The Spirit of the Leader/Chapter 3
LITTLEFIELD, the right end, sang as he dressed. The alarm clock on the dresser in his bedroom marked the hour of half-past seven. There were dabs and smears of ink upon the crystal; they gave the glass the droll look of a face overcome with surprise. Probably, had the clock been able to speak, it would have expressed amazement. Littlefield, out of bed at half-past seven and combing his blond hair with critical exactness, was a transformation of such recent birth as still to be a matter of wonder.
"For I'm to be Queen of the May," the right end warbled, and grinned at his reflection in the mirror. A final sweep of the brush, a last twirl of the comb, and the job was done. The accomplishment seemed to fill him with a feeling of humor. He broke into satirical song:
That are gone beyond recall;
In the rare old, fair old golden days,
It was not like that at all
And then the home rooms had each sent a committee to meet as a tentative Congress of the whole school. Littlefield, in his baggy trousers and his sweater, had gone to the gathering as one of the representatives of Room 13. He sat in the Congress among boys neatly and soberly dressed, supremely indifferent to his own attire. His interest was centered on the discussion of the best way to preserve order in the halls. One by one, as the delegates spoke, he abstractedly noted them. Then at last his turn came to express an opinion. He had something definite to say; but as he arose from his seat, stretching out his tall, athletic figure, he was all at once struck with the contrast of his rumpled sweater and wrinkled trousers. For the first time he saw himself with a truthful, critical eye, and his judgment wrote him down as slouchy.
"What room, please?" the presiding officer asked crisply.
"Room 13," he said, and flushed painfully. He was trying to draw back the sweater at the sides so that the part exposed through his open coat would be smooth. Embarrassment settled over him. He became disconcerted. The words he had been marshaling to score his point fled his recollection. He stumbled, stammered, and was lost. When he at last sat down after two minutes of torture it was with the conviction that he had made a mess of his entire argument.
When the meeting was over, he went quietly from the room. Perry King followed him to the hall. Perry, as usual, was brutally frank.
"What in thunder got into you to-day, Lit? When you stood up I thought I was going to hear something. Before you got through I was ashamed that you and I were there from the same room. I'd have liked to wish you on somebody else. What happened?"
Littlefield shrugged his shoulders.
"Stage fright, I guess," Perry concluded. "They say every speaker gets it sometimes. You always give a good talk when you stand up in our room."
"I guess it was stage fright," said Littlefield. But he knew better. He had been conscious of a shortcoming, and the knowledge had robbed him of the gift of logical debate. On the way home he stopped and surveyed himself in the mirrored window of a clothing store. He looked chunky and hulking. A fine formidable appearance for the football field; but the Congress of Northfield High had met in the science lecture room. He pulled his cap down over his eyes and walked on.
Next day he came to school with his trousers creased. The sweater had been discarded. In its place he wore a soft shirt and a knitted tie.
"What's the matter with the sweater?" Perry King had demanded.
"Getting its annual bath," Littlefield had answered laconically. He never wore the sweater into a classroom again.
He was thinking of all this as he dressed that morning. The grin left his face, and into his eyes came a steady look of contemplation. Somehow, the processes that had given him a sense of the fitness of things had endowed him with some of the traits of maturity. He felt in his veins, at that moment, the dawning of manhood. It sobered him. Cross currents of thought were at work. Now he would have all the prankishness of a boy; on the instant he would change and be cast in the manner of a man grown serious and thoughtful.
He ate a leisurely breakfast, and had time to walk to school as befitted one who felt so changed, or changing. Reaching the street on which the school stood, he frowned across at the imposing building of brick and stone. The roadway had once been of smooth macadam, but time had wrought decay. There were holes and ruts in the pavement; ridges and patches where the bare earth showed.
"They ought to fix this street," Littlefield reflected; and started across. It had rained hard the night before, and the holes were filled with water; and where the water ended, streaks of mud began. The right end picked his way gingerly. One freshly shined shoe, getting into the mud, was suddenly smeared. One heel, slapping into a pool of water, sprayed the trouser leg. Littlefield, muttering in anger, mounted the other sidewalk and strode, mud-dappled, into the school.
He was early. The corridors were practically deserted. But up in Room 13 he found George 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 as he debated this, Perry and Hammond came into the room expressing their distaste for mud in general and one street of Northfield in particular.
