wilcove's dismay, his sigh of vexation, his protestations. There would be more interviews, more arguments—an expostulating group of grown-ups seized in the grip of a pitiable necessity to defend their wisdom from the affronts of
