able list of names. Suppose only a handful of students signed the notice he had placed on the board.
But when he took the list down at four o'clock that afternoon his heart gave a leap of exultation. As he walked home, he counted the signatures. Two hundred and thirteen. A great hope grew and grew within him. This would be a voice with no faltering note—a voice mighty with the strength of the numbers behind it—the voice of the people of Northfield High. He decided that in the morning he would go to Mr. Banning with the plan. But a fever for instant action was upon him. He would compose the petition at once. Common sense told him that he might only be wasting time, that Mr. Banning would probably write the document himself. Yet the demand to do something, at once, could not be ignored.
It was almost five o'clock when he sat down at the study table in his bedroom to write; the electric light above the table was lighted and his father was home before he penned the last word. With an odd agitation he read what he had written. This was Northfield High School speaking, the voice of its people. Suddenly he stood up. He would tell the story to his father, show him the petition. He picked up the written sheets of paper and bolted for the door.