"I was just telling Praska that he ought to do something about it," Littlefield broke in. "Look at me!"
"Look at me," said Hammond in disgust.
"Oh, rats," said Perry. "What can Praska do? What can any of us do? It's up to the City Council, and a fat lot they'd care about what some high school students thought."
"How do you know they wouldn't care?" Praska asked absently. The germ of an idea was in his mind, but even as he tried to grasp it, it fled and left him bewildered. Yet, in that instant, he knew that he had seen the way, had lost it—and would see it again.
At noon he left the school building and stood looking at the street. Here and there some of the pools were dry; but the deep ruts still held water, and the mud had been tracked in every direction. He had never noticed before that the street itself spoiled the imposing appearance of the school. "Sloppy," he said, and went back to the building and up the stairs to Room 13. Presently, at his desk, he began to write. Twice he tore up paper, and began again. At length he went downstairs with what he had written, and tacked it to the bulletin board just inside the entrance. The notice read:
MUD!
Will the students who have been inconvenienced by the condition of Nelson Avenue in front of the school sign their names to this and succeeding sheets?
Afterwards he could not explain why he had placed the notice on the board. He knew, instinctively, that it had something to do with the way that he had glimpsed and had lost.
Littlefield came to him just before afternoon classes started. "I knew you'd think of something, George. What's in the wind?"
"I don't know," Praska confessed frankly. "You don't know? What's the use of putting up a notice if you don't know what it's for?"
"Just fishing," George answered. And then in an instant, the vision was back again. He knew now why he had written the notice. He turned again to Littlefield; but the end, disgusted, had taken himself off.
From what comment Praska heard in the corridors between classes he knew that he had caught the interest of the school. Students stopped him and asked him what it was all about; he smiled, and parried, and told them nothing. Mr. Quirk, teacher of English V, had once remarked that the best way to keep suspense alive was to veil a situation with mystery. Even Perry King was repulsed, and stalked off in a temper.
"You're putting on airs," he said angrily. "I'm one of the delegates to the Congress, and yet when I'm asked about this I'm in the dark. It makes me look like a fool."
George sighed. To tell Perry would be akin to shouting the tidings from the manual training rooms in the basement to the auditorium on the top floor. Perry had never quite outgrown an itch to impress others with how much he knew. The president's tone became conciliatory.
"Tell them they'll have to wait until to-morrow."
Perry looked at him suspiciously. "All right," he grumbled. "That will let me save my face, anyway. But if you make a fozzle of this don't think you're going to drag the rest of Room 13 in with you."
"I won't," George promised meekly. It had begun to dawn on him that a petition of protest would mean nothing unless it carried a formidable 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.
Downstairs he found his father, busy with wrench and screw driver, repairing a kitchen faucet that had begun to leak. Mail that had come in the evening delivery was scattered about upon the dining-room table. A yellow card of some kind was uppermost. George picked it up. It was an unsigned, unfilled application for membership in the Fifth Ward Improvement Association of Northfield.
George called into the kitchen to his father. "How did you get this improvement association application, Pop?"
"Came in the mail. They want me to join."
"Going to?"
"What's the use? We'll get together, and we'll pass resolutions and we'll send letters to the City Hall, and the gang down there will do about as they please. That's how it always runs. If they feel like doing what you ask them to do they'll do it, and then some association goes around making a fool of itself by thinking that it accomplished something. The politicians run things to suit themselves. These associations are all right for men who have nothing else to do with their evenings. I don't mind becoming a member, but I don't want anybody telling me that we're going to get together and have the politicians give us what we want. We'll get it when they get ready to give it to us and not before. That's how they play the game, and when you try to stop them you simply butt your head against a stone wall. The Fifth Ward Improvement Association will get just what the politicians are ready to give the Fifth Ward, and nothing else."
George's hot blood had turned to ice. After a while his father came to the doorway drying his hands with a towel.
"What are those papers you have there, son? Something you wanted to show me?"
"No, sir," George said faintly; "just some scribbling," and put the school petition in his pocket.
But the faith that was in him was too deep to be long shaken. For months he had sat with Mr. Banning, daily in Room 13, at stated intervals in the civics classroom. The pure faith of the man had been as a flame, and the light had found its way into the depth of the boy's soul. America had ceased to be a section of the earth; it had become the one land where every man in his own right was king of his country's destiny. "If we have good government," Mr. Banning was wont to say, "it is because the people are vigilant and demand good government and do their part to get it. If we have poor government it is because the people are lax. In a Republic such as ours the people are supreme." Praska had found a never-ending thrill in this. He did not merely believe that what Mr. Banning said was so. He knew it was true.
