Praska reading. The book was "The Americanization of Edward Bok."
"Look at this," Littlefield cried indignantly.
Praska surveyed the havoc the mud had wrought.
"You're president of this room, aren't you?"
Praska nodded.
"Well, why don't you do something about it? Why isn't that street fixed? It's right in front of our school. We ought to be able to do something. It's our street. Why can't we do something?"
"Well—" Praska's slow speech stopped. "Why can't we?"
"That's what I want to know. What's the use of a fellow shining his shoes if he's going to be all muddy when he gets here? Might just as well be muddy when he leaves home. Mr. Banning's always talking about the voice of the people and what power it has. We're people, aren't we? Why can't we have a voice about that street?"
"Maybe we can," said Praska.
"How?"
But the president of Room 13 did not know. A frown of perplexity had settled between his eyes. There must be a way. Mr. Banning had said that in a Republic it was always possible for the people to express their will. But how? Even