And so, as he lay in bed that night, the teacher's words came back to hearten him and warm him through. With an instinctive sense of loyalty, he did not question what his father had told him. He simply felt that his father might feel differently if he had had the good fortune to be thrown in contact with Mr. Banning. He fell asleep at last with his tumult of doubt at rest, with the conviction that Mr. Banning somehow would solve his problem on the morrow.
He reached school early the next morning; but early as he was the teacher was there before him. The man's eyes appraised him swiftly as he came through the doorway of Room 13.
"What's it about, George? That posted notice?"
"Yes, sir."
"I thought you'd be around when you got whatever you were fishing for."
Another teacher, Praska reflected, might have demanded to know why he had not been consulted. Somehow, there was never any feeling of restraint in bringing a project to Mr. Banning.
The plan that was to do away with mud outside the school was soon told. Praska laid the names and the petitions on the desk. Mr. Banning did not take up the papers.
"There'd be over two hundred signatures," the boy said.
The teacher looked at him, and looked away.
"You don't like my plan?" Praska was disappointed. "It isn't worth carrying out?"
A hand fell on his knee. "I didn't say that, George. Don't misunderstand me. But a letter, or a petition It's so easy that it means nothing. The postman is forever walking into public buildings with letters for elected officials. Mr. Citizen feels a sense of outrage at something that has happened or has not happened. He writes a letter of condemnation. That makes him feel better. He has a virtuous feeling that he's done his duty, and then forgets all about it. It has taken him two minutes to write the letter. You can't build up citizenship on two-minute splurges."
"But this is a petition," Praska said weakly.
"George," Mr. Banning said gently, "good government in this country could be advanced fifty per cent. if people would put less faith in petitions and more in personal action. What does a petition amount to, as a usual thing? I could take out a petition to-morrow for the appointment of an official fly-catcher and get enough signatures to it to make it appear formidable. If the man you approach believes in the idea, he signs it at once. If he's indifferent, he signs it on the feeling that he's doing you a favor. If he thinks it a fool idea and you argue long enough, he'll sign just to get rid of you. Of course, petitioning Congress is a different matter. Most voters live long distances from Washington. But in local affairs a petition is usually worthless. The City Hall knows just how simple a matter it is to get people to sign and values the thing accordingly."
Praska was crushed. After a moment he rose from his chair.
"I've been thinking," Mr. Banning said casually, "about two men back in my home town. One of them, if he wanted some repairs made, would write a letter to the town carpenter and always end up by saying that he wanted the work started at once. Usually the carpenter got around to it in two or three weeks. We had another man who'd go down to see the carpenter personally and impress upon him the need for haste. Usually the carpenter got around to the job in two or three days. Queer that it should work out that way. Don't you think so?"
But George was not interested in the story of the carpenter. The room was beginning to fill with students, and he went back to his desk; all the high hopes of the night before vanished. Presently he looked up to find Littlefield standing beside him.
"How's the secret?" the end asked. His good humor had returned. The mud of the street in front of the school had dried, the water was gone; and as the condition that had aroused his antagonism was no longer before his eyes his resentment had evaporated. It would not uncover itself again until the next storm, and then it would disappear again with dry weather.
"I was going to ask the school to send a petition to the City Hall," Praska told him, "but it's off."
"Why?" Littlefield was only mildly interested.
"Mr. Banning thinks petitions don't amount to much."
"Well" Littlefield was moving away.
"He usually suggests something better, doesn't he?"
Suddenly Praska sat bolt upright. By and by the discouragement that marked him began to melt away. The first period bell rang, but instead of following the crowd to the door he walked to Mr. Banning's desk.
"We have an assembly period to-morrow," he began. "Do you think Mr. Rue would give me about five minutes for an announcement?"
"I don't know." The teacher gave him another swift survey. "I must go to the principal's office this morning. I'll ask him. Is it any thing important?"
"Betterment of school conditions," said the boy.
"In what way?"
"Why, I thought No; it was your thought.
"I'd like to sound out the school on going downtown to see the carpenter."
"I think it might be arranged," said Mr. Banning.
Next morning the auditorium exercises had reached the point that usually meant dismissal; but Mr. Rue, on the stage, was clearing his throat, and tapping his eye-glasses against the fingers of his left hand, and waiting for them to settle into quiet. The students shifted uneasily.
"Mr. George Praska, of Home Room 13," the principal said, "has an announcement to make that he thinks will be of general interest. I believe it comes under the head of school welfare."
There was a stirring of feet, a volley of applause, as Praska left his seat and came down one of the aisles. A quality of determination was in the set of his shoulders and the measure of his stride. Inwardly, he was all atremble, but no one would have guessed it from his bearing. He disappeared up the stage steps at the side, was; momentarily lost to view, and then emerged from the wings. The applause began again.
"The old bulldog!" Littlefield whispered. A dawn of comprehension had broken upon him. "I might have known he wouldn't let go if"
"Sssh!" came from Perry King.
"I'll bet," Littlefield went on, "that this has something to do with"
"Forget it," Perry told him impatiently. "I want to hear what this song and dance is all about."
"I've been trying to tell you," Littlefield said plaintively. He sighed and gave it up. Perry's eyes were riveted on the platform.
"Fellow students of Northfield High" Praska began.
"Louder, please," cried a voice.
Praska increased the volume of his tone. "I want to say something about the condition of Nelson Avenue outside the school. It isn't a street; it's a mudhole. After every rain, after snow begins to melt, it's a case of slop and squash across. We grumble about it, and then it dries and we forget about it until the next storm. We're proud of this school, and I don't think any of us want to track mud into it for days at a time. Of course, Nelson Avenue will be repaired some day, but we don't want to wait for some day. We want that street fixed now."
He had them gripped. He could feel their interest. The auditorium was profoundly still.
"We hear a lot in our civics classes about public opinion and the voice of the people. Public opinion is nothing until it expresses itself. The voice of the people isn't a voice unless it says something. We don't want mud in Nelson Avenue. Well, let's say so. We're people. We have voices. Let's use them. Letters won't do. Neither will petitions. It takes only a second to sign a petition. It takes an hour or so to go see the proper person and tell him that something's wrong. You can't get results with seconds; you've got to spend hours. The way to get a thing done is to go and see that it is done. If we want Nelson Avenue repaired, we've got to be the voice of Northfield High—a real voice. Why shouldn't we? It's our street. My father and your father pay for it. My idea is for this school to go down to the City Hall in a body and ask the City Commissioners to fix that street. A petition is only a petition, but going down there looks like business. And we'll mean business."
A murmur ran through the auditorium. The school was startled, and showed it plainly. On many of the faces that Praska saw, incredulity wrote its mark. And then he came down to the end of the stage to fight for his vision, as leaders, all through the ages, have pleaded and fought for theirs.
"What are you afraid of?" he cried. "The home rooms have been showing us how citizens do their job. It all means something or it means nothing. I think it means something. Anyway, here's a chance for us to find out."
Still the boldness of the thing they were asked to do held them off.
"They'd laugh at us," came a voice.
"For what?" Praska flashed back. "For our public spirit? It is public spirit. We're working for the good of our school and for the good of Northfield."
The silence this time was thoughtful.
"Suppose they don't do what we ask?" It was Littlefield who pressed the question.
"Then we'll keep going there until they do. Where would Northfield have been last Thanksgiving Day if we had stopped line plunges after Harrison High held us for down the first time?"
He had spoken in terms that every student could comprehend. Back under the balcony applause broke out. It spread up and down the aisles. In a moment the spirit of the auditorium had changed.
"All we'll ask," Praska cried, "is for a decent, clean street. I've given you merely a suggestion. It's up to the home rooms to decide what the school will do. But whatever we do, let's get started. Let's take it up in the home rooms to-day. Let's find out where we are. Let's sound out our own public opinion and let's try out our own voice."
The applause turned to cheering as he walked back to the seat. The school had caught up his battle cry. None expected Mr. Rue to comment on the situation; Northfield students always had opportunity to think for themselves. At a nod from the principal the orchestra struck up the exit march. Once out in the hall, Littlefield caught Praska by the arm.
"George," he said earnestly, "you ought to take me some place and beat me up. I was the first fellow to kick about the mud; and in two days the fight was all out of me. I'm with you now right to the finish."
"You might have let some of us in Room 13 know what was going on," Perry complained.
"I wanted to have the school take hold of it all at one time," Praska explained simply. "If we had begun to debate it in Room 13, the other rooms would have heard something about it and would have begun to take sides without knowing what it was all about. This way they've got the question right before their eyes."
"I'll say they have," Littlefield announced with conviction.
In the few minutes that remained before the start of the next period Room 13 put through a resolution to take the school's demands to the City Hall. At 11 o'clock came an outburst of cheering from the second floor, to be followed by the announcement that Room 10 had voted to support Praska. At noon Room 12 paraded to the cafeteria carrying a sign reading:
Clean Streets
and a
Clean School
Just as the earlier classes resumed for the afternoon Room 8, a girl's home room, threw its strength to Praska's course, and the tide of approval and acclaim became a flood.
That afternoon the Northfield Congress met at short notice. Only two motions were made.
"Mr. Chairman," said Perry King, "I move you that this school go down to the City Hall to-morrow."
"Mr. Chairman," said Littlefield, "I move you that George Praska be selected as spokesman for the delegation."
The resolutions were passed without debate. Littlefield stood up again.
"Mr. Chairman, it strikes me that some may have the idea that we won't be admitted to the City Hall. I have some notices here I ran off on a typewriter. It might not be a bad idea to post one on every bulletin board."
The notice was short:
The Constitution of the United States guarantees to citizens the right of peaceful assembly.
Next afternoon eight hundred and fourteen students marched out of Northfield High School, crossed Nelson Avenue, and turned their faces toward the heart of the town. Four abreast, they moved along in a solid, silent, serious column. Women came to the windows of houses and looked after them in wonder. Business men along Main Street, when they reached that thoroughfare, stood in their doorways and asked what it was all about. And corner loafers, always ready to shuffle along with a crowd, trailed behind to see to what goal the procession would lead.
It led to the City Hall, an imposing building of gray granite, its walls rising from the top of a solid terrace. For a moment the head of the line waivered. The solemnity and majesty that is part of government in a Republic filled them with an instinctive sense of awe. Then Praska saw the words chiseled out of the marble above the entrance: "The People Rule." That gave him courage, and he led the way into the building.
A wide stairway of stone led to the floors above. In front of the stairway was a great open space; but vast as was the foyer, the students filled it as the lines kept crowding in one upon another. Where to go was something of a problem. Praska looked about him helplessly. Now he wished that Mr. Banning or some of the teachers had come along; but Mr. Banning had told them that it would be best for them to carry the ball themselves.
"What do we do now?" Littlefield whispered hoarsely.
The tramp of sixteen hundred feet on the tiled floor had echoed through the building. City employees came crowding from offices marked "City Clerk," "Tax Collector" and "Department of Weights and Measures." They stood in puzzled groups.
"Who let the kindergarten in?" a voice asked with a laugh.
Praska's face flushed.
A man came down the wide stairway, stared at them, and abruptly quickened his pace.
"What is it?" he asked good-naturedly, "a riot?"
"A delegation," said Praska.
"Oh! Anybody you want to see in particular?"
"We want to see the city commissioners."
"They don't meet to-day. If you want to reach any individual commissioner"
"We want to see about having a street improved."
The man gave a low whistle of surprise. "The Commissioner of Streets and Public Improvements is your oyster. His office is Room 36, third floor. Where are you from?"
"Northfield High."
"The whole school?"
"Yes, sir. More than eight hundred students."
"Caesar's ghost," said the man in a startled voice. Suddenly he made a break up the stairs, only to stop short. "Jim!" he cried and waved toward one of the groups of city employees. "Do me a favor. Call the Morning Herald and ask them to jump a photographer here in a hurry." He caught Praska's eye. "Room 36, third floor," he called, and was gone up the stairs.
"That fellow's a newspaper reporter," Perry King said in excitement.
In the wake of the reporter went the students. The lines had been broken; they mounted the stairway in one packed mass. The door of Room 36 had a glass lintel; behind it a voice cried in amazement, "You don't mean it! Eight hundred of them!" Then a shadow showed on the glass; the door was thrown open, and the Commissioner of Streets and Public Improvements stood on the threshold. At sight of the crowd in the corridor his eyes opened wide as though here was something they had never seen before.
"I am Commissioner Hunter," he said doubtfully. "Are you sure I am the man you are looking for?"
"Yes, sir," George answered positively. "We came here as a delegation."
"On public business?"
"Yes, sir."
Some of the incredulity faded from the official's face. The gravity of those who had packed their way into the corridor space outside his office was contagious. He still looked upon them with wonder, but into his gaze was coming the dawn of comprehending respect. And yet he did not quite gage the mettle of these young visitors.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
There was a moment of silence.
"We come here," Praska said then, "as citizens of the Northfield High School. We come as the voice of the school. We ask for a hearing."
"You shall have it," the Commissioner said promptly. "I would invite you into my office, but the room is too small. You could not all fit into it. If there are no objections we can transact our business out here. Do you come here with a complaint?"
"Yes, sir." Praska's voice was earnest. "We come to protest against the condition of Nelson Avenue in front of the high school. We take pride in our school, but we cannot take pride in our street. It fills with mud and water after every rain, and we have to track through the muck to reach the school. We feel that this condition should be corrected, and we have come to-day to ask you to correct it. I voice the sentiment of the entire school."
A flurry of handclapping broke out, but was instantly hushed. The delegation, in its sense of dignity, in its self-control, expressed its desires in a way that was even stronger than Praska's words. Behind the Commissioner's back the newspaper reporter wrote his notes rapidly, one ear cocked so that he would not miss a word of what was said.
Twice Commissioner Hunter cleared his throat, but did not speak. His gaze kept running over the sea of faces turned anxiously toward him. At last:
"Young man, may I ask your name?"
"George Praska, sir."
"I want to congratulate you on the delegation that has accompanied you, and I want to congratulate the high school for possessing such a fine student body. At this moment, I can make no binding promises. We will have to look into the matter. But I will pledge you that your protest will receive the immediate attention of my department and, if possible, what you ask will be done. Is that satisfactory?"
Praska turned to the school. "Is it?"
A roar of approval was their answer.
And then they began to move toward the stairs, and the Commissioner began to shake hands with all those whom he could reach. Praska, the nearest to him, was the last to reach the outdoors. A photographer was on the sidewalk focusing a camera, and the reporter, standing beside him, was crying, "Just a moment, please. We won't detain you but a moment." Then the shutter clicked, the photographer waved his hands and the students flooded down the terrace steps.
Perry King was strutting a bit with his chest out. "Our pictures in the paper. That's class, I'll tell the world. I hope we'll be able to recognize the faces."
Praska was not thinking of photographs. He had come into contact with government in a free country and had found it all that he had dreamed it to be.
He came down to the dining room in the morning to find his father already at breakfast. Mr. Praska was reading a newspaper as he ate; now and then his eyeglasses came up over the top of the page and surveyed his son. There was, about his eyes, a shadow of perplexity and unaccustomed appraisement.
"Were you at the City Hall yesterday, George?"
"Yes, sir; the whole school. I wanted to tell you about it last night, but Mother said you would not be in until late. I guess I was asleep when you got home."
"There's a story in the Herald. Care to see it?"
The boy leaped from his chair. The report of the school's visit was on the first page, coupled with a three column cut of the delegation. He did not bother to scan the photograph for faces. His interest leaped to the type:
High School Students Demand Improvement
Tell Commissioner Hunter Mud of Nelson Avenue Lowers Tone of High School
Eight hundred students of the Northfield High School, citizens in fact though not yet citizens in name, yesterday marched to the City Hall in a body and protested to Commissioner Hunter against the condition of Nelson Avenue in front of the high school.
The delegation was one of the most orderly bodies that has ever visited the City Hall. Through their spokesman, George Praska, they stressed the fact that they were not boys and girls, but were citizens of the high school on a mission of public business.
They made a strong impression upon Commissioner Hunter, "Your protest," he told them, "will receive the immediate attention of my department."
There was more of it, and the boy read it through to the end. The reporter had written his story seriously and honestly, with no attempt at cheap humor. Slowly Praska put the paper down. Popular government! The voice of the people! These things meant more now than they had ever meant before.
His father had left the table. From the hall, as he put on overcoat and hat, he called a question.
"What do you think of the story?"
"Good! I'm glad he didn't try to poke fun at us."
"Why were you selected as spokesman for the delegation?"
"I don't know; I guess because I was the first one to think of going to the City Hall."
The man drew a breath of relief. He had had a fear that his name in the paper might go to his son's head. For a moment he appeared in the dining room doorway.
"I'd watch myself on speech making, son. It's easy to overdo it. You had a real case yesterday; that's all right. But don't get the habit. I know men who cannot be happy in a gathering unless they have the floor. They become pests. Always wait until you have something to say—then say it."
The boy was glad, for some reason, that his father said nothing about what might be the result of the mission.
When he reached the school, it seemed that almost every student had brought a newspaper. Morning Heralds were everywhere. Some of them had been posted on the bulletin boards. The school, so full of dignity and restraint the day before, was running riot in a tide of spontaneous elation.
Just before the first period bell rang Mr. Banning, who was standing at a window, caught Praska's eye and motioned mysteriously with his hand. The boy walked toward him. Down in the street three men were inspecting Nelson Avenue. One of them was Commissioner Hunter.
Praska gasped. "Do you think"
The teacher smiled. "The voice of the people is a strong voice when it asks for what is just."
That afternoon, in every home room, the students heard read a letter from Mr. Rue commending the school for the manner in which it had conducted itself. At that the elation died, to be succeeded by a fitting and sober pride of accomplishment. Just before classes ended for the day came another announcement from the principal—this time delivered in person. Commissioner Hunter, he said, had telephoned him that Nelson Avenue had been inspected and found wanting, and that the street would be repaired within a month.
The cheering that broke out then must have been heard at the City Hall. Praska found a lump in his throat. So this was the process of government in free America! He glanced at Mr. Banning. The teacher's face, at that moment, was transformed.
The closing bell rang, but it was a half hour before the school had emptied and the students had gone their way. Littlefield's attempt to express himself had been incoherent. Perry King's sentiments had found expression in but one sentence, repeated over and over again.
"I'll tell the world I'm an American and darned glad of it."
Praska reached home long past his usual time. A rolled newspaper thrown there by a carrier, was on the front porch. It was the Evening Star; he unrolled it and smoothed out its creases. There was nothing in the news columns about Commissioner Hunter's message to Mr. Rue; probably the Commissioner's decision had come too late to be published that day. But on the editorial page was this:
Torch Bearers of Democracy
Government is not the whim or fancy of any group of public officials. American government is the American people. The American people are the American government. But confusion, and misrepresentation, and trouble arise because the people refuse to function in their government. The mere act of voting on election day does not constitute citizenship. True citizenship functions three hundred and sixty-five days a year; it is alive, active and intelligent; it plays its part and does not shirk; it consults with its elected officials and helps them to formulate policies of wisdom and justice.
The eight hundred boys and girls of the high school who yesterday came to the City Hall and asked Commissioner Hunter to improve a street showed that they are alive to the possibilities of popular government. Instead of wasting time by grumbling, they chose the direct road and put their case frankly before a city official. The citizens of to-day who take their citizenship lightly can learn a needed lesson from the part these high school students have played. They have shown the will and spirit to function as Americans. They are torch-bearers of a true Democracy.
The minutes passed, but Praska remained on the porch. Twice he read the editorial through. Slowly, at last, he came into the house. "Mother!"
"Yes."
"Will Pop be home early to-day?"
"No; he telephoned a little while ago. There is some business that must be attended to to-night. He thought he'd probably be up on the midnight train."
The boy appeared to be lost in thought. By and by he folded the Evening Star so that the editorial stood face up, and laid it on the small table where his father kept his pipes and some books. Struck by an after-thought he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote a sentence across the newspaper page.
"Commissioner Hunter has promised to fix our street next month."
Hours later, when Mr. Praska reached home, the house was hushed and stilled. Gently he closed the front door. A night light burned in the dining room. He drew out a chair, turned the light higher, and began to read the Evening Star's editorial on democracy. He had read it once coming out on the train. "They have shown," he repeated aloud, "the will and the spirit to function as Americans."
After a time he went over to the side table to look for his pipe. At sight of the newspaper that his son had left for him a whimsical smile touched his lips; and then he saw the sentence telling of the Commissioner's promise, and abruptly the smile was gone.
His hand, feeling around for his pipe, sent something falling to the floor. He picked it up. It was a yellow card that he had tossed aside and had not given another thought. Now, as he stared at it, his lips moved. "The will and the spirit to function as Americans," he said. Abruptly he ceased to search for the pipe and took out his fountain pen. On the card he signed the line that made him a member of the Fifth Ward Improvement Association.